Her grin is ear to ear from the nickname. “Somebody has to because, in case you didn’t know, it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, Ledger.”

  “Clearly.” I nod, trying to keep a straight face. And then it dawns on me. “Hey, do you want to help me with something?”

  “Like be a secret agent or something?” She sits up straighter.

  “Nothing quite that intense.” I laugh. “In an effort to kill the mayor with kindness, Hillary and I,” I say, pointing to Hillary, “are working on upgrading your library at school.”

  “You are?” Her eyes widen.

  “We are. So I think you’re the perfect person to help us decide what exactly it needs.”

  “You mean like a reading couch and a moon pod and wobble chairs and another set of Harry Potter because it’s always checked out? That kind of stuff?”

  “Exactly that kind of stuff.”

  “A way to a woman’s heart is through her books. That’s for darn sure.”

  I just stare at her, blinking. There’s nothing else I can do.

  She crosses her arms over her chest and purses her lips, clearly in deep thought. “Do I have a budget, or do I get carte blanche?”

  Where does she come up with this shit?

  “How about you just make a list—”

  “It would be much easier if I created a Word doc and gave you links to where to buy the items.”

  I stare at her dumbfounded. “What?”

  “Yeah. It’s what I do for Momma at Christmas. She says it’s much easier for Santa if he has web links because he has so many kids to get toys for. That way he gets me exactly what I want.”

  Can’t fault Momma for that one.

  “Okay. If you’re okay with doing that—”

  “Kids are fluent in computer these days. Don’t doubt my skills.”

  “I won’t. I’m not. I definitely do not doubt you.”

  “Good.” She stands and gives us a resolute nod. “I need to get back to Momma. She probably thinks I got lost somewhere and am in some kind of peril. She listens to too many true crime podcasts.” She rolls her eyes. “But I’ll get on that right away as I’m assuming you need progress to get the mayor off your back?”

  “Something like that. Thank you for the help.”

  “You know, if this thing with the woman you enjoy doesn’t pan out,” she says as she stops to pick up her sign and then looks over her shoulder at me, “I’m available to take her place in about twenty years. Later.”

  And with that, Tootie skips out of my office and down the hall.

  I meet Hillary’s eyes across the distance. “I want to be her when I grow up,” she says.

  Asher

  The days pass quickly.

  I hate to admit that I would do anything possible to slow them down, to eke out more time with Ledger each day, but it’s true. The clock still turns. The hours still fade. The days turn to night.

  And as much as it hurts to admit, I know he has a life to get back to in New York City. He is rarely on the phone when we are together. In fact, I’m rather positive he makes a point to be unplugged. But on the off chance he has to take a call he’s waiting for, I’m immediately reminded of his stature and importance in a world so very foreign to me. Facts and figures roll off his tongue in a no-nonsense tone that has to be intimidating to anyone on the other end of the line, but to me is a turn-on.

  There’s nothing sexier than a man who is sure of himself.

  But it’s those times when he’s fixing a problem or negotiating with God knows who, that I’m reminded he does have a life that’s real, a penthouse that’s most likely posh, and a social life that’s probably active to get back to.

  My chest aches at the thought.

  So I find comfort in the rhythm we’ve fallen into. Days spent working on our own. Evenings spent getting to know each other again even though it feels like we’ve never been apart. Late nights enjoying each other’s bodies and learning each other’s pleasures.

  But there seems to be an unspoken line we’re both toeing. One that has us taking a step back for a break every day or two, almost as if both of us are afraid to get too close.

  I think it’s futile.

  Yet I still play the game.

  And I still attempt to convince myself this is simply infatuation.

  “Oh my God, Ash,” Nita says as she walks toward me, her hands out, her face up to the sky. The look of amazement she gives me when she finishes twirling under the softness of the lights causes goosebumps to chase over my skin. “This. Is. Amazing.”

  She keeps moving. Around the clearing where George and the guys finished stringing lights back and forth from tree to tree to the barn in a zigzag pattern. They are muted and cast a soft glow in the darkening night. To the various antique and well-worn pots we’ve gathered from garage sales from neighboring communities. With flowers spilling out of them, they add a touch of color to the patinated barnwood they sit against.

  She moves inside the barn. From the ceiling’s rafters hangs row after row of lavender bundles drying amidst several shabby chic chandeliers that lighten the all-wood interior.

  She runs her hands over the newly stained railing that leads to the barn’s loft. Over the piles of décor items I’ve yet to put out.

  “Do you like it?” I ask, not caring whether she does or doesn’t, because I do. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to take ownership of something and see it to fruition that I forgot how good it felt to do so. With every thought and placement, that familiar hum returned to my veins like when I used to sketch.

  There’s a creativity to this. A freedom to invent and inspire and bring a vision to life. I never realized how much I was missing this feeling, how happy it made my heart and the calming it did for my soul, until I started this project.

  Who knew falling back on what I knew best would mean both the lavender and my sketching?

  “I’m stunned. Literally stunned,” she says, her feet continually moving as she takes everything in. “You are going to be booked for weddings and events and . . . so many things.”

