1
Jenna
“I spend enough money on school for you that it won't kill you to do this for me. Besides, it's not like that degree will take you anywhere. Fashion is dead, Jenna, unless you plan on designing clothes for dolls. It's time to make yourself useful for once. . .”
My step-father's words repeat in my head as the plane glides through the air. It's a short flight, a little over an hour, but it's the quickest way to get there and back home before dinner tomorrow night.
I'll only miss two classes. It isn't the end of the world. My teachers gave me the notes early so I won't be behind. Flipping through the pages, I take out my notebook and start trying to sketch a useable croquis.
My pencil moves around the paper, the human form taking shape. My dream is to have a line of my own. I love dresses, especially wedding dresses. I can spend all day staring at Pnina Tornai dresses and never get bored.
The wheels hit the tarmac, and instantly the wooded view makes me sick. I already miss the skyscrapers, the bustling streets, and the smells of all the different foods wafting from restaurants. It's an overload to the senses in every way, and I love it.
New York City is my home; it's where I'm meant to be. Not this place; not anymore. I'm not the same girl I was when I left this small rundown town. I don't fit. I know I'm going to stand out like a sore thumb.
I hope no one recognizes me. Troy should be here doing this, not me.
It irks me that my step-father is forcing me to do this. But I want to be helpful, I want him to see that I'm willing to help our family. He's done so much for me over the years, what choice do I have?
It'll be fine. I'll just get this hick farmer to sign over his land once and for all, then I'll be gone. I'll never have to set foot in this place again.
I don't plan on staying any longer than I need to. I've got a big fat check that would make anyone sign over the deed instantly. It's like they hit the lottery and they don't even know it.
They can't say no this time.
According to Troy, he's tried several times to buy them out, but it never worked. He's annoyed with them already, and has too much on his plate to even bother right now. Instead, he sends me with a check that can let this farmer retire and live an easy life.
Grabbing my small carry-on, I exit the plane and head right to the car rental hub. Everything's already been set up for me, all I have to do is get the keys and head right to the farm.
I want this done as soon as possible. The sooner it's over, the sooner I can leave. Tossing my bag into the back, I drive the forty minutes to Pittsfield. Taking the exit, it looks the same, but different, if that makes any sense.
There are remnants of my childhood mixed with open lots and modern updates. Market Square is still here, but the little strip that used to have a coffee shop, a pet store, and an ice cream parlor is empty. The little oasis I can picture in my mind is nothing more than run-down buildings with a few places that were able to hang on.
Just get to the farm and get this over with.
I leave the center of town. The farm I'm going to is a place I know well. My step-father didn't tell me the name at first, not until after I agreed.
Jamison's Farm.
I almost couldn't breathe when he said it, but it's a place he's wanted for years and just hasn't been able to come to an agreement with Mr. Jamison. Nothing was ever good enough. It wasn't enough back then, it wasn't six years ago, or even two years ago.
But I'll make it good enough today.
This time my step-father is going all out. It's the largest offer he's ever given for a plot of land. He wants this bad, and today I'm giving it to him.
Mr. Jamison is getting too old to keep this up. I know this offer will be enough to put pen to paper.
The sign comes into view. It's worn, cracking, the words are almost unreadable. The apples painted on the wood are faded to a pinkish white, and the vegetables painted on have all bled together to create one giant blob.
My tires spit as I turn into the sand parking lot. Parking, I sit in my car for a few minutes trying to gather myself. The second I turned in I was hit with a rush of memories. Too many to count and focus on. It's overwhelming.
Every inch of my body is buzzing, the adrenaline coursing through my veins as my heart speeds up and the air around me becomes hard to breathe. Looking up at the house, it looks exactly the same as I remember.
There's a porch that runs the entire length of the front, with flower boxes that hang off the railing. The small building where people can buy fresh vegetables and apples is closed, both doors are shut and locked.
The sign is still up on top, with the prices for picking apples yourself, or if you buy them fresh in the bag. The gate is open, and I can see Mr. Jamison's old blue Ford Model T, with the wooden bed parked against the barn.
Inhaling deep through my nose, I exhale slowly through my mouth. Make this quick. In and out, signed and over.
Grabbing the black folder on the front seat, I climb out of the car and sink into the sand instantly. The ground opens up, attempting to swallow my entire body, stilettos first.
You've got to be fucking kidding me.
Grabbing the hood of the car, I pluck myself free, and dump the sand out of my shoes. Balancing on the tips of my toes, I walk to the door.
Clearing my throat, I adjust my skirt and ring the bell, but no one answers. Ringing again, I try to look through the window beside the door, but I can't see anyone inside.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The noise draws my attention around to the back of the house. Carefully walking to the gate, I hold it as I lean in and look around. I don't see anyone, but I can hear the banging coming from inside the barn.
“Hello?” I call out, staying on the outside of the gate. “Hello? Mr. Jamison?”
Bang! Bang!
Hanging my head, I'm not sure if he hears me and is choosing it ignore me, or if he's just completely consumed by whatever project he's working on. Mr. Jamison was always working on something, that's what I remember about him.
The first time I met him he was building that barn. The walls were up, and he was shingling the roof. I wandered in, like most kids at a young curious age. I think I was nine.
“Hey kid, grab me that box of nails and bring it to the ladder.” He yelled down to me, and from then on, I worked on the farm under the table, making extra money.
The extra money was good. My mom had nothing, we were poor as shit, barely able to make ends meet with her job at the supermarket. It was a struggle for her, and what little I made on this farm helped us.
Stepping to the open doors of the barn, I call out again. “Mr. Jamison?”
Looking in, I see a man in the back, hammering a shoe for one of the horses. His back is to me. His skin is glistening and sweat is dripping down his arms as he hits the shoe one last time before looking back at me over his shoulder.
Ryder.
Inhaling a sharp breath, I take a step back.
Why is he here?
“He sent you, huh?” Setting the hammer down, he pulls a rag from his back pocket and wipes his face. “Not that it matters, because I ain't selling. I told him that, and I'm telling you the same.”
Holy shit. What happened to the boy I remember?
Ryder is not the boy I left behind. His arms are thick and firm, with muscles popping out all over the place. His chest ripples as he moves. The soft jaw I see in my head is now sharp as glass, with cut angles and stubble giving it a shadowy hue.