by Becky Wade
Genevieve was sitting on one of his rocking chairs, once again looking like she’d come from a fashion shoot. She closed her laptop and set it on the side table next to a disposable coffee cup. “Good afternoon,” she said cheerfully, remaining on her—his—rocker.
He stopped with one foot on the porch and one on the step below. “Am I going to have to call the cops?”
She smiled as if there’d been no seriousness in the question at all. “Why in the world would you do that?”
“Because this is the second time in two days I’ve found you squatting on my land.”
“As you can see,” she waved toward herself, “I’m not squatting. I’m sitting on your land. Land that, by the way, I absolutely love.”
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes.” Unlike a normal person, she didn’t say anything else.
He’d created a predictable, quiet life for himself. Genevieve Woodward wasn’t predictable. And even when she wasn’t talking, many things about her were loud. Her presence. The energy captured inside her small frame.
She wore an ivory short-sleeve shirt. The scarf that looped around her throat—oddly—had no ends. Her leather earrings, in the shape of feathers, reached almost to her shoulders. She must have purchased her jeans with holes in them, because there’s no way she’d ever worked enough manual labor to create those holes naturally.
“I’ve been doing research,” she told him. “You were one of a select group chosen to lease a historic farm on Chattahoochee National Forest land.”
“That’s right.”
“How long ago?”
“Four years. I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“How were you chosen?”
“I submitted an application.”
“From what I read, it was quite a coup to score one of the sixty-year leases. Why do you think they picked you?”
“Did you come here to ask me questions about leases on national park land?”
“In part, yes. I’m interested.”
He sized her up, trying to understand her motivation for being here. She sized him up in return, pleasantly and patiently. She wasn’t just a stranger to him. She was also just plain strange. A weird blend of charming, confident, and confusing.
“I think . . .” His forehead furrowed.
“Go on.”
“I think the park service picked me because they were looking for people who were into sustainable farming. They were looking for people who were young, because the farmers in this country are aging. And they were also looking for people willing to open their farms to the public in order to educate them about resource preservation.”
“And you checked all the boxes?”
“Yes.”
“What business plan did you pitch?”
He scowled, wishing she’d go and leave him alone.
She laughed. “Be nice! Didn’t you just say that part of your job is to open your farm and educate the public?”
She had a point. “I told them I was planning a farm-to-table breakfast restaurant. That I’d grow much of the restaurant’s food here and sell the rest to visitors.”
Gracefully, she rose and moved to stand at the porch rail, looking out. A breeze rustled her hair.
He walked a few paces onto the porch, turning just enough to take in the scene she was studying. Behind the house at their backs, a wooded hill rose steeply toward the sky. In front of the house, the earth rolled gently down to a wide valley that held the farm road Genevieve had been driving the other night when she’d made the bad decision to stop.
Shade from the porch roof protected them from the sun pouring onto the meadow. The long rows of the garden he’d worked so hard to develop marked the earth a good distance away, on the lower side of the meadow. Near the garden, which butted up against the tree line separating his house from the guesthouse in the next meadow over, a simple farm stand waited to open for weekend business.
“If that’s all, I have some things to do around here this afternoon,” he stated.
“Do you love it here?” she asked.
He paused. “Usually, yes.”
“By that, do you mean that you love it here when uninvited women aren’t pestering you?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Are you the only person who lives on the property?”
“I am.”
“Ever get lonely?”
Yep. I’m lonely every hour of every day. “No.” That single syllable was easier than trying to explain to this high-maintenance person he was lonely in a way that was deep, complete, and undisturbed. She’d find fault with that. But that’s how he wanted it. “Why are you here?” he asked.
She faced him. He’d forgotten how bright her hazel eyes were against her perfect milky skin. “I’m here because I’d like to rent your cottage.”
His brows crushed down. “It’s not available for rent.”
“I realize that. But I went and had another look at the cottage when I arrived at the farm a few hours ago. You’d locked the door—”
“I locked it the second you left.”
“—but I was able to peek in the windows and inspect the outside. It’s adorable. And, as I recall, it has electricity.”
“It’s not for rent.”
“Does the plumbing work?”
“Yes.”
“A/C and heat?”
“Yes.”
“Dishwasher?”
“No. Not even a sink, except the one in the bathroom.”
“In that case, I guess it’s too much to hope that it has a washer and dryer.”
“Way too much to hope.”
“But you’d allow me to wash my clothes at your house from time to time, right?”
“That doesn’t matter since it’s not available—”
“It’s small and simple and old, but you’ve also kept it very clean. Why is it in such good shape if you’re not planning to rent it?”
He worked his back molars together. “At some point, I’m going to put furniture in it and rent it out to people wanting a holiday. I’ve been busy with everything else and haven’t had time.”
“You’ll be able to make a mint off that thing,” she said with assurance. “It’s full of charm. It has excellent potential, in fact. All you need is someone with good design sensibilities to come in and decorate the cottage—”
“Guesthouse.”
