Hart's Hollow Farm

by Janet Dailey

  Anything to entice her into lingering right here in this spot—in this moment—with him for just a little longer. Hell, for as long as he could tempt her.

  “Okay,” she said, smiling. “I can always go for more coffee, especially at this time of the morning. I usually need another kick of caffeine around nine.”

  Those cute dimples of hers were back, and her nose wrinkled just an adorable bit when she laughed. Pink tinged her tanned cheeks, and the Saturday morning sunlight poured through the wide restaurant windows, casting a golden glow along the smooth skin of her neck and bare shoulders and making her blond curls shine.

  They couldn’t have picked a better morning to drive into town for breakfast and shop for Emmy’s new porch furniture. Though the first of June was almost upon them, the air still held a cool, springlike freshness in the earliest hours of the day, and he’d driven with the windows down, filling the truck’s cab with a swift breeze, which picked up the appealing scent of Kristen’s shampoo and swirled it around, teasing his nose.

  She hadn’t spoken much during the ride or mentioned how Emmy’s visit with Ruth Ann had gone the prior afternoon. Just had sat quietly in the passenger seat, admiring the scenery and turning her head to smile at him on occasion. And it hadn’t mattered. Because simply having her by his side again, just the two of them, with miles of road unrolling ahead and nothing but green, fertile fields and possibility surrounding them, had been all his happy heart could handle at the time.

  Still admiring her, he sat back in his seat as the waitress stopped by with a carafe of fresh brew. Kristen’s eyes followed the other woman’s hands as she filled each ceramic cup to the brim. Her thick lashes lifted, and she murmured, “Thank you,” her full lips parting just enough to make him wonder how much sweeter her kiss would taste with the familiar flavor of his favorite childhood treat on her tongue.

  “What did you like?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and savoring the way her gaze gentled as she focused on his face.

  Her head tilted. “Hmm?”

  “When you were a kid,” he prompted. “What kind of things did you like the best?”

  She looked down at her cup, her slim finger tracing the rim and brow furrowing. “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, come on.” He scooted closer. “There has to be something. Everyone’s got at least one thing they miss.”

  Her finger stopped moving. She raised a brow and returned his stare. “Well, what about you?”

  Mitch grinned. “That’s easy.” He tapped the almost empty plate. “You already know about these. And the other thing I miss is riding my bike on the back roads. Those long dirt ones with steep hills and belly-flipping drops. Ducking and dodging low-hanging limbs.” He closed his eyes and remembered the feel of wind skating through his hair, down the back of his neck, and billowing his shirt. “Every mile I pumped those pedals took me farther from my dad and let me relax. Helped me lower my guard and just be me.” When he opened his eyes, he saw the caring light in her eyes, and felt warm inside. “The older I got, the harder it became to catch that feeling. There were times I thought I’d never find it again.”

  “And did you?” She moved her hand to the table, palm down, and slid it across to nudge his knuckles. “Ever find it again, I mean?”

  He flexed his fingers, rested them on her warm wrist. “Here lately, yeah.”

  Her cheeks flushed. She bit her lip, but a smile broke out across her face all the same.

  “So, what is it you miss?” he asked, pressing. “There has to be something.”

  Her smile dimmed, and she hesitated briefly before answering. “I never stayed in one place very long until I was ten. And after that, I lived in a children’s home in Atlanta until I aged out.” She shrugged. “It was a really nice place, with really good people who cared, but I guess it was always just a place, you know? I never really thought of it as my home.”

  So that was it. The evasiveness and uneasiness when he’d asked about her family, and the guarded look in her eyes when she’d mentioned having lost something precious in her life, were a result of never having had a home or a family she felt she could call her own.

  The first night she’d spent at Hart’s Hollow, he’d stood at the threshold of the guest room, laid out his intentions to talk Emmy around to his way of thinking, then leave. Said he was returning home as soon as possible and suggested she do the same.

  She’d mulled over his words, a haunted look in her eyes, her attention drifting away from him. Then she’d said softly, “If I had one.”

