Page 110 of How to Kiss a Hawthorne Brother
Chapter Four
Perry
Preston Whitaker walks meback to my truck, carrying a bushel basket of apples like it’s full of gold instead of fruit. I offered to carry it—Mr. Whitaker has to be pushing eighty—but he insisted, and I know better than to wound the old man’s pride.
When we reach the truck, I take the basket and place it gently in the passenger seat. “Thanks, Preston. I’ll make sure Dad gets them.”
“Don’t you tell him though,” he says in his gruff voice. “This is a blind taste test.”
I nod along as he speaks. “Understood. I won’t tell him. And I’ll call you the minute he’s tried one to let you know what he thinks.”
Preston is an old friend of my dad’s. His orchard isn’t big enough to be commercial; he makes a few trips to the farmers market every fall to sell his harvest, but it’s more a hobby than it is a business. His real passion is apple pomology—cultivating new varieties of apples more resistant to disease or improved for taste or texture.
This new variety is supposed to be the perfect combination of crispness and tart sweetness. At least, that’s how Preston described it. And dad has a reputation in the apple-growing community. He’s got a nose—or maybe a taste bud?—for the most marketable varieties of apples, and when he calls something a winner, he’s pretty much always right.
Preston practically giggled when he called and invited me out to pick up a bushel of the hybrid fruit he’s been working on for the past three years.
I climb into my truck and roll the window down. Preston moves up, leaning his arms on the driver’s side door. “Tell him I still need a name,” he says, nodding toward the apples. “And if you’re interested in growing it out at Stonebrook, well, we can talk about that too.”
“I’ll tell him.”
He pats my arm. “It’s good to see you, Perry. I was surprised you came so quickly, as busy as you are.”
“There’s always time for you, Mr. Whitaker.”
He offers one final wave as I pull down the gravel drive of his small farm. The Whitaker farm is one county over, near Hendersonville, but still ten miles outside of anything that resembles a town. This far out, it’s just winding roads and trees in every direction. I wind my window down and breathe in the crisp, clean fall air. A row of sugar maples along the road blazes yellow, their leaves dancing in the afternoon breeze. It’s the perfect kind of afternoon for a drive, and I have Lila to thank for the opportunity. If not for her efforts the past two weeks, I wouldn’t have had the time to make the trip.
The thing is, I’m generally very organized.
On top of my life.
In control.
I actually pride myself on that control. On getting things done in a proper, orderly fashion. Some say it makes me grumpy, to beso . . .specificabout things. I say it makes me effective. Reliable. Efficient.
At least, I thought so before my run-in with Buttercup.
I haven’t found the connection yet, but I’m convinced that stupid pig is directly responsible for the disintegration of my organizational skills. Or maybe she was just the catalyst? Either way, that night marked the beginning of my decline into desperation. Things quickly went from bad to worse, so much so that I’ve started using Buttercup’s name as a favorite swear word. Forgotten meetings. Missed opportunities because of my failure to respond. Delayed shipments.Buttercup.
I’m not sure I truly understood how much Olivia does around the farm, something I’m loath to admit because thebuttercuppingpig is her fault in the first place.
Or how much Oliviadid,anyway, before she had Asher. I have a newfound respect for her ability to multitask.
It took a week for me to cave and agree tolimitedhelp from a virtual assistant.
But now, there’s nothing limited about Lila’s help. She’s even scheduling my phone calls, which has somehow stopped me from feeling like all I do is put out fires other people started.Believe it or not, boss, you can solve people’s problems on your timetable instead of theirs,Lila messaged me when she first set up the schedule.
The woman is a machine. Efficient. Competent. And a good communicator. She also has good intuition, often taking the tasks I’ve given her one step further. I think it must be her age. I don’t know exactly how old she is, but the avatar she uses in the app we use to communicate is an illustration of a woman with graying hair, pearls, and glasses. Which tracks. Lila seems grounded in a way that can only come from years of experience. Though, her age is probably also the cause of her ridiculouslypunnysense of humor.
Brody would love her apple-themed jokes. Me? I’ll tolerate them if it means she’s getting her work done.
I reach over and grab an apple out of the overflowing bushel basket in the seat beside me. Windows down. A cool breeze. A bright sky edged with the smoky blues and greens of the rolling mountains in the distance. Fall colors in every direction. I bite into the apple and smile.
I might not be as experienced as Dad, but I know a good apple when I taste one.
For a short minute, I almost forget about all the stress waiting for me back at the farm. I forget the gnawing loneliness that’s been consuming me since Olivia had Asher, and Brody got married. I even forget the annoyance of my ex-wife emailing me—repeatedly—about the stupid high school reunion happening next month. I can’t figure out why Jocelyn cares so much that I attend. So she can gloat, probably. Parade her happy life in front of me and make me realize what I’m missing.
Or what she thinks I’m missing, anyway.
