Dear Emily (3 page)

“I shouldn't even be here now,” she
said.

“Stay one day, two days, one month, two
months, whatever you need.”

“I'm guessing I look pretty flighty
right about now?”

“Best case scenario?” he said, rolling
a plump, red tomato in his hands. “You go to the university's
housing department and have them put you on a list. Then you can
post flyers up around campus. Tomorrow is Sunday, so it's a lost
day. Maybe it takes a week to find roommates to live with? Why are
you going to stay at a motel, wasting your money, when you could
stay here?”

Amy would have liked to believe she
could produce compelling arguments to rebut his logic.

She could not.

“You can't possibly want me here.” It
was her last attempt to stop it from happening.

“Sure I do.”

“It'll be a week.”

“No skin off my back.”

“Jack... Thank you.”

“You're welcome. We'll need to jump
your car again in the morning.”

Dear Emily,

Someone once told me it was my
responsibility to live for the both of us, which is an awful thing
to say.

I try, though.

Chapter 2

It was seven in the morning and Amy sat
in Jack's truck on their way out of town. She couldn't quite feel
the brisk, January morning in the warm cab of the truck. It wasn't
so much the cold, as the humidity and it would be hot in a few
hours.

Cool, Florida mornings did not have a
reputation for remaining cool. Rural Florida passed on Amy's right,
obscured by a film of dew across the window.

She pulled at her pant leg. “I
shouldn't have worn these long socks. I'll be sweating by
eleven.”

“Long socks are good. You'll get eaten
up by ants if you don't cover up properly,” Jack said.

“How long have you been working on this
farm?”

He paused for a moment with one hand on
the steering wheel.

Amy had a flash from childhood--a
memory. Emily and Amy were kids, chanting, “Two hands! Two hands!”
to their father, like know-it-all little brats.

“It's been about two years,” he
said.

“How did you even get into farming?”
She wanted to know everything.

Jack slid his hand down the steering
wheel. “I stopped by one day to do an interview for a school
project and I never wanted to leave.”

“So you're a farmer now?”

“I help out on the Jensen's family
farm. But yes, one day, I'd like to have my own farm.”

Never in a million years would Amy have
pictured Jack Harper as a farmer. Most people would have envisioned
him sitting atop a seat in Congress, and not sitting atop a
tractor.

“My parents think I'm delusional,” Jack
continued.

“Really?”

He glanced at Amy. “Remember my
girlfriend in high school?”

“Cassie Andrews.” Amy was embarrassed
she knew his high school sweetheart's name faster than she could
solve thirty-four plus twenty-two.

Fifty-six.

He nodded. “She broke up with me the
day I graduated from college. I told her I'd changed my mind about
law school. I wanted to go to graduate school to study agriculture
instead.”

“That's pretty rotten. Of her. Not
you.”

“I guess.” He was thoughtful then for a
moment. “Although, there's something to be said about knowing what
you want out of life. I'll give her that much.”

Jack had yet to mention it'd been over
a week since the day she followed him home from the pub. Since
then, her car had officially died, and she'd learned a couple of
things.

One: it's difficult to find affordable
housing a few weeks into the semester. And two: repairing a car is
expensive.

Jack offered to bring her to the farm
to earn a little extra cash toward fixing her car while still
giving her time to study; unlike waitressing.

She could get to school and work by
walking from his apartment, but she didn't know where she'd end up
living. She certainly couldn't stay with Jack Harper anymore. She
was living a double life, and had yet to tell her
parents.

They turned into a driveway, past the
sign, WELCOME TO JENSEN FARM, and continued down a long, dirt road.
Rows and rows of trees flanked the truck.

“So what kind of a farm is this?” Would
there be horses? Cows? She only knew they had tomatoes. The most
delicious tomatoes. Jack brought these orange tomatoes to the
apartment and she watched as he bit right into it like an apple.
She did the same and tomato juice was dripping down her forearm.
The fleshy, piquant tomato overtook her taste buds and she'd never
be able to eat a store bought tomato ever again.

And here she was at the gates of
decadent tomatoes and who knew what else?

Jack maneuvered the truck easily across
the uneven path as he spoke. “It's delivery day. We deliver orders
to local shops and people. We need help with the
paperwork.”

“I can do that.”

“I know you can. That's why I asked
Terri to give you the job.”

“Thank you... again.”

Jack smiled. “Don't thank me until the
day is over. It's going to be a long morning.”

As they parked at the main house, Jack
explained they were right on time, which meant they were late.
Everyone arrived early on pickup day.

The farm didn't smell bad as she
assumed it would. It smelled of freshly turned soil with a hint of
pungency carried in the breeze.

The house was two-story and painted a
pale gray, with white trimming. If Amy were ever to build a home of
her own, she imagined she'd want it to look like this.

There was a swing hanging from a tree
branch and a pink tricycle left on the front porch. They entered
through a side door and stepped into an expansive dining room. The
table could seat twelve, yet it currently held fourteen. The table
itself was made of unfinished wood—the color of pine.

“Good morning, Jack. And you must be
Amy,” a woman said. “My name is Terri Jensen.” She set a tray of
scrambled eggs in the center of the table.

She had long, white hair with silver
flecks throughout. Her skin was tan and the corners of her green
eyes crinkled when she set her eyes on Amy.

“Everyone,” Terri said. “This is Amy,
she's going to be helping us with pickups today.”