  But there was something more. A dark pain that never seemed to leave her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Kristen.” He spoke softly, rubbing his thumb across her wrist in gentle circles.

  “Don’t be.” Straightening, she shifted to a more comfortable position on the booth’s vinyl seat. “I was well provided for, had lots of adults to go to when I needed advice or support, and as a matter of fact, one of the counselors helped me find my first apartment. The first place I could truly call my own.” Her gaze dropped to the table, and she slid her hand from beneath his to toy with an empty sugar packet. “It was small, but it had this beautiful window seat in the master bedroom, and in the fall, I’d crack that window open, grab a blank canvas, and we’d paint for—” She stopped, her mouth tightening, then visibly shook herself. “I’d paint every morning, before I left for work, close that window, then leave, knowing that same spot would be right there waiting for me when I returned.”

  Mitch hesitated, eyed the blank expression she’d carefully adopted, then asked, “When you said we . . . ?”

  At first, she didn’t answer. But after taking a sip of coffee, she said, “I was engaged for one year. I met Jason not long after I turned nineteen. He was one year older and in his second year of college. He grew up with very little family—just his mother and grandfather, from what he told me—and they never really had much, so he was on a mission to make a better life for himself.” She pushed the sugar packet around with her pinkie. “I was looking for that, too, but we ended up wanting different things in the long run.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  She picked up the packet. Twisted it around her finger. “I wanted a family, and he didn’t. So I ended up walking away.” There was a wealth of pain in her words. It throbbed in her tone and coated her voice.

  “Do you regret it?”

  Her green eyes lifted to meet his. “No. That was nonnegotiable for me.”

  He lifted his cup, took a deep swallow of the rich brew, then asked quietly, “Do you still love him?”

  She studied his face for a minute. “We were so young and inexperienced when we met, I don’t think either of us really knew what love was.”

  “And now?”

  “I think fondly of him from time to time. I wish him well. But that’s all.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “What about you? Have you ever been in love?”

  “Not in the past.” He set down his cup, took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. “But the present seems to have a mind of its own.”

  Her pink lips parted, a small intake of breath sounded and those gorgeous eyes of hers darkened to a deeper shade of green.

  Tempted beyond polite restraint, he ignored the curious glances of nearby patrons, disregarded the distant chatter of the waitresses, and leaned across the table to press his mouth to hers. He swept his tongue along her bottom lip and relished her soft sigh of pleasure as she kissed him back. And, oh man . . . she tasted just as delectable as he’d imagined. Warm, welcoming, and tempting. All of which continued to hum through his veins after he’d released her and sat back.

  “And the future?” she whispered, her drowsy lids lifting slowly.

  Voice husky, he cleared his throat. “For the first time in a long time, I think it holds more than its fair share of possibilities.”

  They stayed there another ten minutes. He asked more questions, some of which she answered and others she politely sidestepped, bu
t it didn’t matter. The sound of her voice, her shy smile between sips of coffee, and the soul-stirring kiss were enough to keep him rooted right there, wishing, for the first time ever during a visit to Hart’s Hollow, that he could stay put forever.

  The thought sat well with him. As he paid the tab, he imagined what it would feel like to visit the restaurant every Saturday morning with Kristen. While he drove the truck to the hardware store, he examined how the daily grind on the farm had gained an exciting appeal over the weeks as a result of her presence. As they browsed various colors and patterns of cushions for the porch swing they’d chosen, he pictured her poised on a window seat by the stained-glass window upstairs, painting a blank canvas and bringing it to life the way she had that worn-out wooden sign they’d positioned by the driveway.

  And he found himself wanting to focus more on the future. Wanting, with every fiber of his being, to make a place in his heart, in his life—at Hart’s Hollow—for Kristen. And for Emmy, Sadie, and Dylan.

  “What about this one?” Kristen held up a red-and-white-striped cushion. “Do you think Sadie would like it?”

  The cushion was over four feet long and spanned the length of her frame, from her shoulders to her toes, and so her bright smile and excited expression were the only visible parts of her body from his angle.

