“Thank you, Mr. Gandy,” I forlornly quip, turning onto a gravel driveway. My British supermodel fantasy flashes through my subconscious a final time.
Slowing the car, I roll down the window and come to a stop. I rest my arm on the open ledge and peer over my sunglasses, taking in the surrounding pastureland.
The Jamison property is a hidden gem bordered by four hundred acres of cattle and horse farms with picture-perfect views of rolling hills along Pine Mountain Ridge. The old farmhouse, circa 1885, stands prominent, the homestead complete with vintage barns and rows and rows of freshly planted produce and flowers among fields peppered with dark fence posts.
But the heavy lavender scent in the air is what makes me pause. The purple meadows are ripe for harvest in early June. One entire side of the property holds not only lavender but thousands of flowers, ranging from zinnias and cosmos to sunflowers and daisies.
“Wow,” I exhale dreamily.
Maybe I’ve arrived in paradise after all?
Chapter Two
Madison
Through my prior meetings and research, I learned generations of Jamison’s have farmed this lush, fertile soil for over a hundred years. From a recent newspaper article, I read how Ralph Jamison takes pride in preserving his family’s farming heritage by offering homegrown produce, herbs, and flowers year-round. From ripe, hand-picked tomatoes to a harvest of zucchini, squash, cucumbers, green beans, and more, the Jamison farm provides a seasonal bounty of fresh and delicious produce and gorgeous flowers from farm to table.
But I know farming can be fickle in these parts, with years of bounty often overshadowed by the impacts of droughts and floods. I’ve seen it before in other land deals. The risk and uncertainty are a critical challenge, and many farmers opt to sell their land before losing it all together.
It’s all very sad.
To cope with my empathy, I remind myself that the Jamison property isn’t just a family farm. It’s abusiness, and I know a farmer like Mr. Jamison is in it to make money and support hisfamily. Pretty flowers and lavender-scented air aside maybe I timed this right, and he might be willing to listen to what I have to offer. Perhaps I really can help him?
Too bad the farm looks idyllic and prosperous, with a breathtaking view of the land resembling a shiny feature inSouthern Living Magazine. Exhaling noisily, I know this will be a hard sell from the get-go. The rural beauty and a family history steeped in farming traditions are a definite roadblock to Gulfstream Dynamics’ attempts.
But I have a job to do, my boss’s voice reverberating through my mind,“Gulfstream Dynamics is counting on you.”
“This is business,” I say out loud, trying to give myself a little pep talk. “And you need to keep your job.”
Driving slowly, parallel to the dark fence posts lining the main entrance, I glimpse a tall man in the distance. His hands are planted on his hips in a defiant pose, and his scowl is perceptible from beneath the tattered edges of his cowboy hat.
His appearance is way older than I expected. Hard work is caked on his overalls, and sweat pours from his neck, saturating the edges of his denim shirt. The old dog behind him barks a low, ragged sound before settling protectively near his legs.
Taking a deep breath of lavender-scented courage, I steel myself for our initial meeting. Speaking with grumpy landowners over the phone is one thing. Meeting them in person, unannounced, is entirely out of my comfort zone.
Quickly, I put my car in park and exit, the sunny smile plastered on my face, intentional.
“Mr. Jamison?”
He pauses for a second and kicks at the gravel. “Who’s asking?”
The man pulls a faded red bandanna from his back pocket and swipes it at his face. His wrinkled features evoke tiredness—or maybe dread.
I confidently shove my hand toward his in a shake, to which he looks at me with repugnance. Not about to cower under pressure, I retract my hand, slip my sunglasses into my hair, and stand slightly taller.
“Hi. I’m Madison Adler, a representative for Gulfstream Dynamics. I’ve left you several messages hoping we can discuss your farm.”
“Not interested.” He turns and shuffles away, his canine companion dutifully following.
“Excuse me, sir? I hear you loud and clear, okay?”
The bright sunlight causes me to squint, my voice turning up a notch in case he’s hard of hearing. I hope my tone doesn’t come across as too desperate.
“This area—yourfarmis gorgeous. It really is paradise, isn’t it? Especially with all the blooming flower fields this time of year.”
I carefully navigate the gravel in my pointy shoes and boldly follow him. He doesn’t take the bait and continues toward the house. I throw him a Hail Mary.
“Hey, if you’re not in the mood to talk, could you at least tell me where the nearest gas station is?”
