Five minutes before the tour’s scheduled start time, Sam took up a position near Gen and announced, “Genevieve is going to take her lunch break now.” She needed food. A chance to sit down. A rest from everyone’s attention.
“I am?” She spoke with quiet amusement. “You know, Sam, you’re not the boss of me.”
“I’m definitely not the boss of you. I’m a concerned friend who’s not going to take people on a farm tour if it means leaving you here alone. Are you willing to take a break?”
“Yes, I’m willing. Haveyouhad a lunch break?”
He let that pass. “I invite you to come on the tour I’m giving,”he said to the women, “to the farm’s orchard. Right around the time we return, Genevieve will be back.”
After the tour, Anna and Oliver went home. For the rest of the afternoon, Sam and Genevieve worked together to juggle the farm’s customers and her fans.
The whole time he was intensely aware of her. The timbre of her voice, the blue of her sweater, the sparkle of the three intertwined silver bands she wore on one finger. She had a way of making everyone feel at home in her presence. More than once, she’d teared up at the stories the women shared with her. Stories of loss and terminal illness and bitterness beaten by hope. They shared how her ministry had impacted them, and she told them how much they meant to her.
With every discussion he overhead, every laugh Gen gave, every woman who wiped her eyes with a tissue as she explained how God had spoken to her through Gen’s study, his admiration for Gen grew.
Her work meant something important to people. Not many could write and speak about the things of God like she could. No one else had her personality—confident and sweet, emotional and grounded, wry and real.
He could not do Genevieve’s job. He wouldn’t even want to.
He longed for the kind of quiet broken only by the sound of leaves in the trees and the kind of darkness interrupted only by stars. He wanted to grow things with his hands and leave these acres better than he’d found them. He was driven by excellence. But for him, excellence meant the poetry of a perfectly balanced omelet or an apple tree so healthy that its branches sagged with fruit.
He was simple. She was not.
He had no right to feel this ferocious protectiveness toward her and the gifts God had given her. But he did. Even more confusing, his protectiveness toward Gen had come into conflict today withhis protectiveness toward her gifts. When he’d insisted that she take a break, he’d put Gen’s well-being ahead of what might have been best for her ministry.
He didn’t know if that was how God wanted it or not. He simply knew he’d choose the same way the next time. And the next.
When five o’clock finally arrived, he was glad to close the farm to the public. He and Gen stored the Fall Fun Day supplies in the barn, then he watched her drive away to have dinner with her parents.
He took refuge inside his house. But he couldn’t hide from his feelings for her.
They followed him into the shower. They followed him downstairs.
Edgy and miserable, he did something he hadn’t done in a long, long time: He sat in his living room in the twilight and swigged wine straight from the bottle with grim determination.
Genevieve
Tears press against my eyes every time I think about my mom and dad. My stomach is empty. My mouth is dry from thirst. I’m weak and dizzy and scared.
But since nobody else is complaining, I’m not.
I’m not going to ask if we’re going to starve down here.
I’m not going to ask how long we can go without water.
I keep staring into the dim edges of our space, looking for a bag of chips, or some granola bars, or cookies. One of us would have seen those things by now if they’d been down here. Even so, I can’t stop looking for them.
We’re sitting in a line with our backs against the wall and our legs stretched out. It’s better ... so, so much better when we talk. But right now it’s quiet.
I’m trying to think of something else to say. But it’s hard to come up with stuff, because we’ve already talked about a lot. If I do come up with something, Luke probably won’t answer, and whatever I say will irritate Sebastian.
This silence is the worst silence I’ve ever heard. It feels like a blanket that’s trying to suffocate me.
Chapter Sixteen
Four nights later, Genevieve curled up in the cottage’s love seat with her robe on backward to examine the photos she’d taken of Birdie Jean’s scrapbook.
So far, Natasha had uncovered nothing more about Angus Morehouse. And Genevieve had uncovered nothing noteworthy about her mom and dad’s years in Savannah.