“—cottage with a sofa, chairs, rugs, art, a mini kitchen.” She tilted her head. “Someone like me.”
“No.”
“Aren’t you interested in hearing my offer?”
“No.”
“If you’ll let me live in it, I’ll make it farmhouse chic. No one will be able to resist it when I’m through with it, and when I go, you’ll keep everything in the cottage, which will be worth well over a few thousand dollars.”
He didn’t understand her. “Don’t you live in Nashville?”
“I do, but I’m going to be researching and writing for the next few months. I want to spend an extended amount of time with my family, but I don’t want to be on top of my family, if that makes sense.” She gestured toward his land. “Your cottage is peaceful, but it’s also close enough to town to be convenient. This setting is inspirational.”
“You seem like a city girl to me.”
“Who wants a country getaway. The cottage is just what I need.”
“My answer’s no.” He moved toward his front door.
She stepped into his path. “Did you hear me say that I’m going to leave the cottage move-in ready for your guests? I’ll also work in your garden and at the farm stand. I’ll pick apples. If you need someone to update your website or strengthen your social media presence, I’m your girl.”
“No thanks.”
She didn’t back down. “I saw online that you and the other leaseholders will be organizing a series of National Park Fall Fun Days. I can help with that. I’m good at event planning, and I’m good
with people. You can delegate a lot of that responsibility to me so that you won’t have to worry about a thing.”
“If you’re staying in my guesthouse, I’ll have to worry about you. You’re an addict.”
Her expression cracked a little.
“I know exhaustion wasn’t to blame for the night you spent in my guesthouse.” He had at least seven inches of height on her, so he had to incline his head down to look her in the face.
He sensed what it cost her to maintain eye contact with him, but she managed it. “You’re right,” she said. “Exhaustion didn’t play a role in what happened the other night. If I’m sleeping in houses that don’t belong to me, which I am, then obviously the pills I’ve been taking have become a huge problem. I took my last pill yesterday.”
Did she expect him to be impressed? He wasn’t. She should have figured out that the pills were a problem right after her surgery and quit then. He regarded her cynically. “Withdrawal is tough.”
“I know.”
“And quitting cold turkey isn’t the best way to go. You’d be better off checking yourself into a rehab center.”
“If I did, I’d have to confess my issue to multiple people.”
“Good.”
“Not good. I don’t want this to become public knowledge.”
“Who else knows?” he asked.
“A co-worker. And you.”
A very bad word filled his mind.
“Anyway,” she said, “I think a rehab center is too drastic an overcorrection for my situation.”
“It’s not.” He didn’t want her near him, disrupting everything, stirring up bad memories, bringing her drama and her perfume that smelled like the beach and her to-go coffee cups and her scarves with no ends.
She studied him. “You seem to know something about this. Have you gone through withdrawal?”
“No.”
“But someone you care about has. Right?”
He remained silent.
“Ah,” she said. “Well.”
He could sense that she wanted to ask follow-up questions. He let her know by his expression that follow-up questions weren’t welcome.
“For better or worse,” she said, “I’ve decided not to go the rehab center route. At this point, my choices are to rent your cottage or drive back to Nashville and detox by myself.”
“You can’t detox by yourself. You’ll sabotage yourself doing it that way, so it’s not even worth the effort.”
“I’ve already failed once doing it that way. Look, I realize—fully—that you’re under no obligation to rent your cottage to me. But if you do, I’ll pay you back by doing a fantastic job decorating it for you.” She formed prayer hands. “I won’t be a burden. You won’t see me or hear my wails of anguish or anything.”
The words to turn her down formed in his mouth, but guilt over Kayden slid into him like a blade, preventing him from speaking them.
“I’d really, really love to stay here,” she said. “I promise you that I’ll make my time here worth your while.”
If Kayden had found herself in the same circumstance as Genevieve, asking to rent a guesthouse so that she could get clean, he’d have wanted the property owner to provide her with a safe place.
Was he really considering letting her stay? He couldn’t deal with having her and her addiction on his farm—
That wasn’t true. It would have been true if he’d only had himself to consider. If that had been the case, he’d already have told Genevieve good-bye and shut himself inside his farmhouse.
For Kayden, he could find a way to deal with having Genevieve and her addiction on his property.
He hadn’t done nearly enough for Kayden when he’d had the chance. Because of that, there was nothing he wouldn’t do for Kayden now. Including helping Genevieve, who shared Kayden’s struggle.
He took a few steps back, putting square footage between them. “You’ll have to agree to my conditions.”
“Which are?”
“I can’t have Oxy in that guesthouse, so I reserve the right to search it at any time. If I find Oxy or any other opioid or any illegal drug, then you’re out.” Ultimatums often didn’t work with addicts, but he couldn’t bring himself to do this any other way.
“Agreed.”
“We’ll need to exchange numbers, and you’ll need to check in with me once every twenty-four hours over the next week while you’re going through withdrawal to let me know that you’re okay.”
