“Don’t we have an irrigation system for that?”
Walker’s brows lift again and I realize he’s probably going to mansplain. “Flowers likelittledrops of water.”
I sigh as I study Walker’s position. With his arms crossedand the cocksure expression on his face, it’s as though he’s king of this farm and I’m his lowly servant. “And how does onemista flower?”
“With a mister.” He holds up his hand and squeezes his fingers to his palm, as though he’s explaining science to a six-year-old.
“That seems ridiculous,” I mutter.
“Well, they aren’t standing as tall as I’d like, so it would be great if you could mist them. Unless you’re ready to quit?” He grins.
I realize this is the first time I’ve seen him smile. Even though it’s a cruel one, my stomach flips as I discover that Walker has a dimple. And now I am unreasonably turned on. Great.
I raise my brow and cross my arms, trying to remain calm and professional.
“No. Of course not. Are you going to tell me why you haven’t taken the blankets off the flowers?” I can’t stop pushing. Or maybe I don’t want to stop pushing. I shouldn’t want to spend another second in his dark cloud, but I seem to be chasing the lightning. Chasing the electric current that thrums just below the surface of my skin whenever he’s around.
“No,” he growls. And without another word, Walker storms into the house, taking all that energy with him.
—
I’d like to say it was hard to find a mister in the tool shed, because why in the fuck would anyone actually mist plants?, but there are several of them.
God, I wish I could talk to my father right now. To havefive minutes to ask him all the questions circling in my head.Why did you hire Walker? Why did you like him? What the hell am I supposed to do now that I’m here and you’re not?
The wind howls around me as I stomp down the path toward the fields. The frustration inside me swirls and builds until I feel like I’m out of control. Dropping the misters, I fist my hands and look to the sky. “Why, Daddy? Why did you have to leave? Why?”
“Breathe, Tally.” I can hear the words he’d utter so often when I’d spin out like this. “Just breathe. Take a minute, sit down, and breathe.”
“I don’t know how to do it, Daddy,” I whisper back as I suck in a lungful of air and try to pull at his memory to ground myself. My heart settles more with each breath I take.
I close my eyes. “I’ll probably need to do more than breathe if you want me to survive the next few months with this man.” I smile at my own joke, knowing my dad would be smiling, too. He didn’t expect people to be perfect and somehow found the good in everyone. God, I wish I was more like him.
Feeling calmer, I take the path to the fields near my mother’s cottage.
Her new home—which is the only property on this part of the farm that isn’t tattered and run down—is dark at the end of the long lane. I take in the sad state of affairs of her porch. At our house, my mother always had flowers adorning the steps leading up to the porch.
Daddy would pick them for her daily—and in seasons when we didn’t have beautiful flowers blooming, he’d use other decorations to make her day brighter: a random garden gnome with a silly face, pinwheel flags that spun with the warm breeze, or whatever he could find in town.
That’s what my dad did: He looked for ways to make life brighter. Not just for Mom, but for everyone.
I smile as I think of him and rush toward the wildflower meadow. I won’t dare touch Walker’s other flowers, but these should be safe. No one else ever seemed to notice the beauty in this field, but I have always loved it. The fresh aroma of earth and damp soil clings to the dewy air as I enter the field, which overlooks the marina. The fog hangs heavily above the water, and the sound of the boats rocking gently back and forth is a soothing balm after such an infuriating morning. Humming, I pluck the prettiest flowers I can find. Pinks, purples, and my favorite golden ones. The grass is a vibrant green because it’s left mostly untouched and it almost appears to be preening beside the wildflowers, as if searching for the sun.
The raindrops start slow. It’s really nothing more than a mist to begin with, and I start to laugh before throwing my head back and hollering, “Thank you for helping with the chores, Daddy!”
My smile grows bigger as I let the raindrops gently wet my face. It’s like a baptism. A rebirth. In this field, under the New England sky, I promise my father I’m going to do better. I’m going to make this daffodil season the best one yet, and help Mom get through this. I’m going to put our family back together.
Finally, I allow myself to let go of the guilt I feel for not returning sooner. All thewhat ifs andmaybe I should haves. From here on out, I’m going to live like my dad did. While I’m on this farm for the next nine weeks, I’m going to find ways to make everyone’s life brighter. Ease their burden. Help.
Without judgment and sarcasm.
I snort. That’s probably too big of a goal.
Renewed, I grab two metal planters from the shed and arrange wildflower bouquets in both before setting them on my mother’s porch. It might only be step one, but it’s a step in the right direction.
CHAPTER 11
Tally
