shouldn’t be surprised—I like all those sorts of things.”
“What sorts of things?” he asked.
She laughed a little uncomfortably and looked down at her hands. “For lack of a better description, girl things. I’ve worked in retail, in clothing, in housewares, in domestics. I’m the youngest of three with two older brothers and am the only member of the family who doesn’t work in the family business, my dad’s trucking company. Small but pretty successful. My dad runs it, my oldest brother is the comptroller, my other brother is operations VP and my mother has been the dispatcher and scheduler since he had one truck. And I, the baby of the family and a girl, never found my niche. I’ve taken some college courses, never found a degree program. But boy, can I organize the house! And I know how to change the oil in the car, landscape the yard, bake a soufflé, hang wallpaper. The joke around the family is that since my mother has always been at the company, working with Dad, I am the only housewife in the family.”
“Landscape? Ever have a garden?”
“I rented a small house and planted flowers around the border.”
“You’d like my mother’s garden,” he said.
“I saw your mother’s garden. A small farm! Looking at it made me hungry!”
“We grow things for a living,” he said with a smile. “What was your last job before coming here?” he asked.
“I worked in a department store in the bridal registries. But I needed a change.”
Then it came to him suddenly. “Jesus, what a dunce! Dysart Trucking!”
“That’s right,” she said. “You’ve heard of them?”
He grinned. “We use them, Ginger. They take our crops to market. They’re a good-size company.”
“Locally,” she said. “My dad started with one truck.”
“My grandfather started with a small grove and a few sheep and a lot of debt, but every time he had two nickels to rub together he bought more land.”
“He invested in himself,” she said.
“He invested in his sons. My dad has the grove and sheep and potatoes, Uncle Sal has grapes, Andreas has a couple of fishing boats. As you no doubt noticed, there’s quite a lot of family.”
Then his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and looked at it, sent the caller to voice mail, put it back in his pocket. Lucy. They’d gone out a few times. She’d like to go out a few more. Time to move on.
“I don’t mind if you take that call.”
“That’s okay, I’ll call back. So, everyone works in the trucking company...”
“Except me. I’m willing to help out but I don’t have any talent for it, except maybe washing rigs.” She laughed. “I’m very good at all the things people don’t get paid much for—cooking and cleaning, that sort of thing. I suppose when my parents are very old and infirm and I’m an old maid, I’ll be the one to take care of them. And all your family is involved in the farm?”
“No, only a couple of us. Peyton is here, Ginny and Ellie are homemakers and their husbands are not farmers, Mike will be a professor married to a professor, Sal is a CPA for a large winemaker in Napa. He’d like to buy a vineyard someday. I guess, named for Uncle Sal, it makes perfect sense. He’s good with numbers and has a very good nose. They’re all pretty successful. My parents pushed us hard.”
Through dinner they talked about their families, some of their childhood experiences, what movies and books they liked. He told her he was a part-time teacher and she told him about her three best friends from high school and how they’d all left Portland for big careers. He made her laugh and he was mesmerized by her sweetness and charm. They had a cup of coffee but neither wanted dessert. Two hours had flown by. She told him that as apology dinners go, this was the best she’d ever had.
“So,” he said, “what is it you like so much about this little town? Why do you want to stay?”
“The people have been so lovely. And that flower shop—it’s perfect for me. I’m around people sometimes but I spend a lot of time alone, making up arrangements, cleaning up the cooler and back room. I need that time—time to think. But I shouldn’t have too much time or I get caught brooding.”
“And what does a pretty girl like you have to brood about?” he asked, flashing his dimples.
“Peyton didn’t tell you anything about me?”
“Come to think of it, she told me you’d had a bad year and made me promise I wouldn’t be a wolf.”
“Well, we have maybe a couple of things in common. I’m also divorced. Just over a year.”
“Is that so? I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours?”
“You first,” she said.
“It’s not that interesting,” he said. “Everything Natalie and I talked about for the year leading up to our wedding, we agreed on. Immediately following the wedding, she was unhappy. She didn’t want to be married to a farmer, I got up too early, went to bed too early, had dirt under my nails, shit on my boots. She wanted me to go to med school or get a PhD and teach. She wanted fancy cocktail parties rather than big hoedowns at the farm. She was intimidated by the sheer size of my family. So we fought, and fought and fought. We’d married the wrong people. It was a damn shame, but there it is.” He shrugged. “See? Not interesting. Make yours at least interesting.”
She took a breath. She twirled the coffee cup around on the saucer. “Maybe I shouldn’t...”
“You don’t have to,” he said.
“I married the wrong person, too. I married a musician. A singer/songwriter with the voice of an angel. The first time I heard him sing was in Portland at a fair and he sang ‘I Guess The Lord Must Be In New York City.’ My bones melted and I fell right in love with him. I was young—twenty-one. He was older and had been trying to make a breakthrough in the music business for a long time. He traveled a lot but when he was in the Pacific Northwest, which he called home, we’d see each other. After a couple of years of that he suggested we live together, though he would continue to travel for every gig or business opportunity. He moved all his things into my little rented house. That went pretty well for a while. In fact, there were times it was a lot of fun—lots of musicians around, lots of music, a real party. We got married and he sang to me at our wedding. He also notified the newspapers and had a couple of photographers there. He was going to be the next Eric Clapton. I worked in a department store and he made a pittance on his gigs, barely enough to keep him in equipment and plane tickets. He did sell five songs to a big country star, they just never made the charts. That’s when I started to realize what a mistake I’d made—he made a hundred thousand dollars and bought all-new equipment. It was all about him. The big break that would set him up for life was always right around the corner. But of course marriage didn’t work. He didn’t want to be a husband. His music came first. He said, ‘I told you, Ginger—I have to concentrate on my music and I thought you were on board with that.’”
Matt gulped. Had he put the farm ahead of his wife? Would everything have been different if he’d given her ideas a try? “I’m sorry, Ginger.”
“Well,
