“M… Madison?”
“George?”
“Yes. It’s me. George Jamison.”
“Good morning, George. How are you?”
“I’m good. How are you?”
I actually feel uncomfortable; I’m not used to idle phone chitchat. But Pop insisted I should be the one to invite Madison over for dinner, not him.
“I’m great. What are you up to today? A little fishing? Or maybe picking more flowers and vegetables? You’ve got the farm all to yourself again, right?”
I lick my lips before I blurt out, “You like homemade ice cream?”
There’s a long pause before she answers. “I do. Why do you ask?”
“Because my grandfather and I thought getting out the old ice cream maker and assembling a batch would be fun. Would you like to join us? We’re also grilling some chicken kabobs. Pop is a great griller, and he said he’d like to see you again too.”
“George? Are you inviting me over for dinner?” Her soft voice has a certain lilt as if she’s smiling from across the line.
“I’m… I’m trying to.” I exhale a noisy breath.
She giggles. “Well, you’re doing a great job. And don’t worry. You had me at ‘ice cream.’”
I wrinkle my brow, unsure of what she means. “Say that again, please?”
“The answer is yes!”
***
Sitting on the top step of my grandfather’s front porch, I lick my spoon. The metal is cold against my tongue. Homemade vanilla ice cream is one of my favorite desserts, and this batch is one of the best I can remember. The frozen treat is topped off with the ripest red strawberries, adding a delicious extra layer I can’t get enough of.
“Mmmm,” Madison moans.
Her spoon clinks against the empty antique dessert bowl as she sets it aside. She appears relaxed while sitting on the wicker loveseat, her knees and bare feet tucked up under her sundress. The ceiling fan gives off a light breeze, only slightly helping with the humidity.
“Good stuff,” Pop remarks. He rocks back and forth in one of the rocking chairs, his movements slow and easy.
It’s a lazy summer evening when the colors of dusk are proof that God is everywhere.
Madison speaks as if tracking my thoughts in real time. “It’s your favorite time of day, isn’t it, George? You love the sunsets.”
“I do,” I reply.
I push my empty bowl near Earl. The big dog sniffs and licks the melted ice cream remnants with his big tongue.
“Ralph? Tell me more about your property. I know George is partial to the flower fields.” She leans forward and makes eye contact with me. “And thanks again for the beautiful arrangement you made for me.”
I beam. “You’re welcome.”
She turns her attention to Pop again. “Ralph? Are there any particular areas of the property you’re particularly fond of?”
He sits up with purpose, his expression gleaming with nostalgia. “I love it all. I’m a fourth-generation farmer. This wasn’t something I fell into. It was gifted to me, and something I want to hold on to.”
I look up at Madison and watch her bow her head and nod. “I understand. After being here a few times, I get why you’d never want to leave.”
He points toward the horizon. “You see that big oak tree in the distance?”
