My fingers shook as I typed a less-than-honest reply before hitting the road.
Close.
I turn my blinker on, about to get off at my exit near midtown, but I change my mind at the last second and keep going. I decide to visit my sister, Beverly. Ineedto see my sister. Stepping on the accelerator, I continue on the highway a few more miles north of the city.
Bev is probably outside puttering around her backyard, watering her grass, or pulling weeds from her pretty flower beds. Or maybe she’s on the couch in her shabby chic family room working on her teacher plan for the upcoming week. From June through the end of July, she always teaches summer school at the local elementary school for the extra money. It’s rare for Beverly Adler not to be teaching. She loves her job and the kids.
It’s still early in the afternoon, and I hope my sister hasn’t gone out to run errands. But I know she’s a diehard homebody, preferring downtime in the quiet solitude of her little house in the suburbs on the weekends. It’s worth a shot.
Pulling into her driveway, I exhale a sigh of relief. Beverly stands on the cement with a running hose in her hand, her face lighting up at seeing me. She’s in the middle of washing her car, dressed in an old tee and cut-off jean shorts. Her feet are bare, and her hair is piled high on her head in a messy bun.
“Hey, you!” she greets, shutting off the hose.
“Hey, Bev. Sorry, I didn’t call and just showed up.”
She shakes her head and comes toward me with arms spread wide. “Are you kidding me? I love a good surprise. Especially when my favorite sister is visiting me.”
“Ha! I’m your only sister.”
We hug, and I follow her through the open garage and into the house. The interior smells sweet, the scent of banana bread lingering in the small kitchen.
“How are you? How’d the Heartsboro deal end up? I’ll bet you made a monster commission.”
“Baking again?” I tease, avoiding her questions.
“Of course. I didn’t want my rotten bananas to go to waste.” She washes her hands at the sink overlooking the backyard. “Shall I open a bottle of wine for us? Are we celebrating?”
Chewing on my lower lip, I nod. “Yes to opening a bottle of wine. No to a celebration. Not yet, anyway.”
Beverly’s forehead creases with confusion. “What do you mean? What happened?”
I pull out a stool at the kitchen island and sit, watching my sister gather items needed for our impromptu happy hour. Beverly’s house reminds me of our childhood home, where we grew up during happier times. Warm and homey. Well-loved and lived in. And why wouldn’t it? Most of our parents' old furniture fills the house, repurposed with new cushions and paint. Some of our father’s artwork is on the walls. The same banana bread recipe passed down from our grandmother is cooling on a wire rack on the counter.
I, on the other hand, never wanted much from our childhood home after Dad passed. Scratch that. I didn’t want any furnishings or trinkets. I did, however, want some of my late father’s art, andallof his spiral notebooks and journals full of his poetry, his penned words a sweet salve to my grieving heart.
My city apartment is the exact opposite of my sister’s home. It’s contemporary, with clean lines and minimalist aesthetics. Bev often jokes that my place is an extension of my career, and it feels more like a hotel suite than a residence. She repeatedly insists I add some bold color to liven things up. But I don’t want to. I prefer my neutral palette and natural light through the large windows. However, I wish my views were better. I’d much rather look out over rolling hills with a glimpse of the sunset than Atlanta’s bland, downtown office buildings.
“The deal isn’t done. Mr. Jamison asked me to come back to Heartsboro,” I explain.
“Come back for what?” Beverly pulls the cork out of the wine with a definitive pop and pours me a glass.
“He wants me to return and 'get to know the town and the community,'” I mock using quotation marks with my fingers and I purposefully leave out the part about getting to know George. I’m still trying to process that request.
Bev frowns again and pours some wine into her glass before we lock eyes, tap our rims together, and take a sip. Some rituals never change.
“Well, that makes absolutely no sense.” She walks around the island and waves her hand for me to follow her. “Let’s sit in the family room, and you can tell me everything.”
We sit opposite each other, Beverly on the overstuffed couch and me on the antique rocking chair where our mother once sat and sang lullabies to us.
“I’m not sure how to explain it. And I have no idea how I’ll be able to make Kevin understand.” I sigh. “The man is going to go ballistic when I call him. He told me that my job would be on the line if I didn’t land this deal.”
Beverly rolls her eyes. “Maddy, let me remind you, healwayssays that. It’s like his perverse way of getting you motivated or something.”
“Or something.”
I take a long pull of wine and lean my head back. “I wish you could’ve been with me to see this little town and Mr. Jamison’s gorgeous farm. Heartsboro is charming, and the folks there are polite and look out for one another.”
“It sounds lovely.”