  “That’s the plan.” Luxury. Decadence. A destination to lose yourself in. Ledger’s words were the driving force behind the feel of it. Sarah from the apothecary’s comments were the ones that flipped the switch on in my head. “And then once we get our feet under us, I’m thinking we create another outbuilding over there,” I say and point in the distance.

  “For what?”

  “So we can make our own soaps or oils to sell to places like Sarah’s apothecary. So we can have people come out here to be hands-on and make it themselves.” I shrug and smile shyly. “More pipe dreams.”

  “This is not a pipe dream. This is you falling back on what you know best. The one constant in your entire life. The lavender.” She grabs me in a quick hug and makes a squealing sound as she turns around and takes it all in again. “You could do weddings over there by the tree.”

  “That’s what I was thinking too. Have the ceremony out there and the reception in the barn.”

  “It would be so beautiful with the lavender as a backdrop and the breeze blowing through it. Gran and Pop would love this, wouldn’t they?”

  My smile is bittersweet. “I already showed Gran some photos. It made her cry happy tears. She couldn’t believe this was our farm. I already talked to the staff about how we can get her here when it’s finished so she can see it.”

  “There won’t be a dry eye in the house on that day.”

  I nod because I already have it planned in my head. Getting Gran here. Letting her see her beloved lavender again. Sneaking her over to visit Pop on the way back.

  Pop. He already knows what it looks like, because he’s been here beside me every step of the way, guiding me.

  “Fingers crossed I get approved for my loan so I have the capital to buy the rest of what I need. Tables and chairs. I want to add a bathroom for guests and a kitchen onto the back of the barn so I can accommodate a caterer. Pave the dirt road coming in here for easier access.” I scrub my hands over my face, having already visualized it a hundred times. “If I’m denied, this is all for naught.”

  That’s my biggest fear. That if I leverage the farm for collateral for this new loan, I’ll not only be risking my family’s blood, sweat, and tears, but also my home.

  And then, what if I don’t get the loan? I know from experience that it’s almost crueler to have the dream and get it yanked away from you when you’ve had just a taste of it than to simply dream it and never get a chance to experience it.

  “If you don’t get approved, you’ll figure it out somehow. It’s about time you get to reap the good luck around here.” She stops and lifts an eyebrow. “Then again, you did find Ledger so that seems like maybe you’ve cashed some of that in.”

  “For the time being, anyway.” I try to joke about it, but Nita knows me well enough to know what I’m doing when I change the topic—avoidance as usual. “I’ve also been working on a proposal to offer special deals to clients of The Retreat. Receptions. Parties. Whatever. The resort would get a booking commission, and I’d get more traffic. Once I’m finished with it, then I’ll present it to the person in charge there.”

  “You mean Ledger?” she says sarcastically as she slides a look my way as if I’m crazy.

  “No. Not Ledger. I don’t want him to have anything to do with this.”

  “You know that sounds crazy, right? He owns the damn resort, yet you think he’s not going to know?”

  “I don’t care if he knows after my proposal has been accepted, but not before. No way. I want to get the partnership on my own merit. Not because he gave me a handout.”

  “A handout and a hand are two different things,” she asserts.

  “Promise me you won’t say anything to him if you see him.”

  “Fine. Whatever. But how are you going to keep all of this from him when he comes here?”

  “He’s seen the outside of the barn but not the inside. I’ll say I added the lights because this part of the property is darker, and I wanted to brighten it up.” I shrug. “He’s a man. He doesn’t notice details until you point them out one by one.”

  “True.” She laughs. “Where is the man of the hour anyway? Why’s he not here screwing your brains out between the rows of lavender?”

  “That was three nights ago,” I say nonchalantly as her grin widens.

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?” I nod and she sighs. “Jealous with a capital J. So what exactly is going on with him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’ve known you for a long damn time, Ash, and this is just different.”

  “Different how?” I ask but already know her answer. Because I can’t put my finger on it and neither will she be able to.

  “The amount of time you spend with him without feeling smothered. Your want for more than just the damn good sex you’re having. The fact that you’re taking a chance on this”—she points to the barn and the lights around us—“when you’ve been so willing to just settle. It’s nothing I can definitely pinpoint, but it’s there and I love it.”

  My smile is soft as I shake my head. “I hate when women say it was a man that gave them confidence and all of that bullshit, so I’m not going to say it, but I don’t know, Nita. Something in me has changed with Ledger here. I don’t know if it’s self-assurance or if it’s that I don’t give a crap about anyone in town or what they say about me . . . I’m just more like the old me I was before I got called back here.”

  She nods. “Hold on tight to it, okay?”

  Let’s hope I can.

  “It’s so weird to think he and I have lived two completely different lives over the past fifteen years, and we meet up again and . . .”

  “And it’s magic.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. It’s just . . . us.” It’s as though we picked up things from where we left them. The friendship. The ease of communication. The laughter. Everything is still there but just . . . so much more than before. Perhaps that’s the sex, but I don’t think so. It’s as though there aren’t the same restrictions as there used to be. No more father and grandparents interfering. No more me caring what others thought. No more me worrying about everything other than just us.

