“Wait, The Ice Cream Barn? What’s that?” And more importantly, where?
“A barn where I sell ice cream. It’s part of my groveling.”
“Groveling?”
“Yeah. Since I played for New York, I have to pay my penance in hopes of forgiveness.”
I laugh because few things are more sacred to New Englanders than their sports teams, and when Eli was drafted to New York—New England’s sworn enemy in almost every sport—a few people took up weekly prayers for him to be traded to their beloved Boston Bolts. Though that never happened.
“Got it. Will do. It was good seeing you, Eli!”
He tips his chin at me, and as I begin to drive forward, he hollers, “Say hi to Walker for me.”
Whoisthis Walker?
Taking a left, I head toward the farm, which is set back from town on the other side of the harbor. As I cruise along, I eye the smattering of sailboats bobbing in the deep navy waters, waiting to be taken out for the next boating season. The view of the farm from here has always been one of my favorites. The harbor in front of it, the small bridge that connects the town to our land, and, in the distance, the outline of New England’s craggy mountains.
One of my other favorite views? Rosie’s Brewery. It sits adjacent to our farm in an old barn that she’s worked hard to transform into a thriving business. It’s angled perfectly so the back faces our fields of flowers and the mountains, giving her customers a show that is constantly changing depending on the season: daffodils and tulips in the spring, sunflowers and dahlias in the summer, and roses and mums in the fall, not to mention the apples for picking and the pumpkin patch. In the winter, when the farm is mostly blanketed in snow and the flower beds rest in preparation for the next season, the trees are lit up with Christmas lights. Or they were, before Daddy died.
Blinking back the memories, I turn into Rosie’s driveway. I’m not ready to see my mom just yet.
The weathered wooden brewery sign with the red rose welcomes me to my best friend’s business. Shaking my head as I get out of my car, I smile up at the place. She really did it; she created a place for herself in this town, just like she always said she would.
The brewery boasts a walk-up window where you can grab coffee, and I offer a wave to the person manning the counter before pulling on the copper handle on the barn door, which swings open to reveal the whitewashed boards of the main room.
A long black bar lines the back of the space, and oversized chalkboards hang on the wall just above it, decorated with bright writing that details the day’s specials.
I scan the mostly empty room for Rosie. It’s barely lunch time, but in twenty minutes, this room will be full.
“Well, if it isn’t Tally Mae Darling,” a familiar voice sings.
I turn, searching her out, my lips lifting into a smile as soon as I spot the red locks my best friend is known for. Today they are piled high in a messy ponytail that somehow looks like it was intentionally styled that way, wisps hanging down around her ears, next to her signature gold hoops. The same rose from the welcome sign is stitched above her breast on a black long-sleeve shirt, and tight jeans hug her slim hips. A pair of black worn-in cowboy boots—also decorated with the brewery’s rose—completes the look. She gifted them to herself three years ago, after she got the business off the ground.
“Rosie!” I squeal as I rush toward her, pulling her in for a long hug.
As I step back, her familiar scent—rose and citrus—dances between us. Somehow Rosie always smells just a little bit better than everyone else.
“You don’t even look surprised to see me.”
“Penny texted. She figured you’d stop here rather than going to your mom’s.”
I roll my eyes as I let out a heavy sigh and point toward the bar. “Are you going to offer me a drink?”
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
My eyes narrow in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘nope’?”
“Your sister said I need to send you along to the farm.” Her head lifts at the jangle of the bell announcing another customer. Her eyes bounce in recognition, and her gaze stays on the door as she keeps talking. “You’ve delayed enough.”
“Since when do you take Penny’s side?” I counter.
She hasn’t taken her eyes off the door, so I turn to see who’s stolen her attention.
A man wearing a pair of jeans and a heavy, dark sweater and holding the leash of his chocolate Labrador is headed toward the bar.
“Mut,” my friend growls beside me.
“I thought you loved dogs,” I murmur, watching the man as he stops at a table in the corner to say hello to an older woman who reaches down to pet his dog.