“Agreed.”
“You have to confide in a family member or a friend.”
“Sam.”
“If you’re going to kick this habit, you’re going to have to tell the people closest to you about this.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I sincerely don’t want to.”
“It’s not negotiable. Who are you closest to?”
“My sister, Natasha.” She scratched behind her ear, then dropped her hand. “I’m embarrassed to tell her. She’s . . . proud of me. She thinks I have it all together. Also, if I tell her she’ll be mad because this has been going on for months and I haven’t said a thing.”
He waited.
Her lips pursed.
“It’s not negotiable,” he repeated.
“I’ll tell Natasha,” she finally said. “But I’ll do so after I get through the first week. Maybe then it won’t be so upsetting for her, because I’ll be over the worst of it.”
He didn’t like it. On the other hand, given the hole she’d dug for herself, he understood her need to hold her head up as high as she could.
“Any other conditions?” she asked.
“You’ll have to go see a psychologist.”
Her eyes widened.
“You’re going to need one,” he told her truthfully.
She blew out a breath. “Okay. Is that it? I hope? Any other conditions?”
“No taking a fancy to me. Okay?”
She paused, released a shocked bark of laughter, then gaped at him with disbelief.
Like most of his Australian countrymen, he was allergic to arrogance. Because of that, he’d made the statement in a joking tone even though he’d meant every word. He needed to make his position clear to her from the start.
“I will not fall for you,” she said. “Do we have a deal?”
He regretted the words even as he spoke them. “We have a deal.”
Women possessed mind-blowing magic.
Sam stood inside the guesthouse near nine o’clock that night. Genevieve’s Volvo had been coming and going all day since they’d struck their deal. At one point, he’d driven past and seen people unloading a love seat from a U-Haul truck. Ten minutes ago he’d glanced out his second-story window and noticed Genevieve’s taillights disappearing toward the road yet again.
He’d come to do what he’d told her he’d do: search his property for drugs. He’d found the place completely changed.
The bed had sheets, blankets, at least ten throw pillows, and one of those ruffles hanging off the bottom of it.
T-shirts lay neatly folded inside the top dresser drawer. He opened the armoire. Hanging clothes filled it. She’d pinned a firefighter calendar to the inside door. August’s photo showed a shirtless guy on a ladder, smiling, and supporting a kitten with one arm. As if anyone with a brain would climb into a fire shirtless. Or smiling. Or holding a kitten.
The desk facing one of the front windows supported a flower arrangement, a container filled with pastel-colored pens, a candle, and a small sign with a cross on it that read, With faith all things are possible.
On the fireplace side of the structure, she’d placed a big gray-and-white patterned rug between a love seat stuffed with more throw pillows and an armchair and ottoman. He didn’t have a single rug in his house, and he’d been living there four years.
She’d set out lamps, hung curtains, and displayed a set of gray, white, and pale blue pottery on the fireplace mantel.
Against the back wall,
an open shelving unit straddled a mini fridge. Genevieve had imported a microwave, a two-burner hot plate, an electric teakettle, a toaster, and a tiny free-standing butcher block. She’d stocked plates, cups, utensils, and food, if you could call Jelly Belly jelly beans, a loaf of sliced white bread, and instant porridge food. He did not.
He set his hands on his hips. Without intending to, he’d acquired a tenant.
He’d found no Oxy, so he let himself out of the guesthouse. An Adirondack chair, footstool, and side table sat on the small porch. A throw pillow decorated the chair. He rolled his eyes. Another throw pillow.
He walked down to the pond and stood at its edge.
As a kid, his desire to belong had made him soft. When he was eight, he’d given his lunch to Nico Mallory five days in a row in hopes that doing so would buy Nico’s friendship. He hadn’t realized that Nico kept eating his lunch because Nico and his buddies thought it was funny.
When he was ten, he’d given Aaron Schuman his school supplies.
When he was sixteen, he’d given Elijah Moore his jacket.
When he was twenty-three, he’d given Kayden Westcott his heart.
He’d stupidly placed his trust in too many lost causes over the years.
He was now honor bound to do what he could to make sure Genevieve survived the coming week.
But he could never again place his trust in a lost cause.
Sebastian
The dark-haired kid pulls me into a room with a Black kid and a blond girl. I wrench my arm from his hold. Just as I do, the floor tilts.
The dark-haired kid disappears into the hallway.
The ground shakes and shakes. Metal bends. Glass shatters. Chunks of ceiling crash to the floor.
I’m desperate for it to stop. Stop!
The terrified boy and girl are staring at me. Why? They don’t know me, and I definitely don’t know them.
I never wanted to come on this idiot mission trip with these stupid people. My foster parents made me. When I die here with these strangers, they’ll be sorry.
Chapter Four
Genevieve considered death an imminent likelihood.
With every passing hour of withdrawal, that likelihood became more and more welcome.
