“Brisket with a side of turnip greens, tomatoes and cucumbers, and squash casserole. I know you don’t eat the cornbread or biscuits that usually come with the special, so I got you a small helping of coleslaw as a substitute. And…” She sets a cardboard box at the place setting across from me. “… a to-go box to carry home the leftovers when you don’t finish everything.”
I eye the huge spread in front of me, thankful for Jenny’s thoughtfulness. “You’re the best. All of this food will probably last me through the weekend.”
“You eat like a little bird, Keri.” She laughs. “Is there anything else you’d like? Hot sauce and pepper vinegar are on the table.”
“No, this is perfect. I have an odd question for you, though.”
Jenny tilts her head and looks directly at me. “What is it?”
I nod and motion with my thumb toward the window, lowering my voice so only she can hear me. “That guy outside with the dog. Is he… homeless?”
She peers out the window, recognition causing her to chuckle. “No. He’s from California.”
“Oh.” I’m taken aback. I wasn’t expecting her to know anything about him. “Well, how do you know? Have you talked to him?”
“Just pleasantries. He’s eaten here a few times this week. Seems to enjoy the outdoor seating so he can bring his sweet dog. Inoticed he drives a camper van with California plates. And I’ve seen him taking pictures on Main Street using a fancy camera hanging around his neck.”
Both of us are looking right at him. He seems to sense us gawking and turns, offering us a handsome grin. My eyes go wide, and I look away. “How embarrassing,” I mutter.
Jenny laughs. “You don’t need to worry about him. He seems like a nice enough fella. He leaves huge tips for my staff too. And you know what they say about men with dogs.”
“What?”
“They thrive on the joy of being needed.”
“Really?” I’m perplexed and glance through the window again, my mind swirling with more questions. What is a dog-loving, long-haired, camper van driving California photographer doing in teeny-tiny Heartsboro, Georgia?
Jenny pulls my tab from her apron pocket and places it on the table, knowing I won’t stay long. “Take your time with lunch. And, uh…” She clears her throat before leaning in. “Don’t forget to enjoy the view.” She winks at me before she turns to tend to another table.
“Very funny.” I giggle.
I unroll my silverware from a napkin, spreading the daisy-printed fabric across my lap. Slowly, I sample the incredible brisket and each delicious side, then glance curiously out the window at the man. With his shoulder-length, sun-streaked hair, he definitely has the aura of a California dude. Talking with several passersby who stop to pet his dog, he exudes an easygoing nature. After watching him, I’d bet money this West Coast visitor has a surfboard strapped somewhere on his camper van.
I watch him throw his head back and laugh at something the cute waitress says. He hands off a few bills and thanks her before he stands and stretches. His faded jeans are a little loose around his waist, and his dusty boots remind me of those vagabond movies my dad and I used to love watching when I was a kid. The kind where the leading man carries secrets.
He plucks a toothpick from the table dispenser and loosens the dog’s leash from the vacant chair. Mesmerized, I watch him. Where is he off to next? Why is he in Heartsboro? Questions swirl through my mind. Did his job send him out here? If so, why the camper van instead of the Wild Daisy Inn? And why does he have to be so handsome without even trying?
He raps his knuckles on the window, and I startle, palming my heart with my manicured hand.
His caramel eyes are bright, and he’s grinning right at me. I can barely make out what he says as he cheekily leans closer to the glass. His baritone voice rumbles, “Hope you’re having a great day.”
Chapter Two
Keri
I’m restless, unsure what to do during the slow afternoon. Peak season in real estate happens in the summer, so I’m prepared and thinking creatively to draw in clients. But maybe I’ve done too much?
I grab a colorful brochure from the stack on my desk, my smiling face greeting potential clients. I want Heartsboro Real Estate to show a real person. A woman who honors her father’s legacy. I’ve also considered putting up a billboard along the highway.
I like to show up at all the local events, from the art fairs to the annual Lavender Festival at Jamison Farm. I like to shake hands with the tourists and pat the babies on the head. Shoot the breeze with my favorite locals who knew my father well, including Miss Jenny and her twin, Janie, who owns the bar next door. Mr. Garcia, who makes the best homemade salsaat his popular Mexican restaurant, and sweet flower farmer George Jamison, who runs the popular Lavender Festival. I am genuinely excited about these events and hope to scope out potential clients looking to buy or sell property in our small town.
My captured smile on the brochure is genuine, not forced. The final picture I chose for my marketing shows me as approachable and friendly. Trustworthy.
I’m confident in this career I inherited from my father, and I want to make him proud. But despite my preparations, recent market conditions in Heartsboro have made business stagnant. In fact, it’s been well over a year since my last substantial sale when I sold the Milton property to Hollywood heartthrob, Ridge Wilson. As exciting as that huge deal was, it’s been crickets ever since. At least I made a new celebrity friend in Ridge. And I adore his sweet wife, Beverly, and their young son, Roman.
I’m lucky the Milton sale was lucrative. Along with my father’s inheritance and the six leases I manage in town, I’ve set aside money for a rainy day. Maybe I’ll travel and cross off the bucket-list items I’ve noted in my journal, or settle down in my own house. Since the Milton sale, Heartsboro’s real estate market has dried up. I can count on one hand the properties I have to offer: my grandmother’s dilapidated house on the outskirts and a few short-term rentals that will go quickly when the summer farm laborers arrive. I can picture my father blaming this downward spiral on the economy, his infectious tenacity assuring me things will turn around as they always do.
I sure hope so.
