Page 85 of Always Meant for You
I guess I’m not the only one who can’t seem to stay away from her.
“This is Cal the Goat,” she says softly, introducing him to the animals. “He’s a baby and a little grumpy. We need to be mindful of his nature and gentle with his heart.”
The animals are eating up her speech.
I can’t help but crack a smile.
The faint glint of the necklace around her throat draws my eye. The rose gold M catches the light. The clasp has worked its way forward. I imagine reaching out and adjusting the chain. Touching her neck, brushing her hair over her shoulder.
I clear my throat. “What do you want me to write?” I ask, uncapping the marker and setting the board upright against a chair.
She leans her head back, eyelids heavy, rocking the goat in her arms. “Number one: we need a logo and a digital presence. We need to set up social media under Eat Elverna. Like I was saying at the meeting, Elverna Sustainable Farming Initiative is too wordy. Eat Elverna is fresh. We’ll need social media content—photos, bios, videos, and a little charm. Share the kind of things that make people feel like they’re a part of something. Make them want to visit and stay awhile.”
I nod and fill up the board.
“We’ll include stories about the people here,” she continues. “That’s what makes it work. The why behind the what.”
My pen slows. It’s how she sayswethat pulls at my heart.
She shifts on the couch. “Number two: restructure the farmers’ market.”
Oh, hell no!
“It’s a farmers’ market. It is what it is. Tables filled with food,” I reply, but I write her idea anyway.
“And we turn that into an experience. Add live music. Something interactive. A reason for people to come early and stay late.” Her voice strengthens. “We make a passport.”
“A passport?” The word alone sends a chill down my spine.
“Yes, it’s perfect for a farmers’ market. Every booth gives a stamp. Collect a stamp from each stand and enter a raffle. It builds energy, community. Eventually, we digitize it.”
I raise a brow. “An app.”
“Eventually,” she murmurs, curling deeper into the cushions. “For now, we focus on connection. Then comes outreach. Create partnerships. Reach out to food banks and restaurants. Like I said at the meeting. Think broader. St. Louis and Chicago.”
Chicago.
My gut tightens.
“Do the Sperrys still have delivery trucks?” she asks, her voice low, almost drowsy.
I nod. “Yeah. They still run a limited milk route.”
“We expand that. Add produce. Fresh bread. Those muffins . . .” Her voice trails off with a sleepy breath. “The one I had today tasted like something sacred.”
She’s fading fast. Her head tips slightly, eyes fluttering shut.
“What did you love about it?” I ask, needing to keep her talking for one more second.
“The strawberries. The amaranth,” she murmurs. “Tasted like summers in the field when we ate more berries than we picked. Do you remember, Cal? You, me, and Jamie.”
Her words drift as her head sinks into the cushion, sleep pulling her under before I can answer.
But I do remember. Every detail.
The heat. The scent of the turned earth. Her laugh. Those long afternoons when I pretended not to notice her sneaking more fruit into her mouth than into the basket. I remember it all. The joy. The ache. The weight of wanting her when I thought I shouldn’t.
I cap the marker, step away from the board, and walk to the couch. I tuck a damp curl behind her ear, and she lets out a soft, contented sigh.