Amy smiled and the staff nodded
politely while keeping their breakfast in their mouths. She
recognized Jerry and Marc, Jack's friends from the pub.

Jack took her hand. The butterflies she
felt must have been the nerves. He led her to the table and they
sat. She wasn't timid as she reached over the table for biscuits,
scrambled eggs, and crispy bacon.

“Terri,” Amy said, once she'd cleared
her mouth of biscuit. “ I hope I can be of help today.”

It wasn't Terri that
responded.

“That's the first thing you'll learn
about being on a farm.” The voice was deep gravel and the man blew
into the house like a force of nature. “There's always work to be
done on a farm.”

“You must be Tom Jensen,” Amy said,
extending her hand.

His warm hand dwarfed hers.

“Did you eat enough?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“Alright then, let's get going.” And he
was already out the door.

She scrambled after him, throwing one
last look at Jack before stepping out onto the farm. He smiled and
nodded in encouragement.

She had to jog to keep up with Tom. In
the fifty yards (she thought it was fifty yards) it took to reach
the office, he'd checked on sprinklers, picked up a barrel of hay,
and fixed the closure on a gate. She was exhausted watching
him.

Amy was introduced to Louise, the woman
she'd be helping in the office and was given a quick tutorial.
There were rows of wooden and steel tables on either side of the
small, open warehouse. Produce boxes were set up like an assembly
line and there was a large chalkboard nailed to the far wall with a
list of the portions of the day's orders. The list included:
tomatoes, eggplant, fennel bulb, various herbs, and a lettuce
blend. Cheese and eggs were available for sale
separately.

The first half of the day passed
quickly and without incident. The team at the farm was like a
well-oiled machine. Boxes were filled not only for pickup at the
farm but also for pickups at other locations around town. The
farm's cheeses were popular and sent over to local stores for sale.
Amy snuck small, cherry tomatoes throughout the morning and popped
them into her mouth when she thought no one was looking.

Around eleven, Tom walked into the
room, bubbling with electric energy. He pointed at Amy across a
table. “You can cook, right?”

“Yes,” she nodded. Actually no, but Tom
instilled a need to be confident in everything.

“We're going to eat in about thirty
minutes. Can you take care of lunch today?”

“For everyone?” She asked.

“Not unless you want a room full of
angry people.”

Thirty minutes?

She ran to the kitchen and fell in the
grass. She actually fell in the grass. No one was around to see it,
so she picked herself up quickly and kept running with the sense of
anxiety she'd only felt as a child running across wooden floors
with the imaginary boogeyman close behind her.

In the kitchen, she found an array of
different foods to choose from. She needed to come up with
something quick and hearty. If they were at least as hungry as she
felt, lunch would have to be filling.

She began with butter and a large
butcher knife.

She sliced onion into large chunks and
sautéed it in an obscene amount of butter and garlic. Once the
onion was translucent, she added chunks of eggplant, and then
finally tomato—heirloom tomatoes of all colors.

She guessed on the herbs. The butter
and garlic would mask any errors in her culinary
judgment.

She sliced large, French baguettes in
half, added more butter and garlic, and toasted it in the oven. By
the time the crew sat down at the dining room table, she had large
pieces of bread set up, smothered in the eggplant, tomato, and
onion concoction. Alongside it, sausages, piping hot, and spicy
kale chips.

Jack sat down next to her. He was
altogether sweaty, gorgeous, and vibrant. He smelled like outside—a
mixture of salt and dirt.

“Here, take a bite to make sure it's
edible before everyone else tries it.” Amy practically stuffed a
piece of bread in his mouth.

“And what are you going to do if I tell
you it's terrible? Take it away?” He laughed.

“Hurry! Eat it!” She was prepared to
yank the tablecloth, sending everything to the floor, if
necessary.

He took a huge bite. The crew dug in as
well and soon the dining room was filled with the sound of chewing.
And more chewing.

Jack's mouth was still full and she
looked at him expectantly. He gave her a wink and she knew it must
be okay. The silence around the table confirmed this.

Sitting back in the chair, she took a
bite of the lunch she'd made and a mingling of flavors painted her
taste buds.

It was delicious.

Dear Emily,

Some things are easier to move past
than others. This will not be one of the easy ones.

Chapter 3

After the fourth time Jack Harper ate
dinner at the pub, she was on to him. The chicken wings were good,
but they weren't that good and she was getting annoyed with Jack
Harper thinking he could save her. She didn't need saving. She
didn't think he needed saving either, but if anyone needed saving,
it certainly wasn't her.

As if she were his
responsibility.

She watched him sitting alone at a
high-top while she married the half-empty bottles of ketchup—a
shift duty affording her uninterrupted thinking time. She stopped
Kelly before she delivered beer to his table. “Table six?” Amy
asked, motioning to Jack's table.

“Sure is,” Kelly said wiggling her
eyebrows up and down.

Every waitress had developed a crush on
Jack ever since he started coming to the pub all the time. It
didn't bother Amy; at least, she told herself it didn't bother her.
But she'd be lying if she said there wasn't a small part of her
that felt possessive over him. There wasn't any basis for those
feelings. Sometimes you just feel the way you feel.

Amy took the beer to Jack instead. The
frosty beer mug clanked against the wooden table. Amy was not
trying to be pleasant. She especially hated it when Jack left her a
tip. “Jack, what are you doing here?”