“I know what you’re talking about.” He chortles. “You kept the base?”
“Not on purpose. I was probably cleaning the car quickly and tossed it in the glove box. Or it’s a reminder for me to order some. I can never find them and I love them.”
“Good for a road trip,” he acknowledges, putting the tiny ring remnants, and the other contents he’d pulled out, back in their place.
The Porter Family Farm is about thirty minutes outside of town. I love the drive to their place and always have. My favorite part is when we get out of Sweetkiss Creek proper and the scenery begins to shift around us. Narrow roads wind their way through rolling hills adorned with patches of vibrant greenery and splashes of wildflowers, painting a picturesque scene that feels like it's been plucked straight from a postcard.
As you go further into the countryside, the landscape gradually transforms, giving way to rugged mountains that loom majestically in the distance. Their peaks are cloaked in a soft haze, lending an air of nostalgia and grandeur to the surrounding landscape.
The road twists and turns, offering breathtaking views at every bend we go around. To one side, you can catch glimpses of babbling brooks and cascading waterfalls, their soothing sounds blending harmoniously with the hum of the engine. To the other,towering trees stretch toward the sky, their leaves rustling gently in the mountain breeze.
Jake turns up the volume on the radio while we ascend higher into the mountains. Without even rolling the window down, I can tell that the air has grown crisper and cooler, and when I crack my window, I’m met with the heady scent of pine and earth. The sunlight filters through the dense canopy above, dappling the road with patches of golden warmth.
“I forget how stunning it can be around here,” Jake murmurs from his seat. He’s angled himself so he’s facing me. “River City isn’t a giant city, but it’s not full of trees and all the green space that Sweetkiss Creek has.”
“They have a park. It’s beautiful. I’ve been there several times over the years for events with my family, most recently for the River City Fair, which is a whole amazing day out in and of itself. Have you been?”
“No,” Jake responds, laughter in his voice. “But I guess if it’s happening the next time I’m in town, I’ll have to make sure I go.”
“One hundred percent. It’s the best. Fresh squeezed lemonade, funnel cakes, prizes for the biggest vegetables, I think they had a lumberjack competition last year…and those are just the highlights.”
“Sold.”
There’s an ease and cadence to our conversation that I can’t deny. There’s also an insane magnetic pull that I’m having to this man whenever he’s near me, much like this morning. Seeing him across the park area by the lakefront, standing on the other side of the fountain, my heart had slammed in my chest. Which is just not like me. I even repeated in my head,He’s a hockey player, do not go there. He is a hockey player, do NOT go there,over and over as I walked over to him. It didn’t help.
Sneaking a peek at him out of my peripheral vision, I can just make out the strong line of his jaw. He hasn’t shaved for afew days, so the clean, fresh-faced player I met a few days ago is gone; this guy looks like he could morph into a rugged mountain man. Just the thought of seeing him in a flannel shirt gives my skin a case of the goosebumps that any doctor would question.
Gripping the wheel, I concentrate on the road. I need to get us there in one piece.
A high-pitched ring pierces the air of my car, the dashboard showing that I’m receiving a call. Jake points to the screen.
“Ummm, so Dad’s Wife is calling?”
Yes, she’s on my phone as Dad’s Wife today. Two days ago, she was The Monster, and a week before that, she was Mouth of the South after she told her bridge club I was undateable in her opinion. The only reason I found out she said this was because one of Georgie’s customers came in and saw me working, and feeling bad for me, bought me a self-help book and a book about makeovers, leaving them for me at the counter as a gift. Georgie still laughs about it while I threaten to make her eat the books.
Pressing the button on my steering wheel, I put a fake smile on when I answer. “Hello, Mother.”
“Riley Richards, is that menu going to be ready for me to do a tasting before you serve it? You know I want to have at least an idea of how it’s going to be.”
She’s abrupt and her tone is sharp. A quick glance at Jake, and I can see this is not the side of my mother he’s been used to seeing while he’s been here. My mother is intense, but she’s a perfectionist, too. She’s also got this thing about looking absolutely perfect to the outside world.
I liken it to this drawer we have at the back of the kitchen, near the back door, and it’s the bottom one. You see, every other drawer in our kitchen is organized—drawer liners, containers, rack organizers for our pots, even the spices are labeled and all put away in beautiful glass jars.
But this one drawer is the catch-all. It has takeout menus, spools of thread, a ball of twine, scissors, slips of paper, tools like a small hammer and a screwdriver, and also tiny packets of plant food, like the kind that comes with floral bouquets. There are old photos, including some that go as far back as elementary school, of Travis and me.
Whenever I open that drawer, it screams. It’s loud. It doesn’t fit in the room, yet it does. Because it’s like my mother. Surrounded by so many pretty and perfect things on the outside, she’s the kind of woman who when asked how she is plasters on her best beauty-queen smile and purrs, “Everything’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine! Things are good.” And she’ll say this even if we’re standing in the middle of a hurricane with snow falling around us as aliens are landing.
I take great pleasure in calling this drawer the “everything’s fine” drawer.
“I’m in the car now headed out to the Porter farm for supplies, Mom. I’m planning on doing a practice run tomorrow night.”
“So you’re coming here, to the house?” she asks, her tone clipped and a little distracted. Pretty much sums up my time with her when I was a teen.
I glance at Jake, whose brow is furrowed as he listens, and he mouths the word sorry. “I wasn’t going to, but I’m happy to do that if it makes you feel better. I’ve been planning this truffle chicken…”
“Sounds good,” she interjects, cutting me off. That’s her. She’s heard what she needs to hear from me and now she’s done. “I’ll see you here tomorrow night, then.”
“Do I get to try some, too?” Jake asks as I use my hand to make a karate chop motion at him, slicing it through the air as if I can stop her from hearing that he’s with me.