  “Well, I’m happy for you. I truly am. No one deserves someone to treat them like a queen more than you.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be here to help me pick up the pieces when he leaves?” I ask off-the-cuff but mean every word of it.

  “You know I will be.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “But something in me thinks instead of breaking you apart, he’ll have made you whole again.”

  I stare at the lights swaying on their thick black cable and take a deep breath. Ledger’s always had such a profound effect on how I see myself. Desirable. Lovable. Leave-able . . . even if that hadn’t been true from his perspective in the end.

  But therein lies the problem with Nita’s story.

  I know how bad it hurts to lose Ledger.

  Asher

  Ledger: Are you free next Saturday night?

  Me: No. I have an appointment to watch paint dry.

  Ledger: Look at you with the jokes.

  Me: Anything for you, dear.

  Ledger: Cancel the paint appt. We have plans.

  Me: Are you sure? I was really looking forward to it.

  Ledger: Smart-ass.

  Me: What do I wear?

  Ledger: I’ll get back to you on that.

  Me: Okay. I’ll be naked until told further.

  Ledger: No complaints on that front.

  Me: Smart man.

  Asher

  I can’t sleep.

  My mind is in overdrive, and my excitement building over my new endeavor has created insomnia. The kind of restlessness that only a good bout of sex with Ledger can seem to fix by tiring me out.

  I contemplate texting him. He might still be working since I know he had a conference call with someone overseas that he had to stay up for, but I decide against it.

  He might ask more questions about why I suddenly can’t sleep. And I don’t want to have to lie.

  Instead, I opt to wander through the house and selfishly admire the changes I’ve been making to the décor to make it more mine.

  I’ve been scouring garage sales, estate sales, and online markets for others’ trash that I can make my treasure. It’s taken some time, but that’s okay. I think it would be too hard to change it all at once. That would feel like I’d tried to erase Gran and Pop completely.

  Rather, I make a change, get used to it, and then move to the next. Little by little I’ll make it mine while preserving elements of what was once theirs.

  The office. I realize I left the desk lamp on, and when I head in to turn it off, I’m met with one more of Pop’s stacks.

  I stare at it for a beat.

  Just tackle it and get it over with. Clean the slate. Rip the Band-Aid off. Keeping it isn’t going to miraculously bring Pop back to life.

  I smile and know I’m right. With a deep breath, I take a seat and prepare to face it.

  Within an hour, I have broken the big stacks down into sub stacks. I’ve gotten it down to a science now: receipts for taxes go in one place, invoices get filed alphabetically, and payroll info by the employee is kept in binders on the shelf. I have a file for miscellaneous items I’m afraid to throw out in case it’s important but that I’m not quite sure of its relevance yet.

  And then there is a stack of silly Pop things that I’m just not ready to part with. A Post-It note that Gran had written “love you” to him on. A ticket stub from the last movie we saw together. I never realized Pop was such a sentimental guy until I started this project.

  It makes me love him even more . . . if that’s even possible.

  I’m singing out loud to the music pouring from the speakers and doing a little shimmy with it as I add the items to my “Reasons Why I Love Pop” file. I do one shimmy too many and accidentally drop one of the papers in between the two hanging files. I reach in between them and scratch my fingers around where I can’t see to try to feel for it.

  I find it, touch it . . . but there’s also something stiffer than a receipt there too. Figuring it’s another lost between the crack item, I pick it up to put it in its proper place. But when I pull it out between the drab green hanging files, I’m met with a tan envelope with worn edges.

  My heart stops in my chest.

  “When Pop came inside after talking with that . . . horrid man, he had something in his hand. A tan envelope.”

  I know it’s the envelope without any other proof than its color. It has to be. For the briefest moment I contemplate letting sleeping dogs lie and not open it. I already know that Maxton Sharpe was an unscrupulous asshole. Is there going to be something beneath this seal that paints Pop in a different light? In my heart of hearts, I know nothing could change my opinion of him . . . and yet I still hesitate.

  But curiosity gets the better of me as I move to the desk, take a seat, and slide my finger under the seal. With a deep breath, I remove the lone object from inside.

  An uncashed check.

  Made out to Pop.

  Signed by Maxton Sharpe.

  With a date of that fateful night.

  Made out for forty thousand dollars.

  I stare at the faded blue rectangle and am not exactly certain how I feel. Surprise? Indifference? Disgust?

  This is what saving his son from what he felt was a disgrace from dating me was worth to him? This is all he believed I was worth?

  Tears blur my eyes, and those damn insecurities Maxton cemented into my psyche that night rear their ugly head. But for all the right reasons. For Pop reasons.

  He didn’t cash it.

  We’ve always struggled financially. This money would have gone a long way for a family like ours whose ends didn’t always meet.

  He sat on it, holding on to it for years, long after the check was invalid.

  I think of the college experience I missed out on. The dreams that slipped through my fingers.

  He could have deposited it into a savings account. He could have used those funds to help pay for my college.