Page 22 of Where the Blacktop Ends

The fact that I barely gave her any instruction and then left for a week to another state.

“No. The Smiths vouched for her, and she was clear that she could handle it. Please don’t tell her it’s me checking in.”

Mostly because I can’t afford to piss her off and try to find a new nanny during election season.

“Great. I’ll check-in with her on Thursday and will not mention you’ve asked me to. Do you need anything sent over for your presentation on Wednesday?”

I rub my jaw, feeling the stubble that’s already creeping in. No matter how often I shave, my dark beard always manages to make its reappearance within hours. It’s a genetic curse, or blessing, that I’ve had to make peace with, even though it means I’m constantly shaving to look presentable for the endless consultations and meetings I attend.

“I think I’m all set forCooper & Sons, but could you send a few extra razor blades to the farm’s address?”

“Absolutely. And what about your visit with Colt on Friday?”

I pause for a moment. Diane knows everything about me. That was part of the deal when I hired her—no secrets. As my executive assistant for over a decade, she’s proven herself to be the keeper of my most sensitive matters when I was a lawyer, and now a political consultant, including the difficult situation with my youngest sibling, Colton.

“I’ve got that covered for now, but let’s touch base after I talk to his lawyer. I need to get the latest on the appeal.”

“Understood, Mr. Marshall. Reach out anytime.”

She hangs up, and I appreciate the efficiency. No need for pleasantries. Strictly business. It’s the New York way—something I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to after coming from small town, southern charm, but now? I can’t imagine life without it. People in the south are too focused on appeasingfeelings and emotions and less on taking action. And those people include the ones I grew up around in my small, hometown of Whitewood Creek, North Carolina.

The massive infrastructure of Charlotte fades away, transforming into nothing but farmland and one lane roads lined with peach trees. Their branches are full of heavy, ripe fruit, while vast fields of farmland sprawl out in every direction. Neatly fenced pastures dotted with grazing cattle and rows of corn sway in the breeze. Poultry farms spread over the land, their weathered barns and coops scattered among the orchards.

I roll down the windows, taking in the fresh, now early October air. It smells of earth, animals, and a hint of hay, while the quiet hum of tractors and the distant noise of farm machinery create the perfect soundtrack to this serene, rural landscape.

The closer I get to my childhood home atWhitewood Creek Farmstead and Distillery,the more I smell it.

Fresh, North Carolina, mountain air.

Our farm thrives because we run the cleanest, most ethical operation in all the state. Our standards for cleanliness, humane practices, and ethics are unmatched. That’s why the usual stench of chickens is almost non-existent compared to the other poultry farms the make up the states’ economy. But no matter how much ventilation, masking, or scrubbing we do, you can’t fully escape the smell of fresh manure.

Whitewood Creek Farmstead, nestled in the mountains of North Carlina, is one of only two farms in the entire state that ethically and humanely raise chickens solely for egg production. We’re a no-kill farm, a tradition our family has taken pride in for generations, and it’s the cornerstone of our success. As millennial and Gen Z consumers become more conscious about the sources of their food, our ethical practices have carved outa niche for us and gained popularity on social media apps. This popularity allowed us to expand, opening the distillery and producing Whitewood Creek whiskey and spirits over the past five years. We grow our own organic, non-GMO grains, malt them on-site, and age the liquor ourselves.

It’s a time-consuming labor of love, born from Colt’s passion before he left, and with Lawson’s talent in sales and marketing, Cash's construction knowledge and ability to build just about anything, and Regan’s strength in charming anyone, it’s become a secondary, lucrative venture for our family, one we home to spin into a bar and restaurant soon.

As the driver turns down the long, winding dirt road, the wooden sign marking our family’s farm and businesses sways gently in the breeze. On either side, fields of corn stretch out, hiding the farm from sight. Though our focus has consisted of eggs and whiskey, Cash insisted on maintaining the corn harvest to ensure our chickens are fed with nothing but non-genetically modified feed we grow ourselves.

A few miles down the road, we round a bend, and the first thing that comes into view is the large, cabin-style home where my siblings and I grew up. Sturdy, weathered by time, and filled with more memories than I can count. A few miles beyond it sits the house I built when Max was born—empty for now, waiting for the day I finally move back, hopefully in November.

Further back, nestled deep in the property’s expanse, is Lawson’s place—the home he built with his own hands, where he’s raising his son, Beckham.

And beyond that, stretching across the land like the heartbeat of it all, lies the farm—the sprawling coops filled with chickens and the distillery twenty miles further. My great-great-grandfather designed the farm with the North Carolina, mountain breezein mind, ensuring the wind carries the scent away from the property, preserving what little sanity anyone living here might have and bumping up against the beautiful, Blue Ridge Mountains that line base of our property and provide a stunning backdrop for the seasons.

“Here you are, sir,” the driver says as he pulls in front of a weathered railroad tie that works as a makeshift parking space in front of our family home.

I scan the rest of the dirt lot and notice just Cash and my dad’s cars are here today. At least this way, I won’t have everyone jumping on me at once.

I thank him, slip a generous tip, and grab my overnight bag from the backseat. Although I’m only here for five days, I’ve kept my packing minimal. Aside from the pressed suit neatly sealed in its protective bag and a couple pairs of Wrangler jeans I reserve solely for trips home, I travel light—just the way I prefer it.

Get in, get out.

My plan is straightforward: take care of campaign business, meet with Colt, and return to New York with minimal complications.

At least, that’s what I hope will happen.

I barely make it to the front steps before the door swings open, revealing my younger sister, Regan. It’s been almost a year since I last saw her—too long, but with election season looming, my visits have become fewer and farther between. These days, when I do make it home, it’s usually a whirlwind trip, less than twenty-four hours, just long enough to handle political commitments and meet with Colt and his lawyer before catching the next flight back.

Regan’s wild, dark auburn hair is piled into a messy bun on top of her head, stray curls escaping in every direction. Her bright blue eyes gleam as she takes me in, mischief already dancing in her expression.

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