“Mark my words, she’ll take over and sell this place. Do you want that to happen? You won’t have a chance without me by your side.”
“She loves me,” I repeat. My voice is barely a whisper, and my hands shake as I stare at the dirt floor.
“No, George. That city girl lovesmoney.”
I’m panting now, unsure how to process Kip’s words, my free hand fisting at my side.
“You wanna know the real reason why she disappeared all those weeks?”
“Why?” I rasp.
“Because she was wheeling and dealing for her company, that’s why. Madison makes six figures! Why would she give that up to move here? Have you ever been to her place in Atlanta? Seen how the girl lives?”
I jerk my head and stare at Kip. I don’t dare tell him I’ve never even seen a photo of her place. Madison and I never discussed it.
“I did some investigating.” He scrolls through his phone again, amped up like he’s trying to prove something. “Take a look. This is the high rise in downtown Atlanta where she lives.”
He shoves the picture in front of my face. The shiny promo shot of her building, lit up at night and encircled by skyscrapers, appears to be in a glamorous neighborhood, like in the movies. I can’t imagine Madison or myself living in such a place.
“Condos like hers go for more than a half a million dollars in this building, George. Again, why would she give that up to move here? Huh? Why would she give that up foryou?”
My knees shake and wobble, and I crumble to the ground. Kip kneels in front of me, his words turning cruel.
“You’re not a high-class guy, George, and you know it. Heck, everybody in this town knows it. And believe me, a woman like Madison needs a man that can take care of her monetarily. She needs expensive things. She’ll probably want to travel. Have you thought about that? What are you gonna do when she wants you to get on an airplane, huh? I mean, you’ve never even set foot outside of Heartsboro.”
I drop the bouquet on the dirty floor and cover my ears with my hands. I’m completely overwhelmed and losing control.
Kip keeps talking and saying things like “gold-digger” and “opportunist.” I’m in a high state of anxiety and can’t take it anymore, the thought of his words being the truth annihilating me. He tries to touch my shoulder, but I aggressively push him back and roughly pin him to the dirt floor.
The loud thud of my fist punching his face reverberates in the rafters, followed by another hard right hook connecting with his jaw. Kip raises his arms to cover his face, blocking subsequent blows, screaming at me to stop. But I can’t stop. Years of anger and frustration are pouring out of me like a damn bursting. The only thing that ends my assault is Kip’s shocking counter punch to my face.
My vision goes blurry, and my entire head feels like it’s echoing.
What am I doing?
I scramble to my feet and rush out of the tension-filled barn into the blinding sunlight. My ears are ringing, the pain inmy cheek spreading to my teeth, my nose, my temples, and radiating down my neck.
I’m emotionally distressed, and I need to calm down and process my feelings. I wish I could talk to Pop about this. He would know what to do. But I can’t run to him now. My grandfather is too weak and drugged up to help me. And the house is filled with too many people. They can’t see me like this.
I sprint through the vacant fields with my mind focused on the only place of solace I can think of.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Madison
Standing in front of the full-length mirror in George’s bedroom, I turn from side to side, surveying my wedding outfit. My cream-colored suit was the only choice I could think of in my haste to get married. There wasn’t time to go shopping, the nearest bridal store more than an hour away.
My formal wear and corporate suits I’d invested in over the last decade are all in a professional, corporate color palette. Who am I kidding? Most of my gowns and power outfits are black, the exact opposite shade I need for today. I bought this particular suit to wear at a white-themed party on a yacht owned by one of my clients. It worked for the party. Now? Not so much.
“This is all wrong,” I mumble, running my hands down the pearl-encrusted lapels.
The fitted jacket flares slightly at my hips in a peplum style. I look like Mrs. Wiggins fromThe Carol Burnett Show, one of my dad’s favorite classic television shows. Give me a nail file and a mouthful of gum, and I’ve aced this beloved character.
“What do you mean?” Beverly asks. “You look gorgeous.”
I frown and eye my reflection staring back at me. “No, I don’t. I look like a secretary or a speaker about to bore an audience at a conference.”
My hair is pulled back into a tidy bun at the nape of my neck, and my red, corporate lipstick reminds me of a circus clown. My heart sinks. I quit that part of my life not even forty-eight hours ago, and here I am dressing the part again.