  Mitch smiled. “She’ll love it.”

  Pleased with his answer, she folded the cushion, tucked it under her arm, and glanced around. “We’ve picked out the rockers, the swing, and the cushion. Anything else we need to look at?”

  “Nope. We’re all set.” He nodded toward the back of the store. “Although if you don’t mind staying a little longer, I’d like to take a look at the screen doors they have on display. Emmy’s birthday is the last week of June, and I thought a new one would be a nice finishing touch for the porch.”

  “Her birthday? She hasn’t mentioned a word about it.”

  “She wouldn’t. Emmy hasn’t formally celebrated her birthday in nine years.” He shrugged. “Said she doesn’t like anyone making a fuss over her.”

  “I can see her wanting that.” Kristen looked toward the back of the store, then asked, “I’d like to get her something, too, though. What do you think she’d like?”

  “I expect she’d be happy with anything you gave her.” He took a few steps in the direction of the back of the store and then waited as she fell in step beside him. “Figure if they have a screen door I think she’d like, I’ll go ahead and order one today so it’ll arrive in time for the big day.”

  Kristen bumped her shoulder against his. “Think she’d let us throw her a party?”

  “Well,” he said, winking down at her, “I’ve always heard it’s better to go ahead and do something and ask for forgiveness later rather than waiting around for permission.”

  She laughed. “Sounds good to me.”

  An hour later, they had ordered a new screen door and had purchased and strategically loaded into the truck a white hardwood porch swing, two rocking chairs, and the cushion Kristen had chosen. Mitch tied the items down with several thick ropes, then pulled out of the parking lot after waiting several minutes for traffic to clear.

  “It’s busy,” Kristen commented, watching the traffic whisk by at a rapid pace.

  “Yeah.” Mitch looked at the steady stream of cars, SUVs, and transfer trucks, and an uncomfortable churn started in his gut. “I imagine it’s worse because it’s the weekend.”

  Once they left the busiest part of downtown Peach Grove and passed The Scoop Ice Cream Parlor, the traffic thinned, and he pressed the accelerator pedal. Congested parking lots, honking horns, and the sporadic thump of music from passing cars faded into the distance as the tree line on both sides of the road thickened. For the first five miles, the only sound in the cab was the rumble of the aging truck’s engine.

  “What will happen to Hart’s Hollow, Mitch?”

  He glanced at Kristen, and the somber look on her face and the heavy tone in her voice intensified his discomfort. “If they build the bypass?”

  She nodded.

  Mitch faced the road again, pulled in a deep breath, and focused on the broken yellow line clipping by. “They’ll tear down the house and pave over the fields. Time will pass. People will forget. Then it’ll just . . . disappear.” He swallowed hard. “Like it was never there.”

  He could feel her gaze on him, could hear her small breaths each time she started to speak, then hesitated.

  “Like Cindy Sue’s?” she asked.

  His hands tightened around the steering wheel.

  When he didn’t answer, she touched the back of his hand. “Do you think that sometimes things can work out? No matter what you’re up against?”

  Her words were unsure, and her voice trembled. And dear God, he wanted to ease her fears. Wanted to tell her that despite what he knew of Emmy’s illness, she’d recover. That she, Sadie, and Dylan would be fine no matter what became of the farm. That if he had to leave Hart’s Hollow at the end of the summer, return to New York and the status quo, he wouldn’t spend the next fifty years regretting that he hadn’t built a new life here with what little time he had left with Emmy. With Sadie and Dylan. And with Kristen.

  Only, that tight knot in his chest and every instinct he possessed screamed otherwise. And there was a small, quiet voice inside that whispered he might still be able to do something about it.

  “I didn’t used to think so.” Mitch lifted one hand from the steering wheel, threaded his fingers through hers and squeezed them tightly. “But I’m beginning to believe it.”

