I come to a complete stop where the road dead-ends and look both ways. In the distance, heat waves sizzle on the black asphalt of the country road, and thick kudzu covers the trees like a green blanket, the pointy leaves snaking their way up the steel pole of the road sign.
“Paradise Road?” I question out loud. “Nothing about this area looks like paradise to me.”
I turn left and continue on the empty road flanked by more trees and dense vegetation. There’d been little to no traffic, except for the oncoming snail of a rusty tractor I barely got around. I offered a slight nod to the bearded driver, whose immediate grin revealed a few spaces of missing teeth. He tipped his cowboy hat from behind the wheel in a friendly greeting.
Yup. I’m officially in the heart of the redneck Riviera. Not that I have anything against these folks. I just wish it wasn’t so hot.
Gripping the steering wheel, I relish the cool air blasting through the vent closest to my face. I envision myself somewhere in England, the voice giving me directions through the car speaker miraculously turning into my handsome British supermodel crush.
I imagine my current setting morphing into a lovely English countryside. We’d flirt incessantly as I navigated through winding woodlands dotted with moss-covered moors and stone walls, his Dolce cologne of citrus and musk tickling my senses.
But alas, my dream destination is far, far away, and the Brit is nothing more than an AI-generated GPS voice I’d chosen on a silly whim. And the smell in my car isn’t even close to Dolce cologne.
I sniff the air, my fantasy imploding like a popped bubble. The lingering aroma of stale coffee and the extra swipe of maximum strength deodorant to get me through the long, sweltering day bring me back to reality.
With my eyes glued to the back roads of middle Georgia, I’ve driven through several Podunk towns in the above-average humidity. I have no idea what to expect at my final destination. And I’m sure there are no British supermodels within a five-thousand-mile radius
Darn.
My reality hits me over the head like the southern humidity, the heavy air all muggy and sticky. I’ve been tasked with convincing the Jamison farming family to sell their land to the corporate giant I represent. My years as a consultant in mergers and acquisitions often take me to other parts of the US, usually meeting with land and company owners ready to make a deal. But my latest prospect reminds me of a petulant child: feet firmly planted in the red Georgia clay, unwilling to even listen to the hefty financial proposition offered.
After months of unanswered phone calls and emails, my boss, Kevin Phillips, suggested a surprise in-person visit. He seemed to believe I could magically woo the family into a preliminary conversation, even though I hadn’t scored a deal this size in years. In fact, I’m sure my job is precariously on the line because of my unlucky losing streak when it comes to deal closings, the current market throwing a wrench into my career.
I know this is a do-or-die situation.
“Get the ball rolling, Madison,” Kevin insisted. “Wine and dine them. Whatever it takes. Let them get a whiff of the kind of money we’re talking about, and I guarantee they’ll cave. They always do. Gulfstream Dynamics has been scouting this area for years. It’d also be a real boost for the town, with the potential to employ thousands just like the Savannah headquarters, a huge win for the community. Gulfstream is, after all, the state’s top industrial employer.”
I’m well aware of the successful plant in Savannah, Georgia, where over eleven thousand employees manufacturebusiness jets. They’re the top contender in their industry, the jets they produce used by the government and private corporations. And because Georgia’s property tax rates are lower than most states, this helps investors realize larger profits. It really is a win-win for all parties involved, including the beneficiary of the potential land sale, who would become a multi-millionaire overnight.
Still, I’m not convinced I can pull this off. With my self-confidence at an all-time low, my stress level is off the charts.
“Stan told me the patriarch of the family, Ralph Jamison, is a fourth-generation farmer who wouldn’t give him the time of day,” I’d countered.
Stan is my co-worker, and when he hadn’t been able to land an initial conversation with the family after numerous attempts, Kevin pivoted and reassigned the task to me. I feel like this is my last chance to prove myself among my testosterone-drenched colleagues.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “With the economic downturn in the southern farming industry, believe me, these folks are looking for a way out. Just work your magic like you always do, Mads. Stan couldn’t do it, so I’m counting on you. Gulfstream Dynamics is counting on you.”
After a few days of debriefing with Kevin and the bigwigs in Savannah, I got an early start to Heartsboro. My home base is in Atlanta, but I often drive to my clients’ corporate headquarters, especially if they’re in the same state.
With a large coffee in hand and the clearest blue sky overhead, the three-and-a-half-hour drive from Savannah to the small town of Heartsboro, Georgia, where the Jamison farm is located, flew by. Rolling into town, I was pleasantly surprised.
The community has a rural, almost Mayberry-esque aura. It’s like stepping back in time, and I half expected to see Andy Griffith himself strolling along the uneven brick sidewalks outside the old-fashioned barber shop. I marveled at the cheeriness of Main Street, which had obviously undergone a recent rehabilitation.
Heartsboro is simply charming.
The one-stoplight town has been brightened up and given new life with the addition of decorative, historic light poles painted a glossy black running the length of the street. This adds a nod of nostalgia to days gone by. Many of the storefronts still hold original windows and refurbished doors, and most of the historic buildings house an eclectic mix of businesses.
I immediately discovered how vital the Jamison family is in the community when I stopped by their popular roadside stand on the outskirts of town. The bins were filled with fresh produce and flowers for customers. The larger-than-life, weathered Jamison family logo painted on worn planks of old barn siding screamed, “buy local.” And let’s not forget about handsome farmhand, George. He’s an added bonus for the tourists and locals, stopping a few cars and ladies in their tracks.
Even the Wild Daisy Inn I’d checked into earlier has a nostalgic feel, with its happy yellow front door flanked bygiant urns of lavender and sunflowers. The cherry on top of this small-town sundae is a prominent American flag flitting gently in the breeze, welcoming travelers into the 1908 turn-of-the-century building.
This is quintessential small-town southern living at its finest.
Even though Heartsboro is only an hour and a half from Atlanta, I planned on spending at least one night at the Wild Daisy Inn. My motivation to convince the family to an all-expenses-paid dinner is foremost in my mind. But as I drove down Main Street, I worried how the addition of thousands of Gulfstream Dynamics employees and their families might ruin the allure and appeal of such a quaint little town.
That’s always been my problem in this career. I care way too much.
Shaking off my wayward thoughts, I forge ahead, Paradise Road going from asphalt to dirt in the last mile toward the Jamison farm. A few minutes later, the Brit on the car speaker announces,“You have arrived at your destination.”