  * * *

  Every time Kristen returned to Hart’s Hollow Farm, a feeling she couldn’t quite put her finger on rushed through her veins, filled her chest, and moistened her eyes. She’d never experienced the sensation in her old life, but when Mitch rounded a sharp curve as he drove Emmy’s old truck back from their shopping trip, and the familiar red driveway appeared, it returned full force.

  The three deep ruts embedded two feet up the driveway were still there, making her smile as they were jostled in the cab while passing over them. Sunlight hit the strawberry sign by the road at just the right angle to draw her eyes, and the recognizable style of her own art widened her smile even more. Fields, previously empty, were now filled with healthy green soybean plants to the point of overflowing. And the familiar clang of a broken gourd against the metal rack greeted them as they—

  “Good night above,” she whispered, sitting up straighter. “Why are all those cars here?”

  They were everywhere: compact cars and sedans were parked in single file down the driveway, a few SUVs straggled over the slight slope of the field to the left, and a slew of heads, striding legs, and waving arms flashed in the empty spaces between as people milled about near the house.

  “I don’t know.” Mitch stopped the truck behind the long line of parked vehicles and cut the engine.

  “We’ve been in town a couple of hours.” She glanced at him, and the tight clench of his jaw sent a chill through her. “Do you think something happened to E—”

  He’d thrust his door open, jumped out, and jogged halfway up the driveway by the time she’d unbuckled her seat belt and managed to follow, weaving her way awkwardly between vehicles.

  She skidded to a stop just inches from his back at the end of the driveway. He stood frozen in place, his eyes on the scene before him and his broad shoulders blocking the view. “Mitch?”

  “Look.” He reached back, and his hand fumbled along her hip before grasping her fingers and tugging her close to his side. A slow smile stretched across his face. “Before long, Emmy won’t have a strawberry left.”

  She followed the direction of his gaze to the crowd that had gathered toward the back side of the farmhouse, right at the edge of Emmy’s strawberry field. There were dozens of people walking the paths between the rows of fruit, carrying white buckets—including Elena Martinez, Al and Stephanie Jenkins, and Jenny Yarrow from the Citizens Advisory Committee
meeting.

  A few middle-aged men in jeans and light blue collared shirts were bent over rows of plants, chatting and laughing with each other as they picked. A group of older women kneeled on blankets they’d spread on the ground, inspecting each berry closely through thick glasses, passing it to the woman seated next to them for approval, then placing it gently in a large box.

  And children . . . Gracious, there were so many. Several boys and girls Dylan’s age stood on red dirt beyond the field, tossing a football, with dozens of strawberry-filled buckets at their feet. Toddlers held tight to their parents’ hands, some bending awkwardly to pick a berry and others chewing with happy expressions, red juice spilling down their chins.

  And Emmy was smack-dab in the middle of it all, her deep belly laugh traveling across the front lawn as she spoke with a group of women.

  “Well, it’s about time the two of you showed up.” Ruth Ann squeezed sideways between two cars, with Sadie skipping behind, long braids bouncing.

  “This your handiwork?” Mitch asked, lifting his chin toward a big white van parked at the edge of the front lawn, with PEACH GROVE METHODIST CHURCH written in elegant font on the side.

  Ruth Ann smiled. “No. It’s Emmy’s.” She motioned over her shoulder to the strawberry field. “I may have called a friend or two last night, after my visit here, and told them how delicious our strawberry shortcakes turned out and that Emmy’s fresh crop was the reason why.”

  “Just one friend or two?” Mitch teased, one dark brow lifting.

  “Well”—Ruth Ann spread her hands—“one friend happened to be a minister, and the other a schoolteacher who wanted to do a good deed.” She stepped closer and whispered, “I may not have always shown it, but I care for Emmy a great deal, as do a lot of other people.” She waved one hand to the side. “But don’t tell Emmy that. She’d throw everyone off the farm within ten seconds if she thought there was even a whiff of charity in the air, and right now she’s enjoying herself.”

  “You always were a sweet soul, Mrs. Ruth Ann.” Mitch bent his head and kissed her cheek. “Thank you for doing this.”