Page 11 of Forget Me Not

“It’s a pretty sweet gig,” Liam continues, and I direct my attention back toward him as I realize he probably wouldn’t know, anyway.

I doubt he even worked here back then. “We used to hire a handful of seasonals, give ’em each a couple hours a week, but now, with only one, we can put them up in the guesthouse. Have them work longer days.”

He points over to the cottage in the corner, the one that looks like a miniature replica of the main house behind us.

It’s only one story, and I can tell it’s quite small, but still, it’s gorgeous, like a boutique dollhouse.

Perfectly square and entirely white; a small porch in the front, facing the water, and a single glider angled to the view.

“I ran the numbers a while back,” he continues. “It turned out to be cheaper, believe it or not. Got the job done a lot faster, too.”

“Your workers stay there ?” I ask, impressed with the digs.

“Free food and housing.” Liam nods. “Plus, five hundred bucks a week.”

“How long does harvesting take?”

“About a month, give or take.”

“Two thousand dollars to spend a month on a vineyard,” I say, doing the math in my head. “That is a sweet gig.”

“Apparently Elijah didn’t think so.” Liam grins at me, nudging my shoulder as we keep walking.

“We’ve got goats, chickens,” he continues, gesturing to a coop behind the house I didn’t notice when I drove in.

“Fresh eggs every morning. The garden has just about every fruit and vegetable you can think of. Herbs over there.”

“Why would you ever leave?” I wonder out loud as I take the place in. My initial impression from the car, that sense of neglect, has been replaced entirely in the ten minutes I’ve been here. Instead, the place feels loved, lived in. A well-worn cardigan peppered with holes.

I look at Liam, waiting for a response that never arrives.

“What do you think about hiring me?” I ask, the words tumbling out before I can stop them as my gaze darts back to the guesthouse, my mind wandering to time spent on that porch.

A mug of coffee in the mornings while the sun slowly rises over the water. A glass of wine in the evenings as the sweat of a day’s work dries salt on the skin.

“I’m here for the summer without much to do.”

Liam turns to me, finally, and I can see the cogs spinning slowly, this stranger sizing me up as we stand side by side.

I don’t know much about farms, or grapes for that matter, but ever since overhearing my mother this morning, admonishing my father for bringing me here, I’ve been debating if I should actually stay.

She made it abundantly clear that she doesn’t need me—though I can’t go back to my apartment, either, not without giving back the three thousand dollars I desperately need—but here, at Galloway, I could have a place of my own and a slow Southern summer.

I could keep busy, spend time outside, and work with my hands.

Not only that, but I could earn an extra two grand on top of the sublet money.

That’s five thousand dollars to get me through these next couple of months. My first real chunk of money since I quit.

“Do you have any experience working on a vineyard?” Liam asks.

I think about going back home, having to walk by Natalie’s bedroom night after night.

Lying on my comforter, trying to sleep. The nightmares growing progressively worse and the memories lurking like mice in the walls.

“No,” I admit, remembering that day we all came here, little blue bucket clenched tight in my palms. “But I do have two working hands.”

I hold them up and smile, watching as Liam grins in return.

“Well played.”

“I work hard,” I continue, a sudden urgency in my voice as I realize I want this, badly. So much more than I initially thought. “I’m a fast learner. And I wake up early. Clearly.”

I shoot him a self-conscious smile, hoping he can’t tell how desperate I am.

“Let me run it by Mitchell,” he says at last, chewing his lip. “Give me two minutes.”

He gestures back to the house and I nod, watching as he jogs back up the stairs before disappearing through the screen door with a slap.

Then I wander over to the water as I wait, letting the breeze rustle my hair.

My hand venturing over to my pocket before digging out the picture folded up in my jeans.

I open it slowly, my finger trailing down the crease cutting clean across Natalie’s throat.

A faint sting in my eyes as I take in her smile.

Back at our house, all her good moments have been painted over with the reality of what happened like an antique too tarnished to see the beauty beneath—but here, in this picturesque place we so briefly shared, the memories of her are still happy, still good.

Here, in my mind, she’s still alive.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. Finally feeling calm for the first time in days.

Then I hear a door open behind me and I twist around, expecting to see Liam back on the porch—but instead, it’s a different man with a shock of gray hair and a long, drawn face.

Even from this distance, I can see the curve of his cheekbones, crabapple round and dotted with sunspots like the flesh has started to rot.

He’s older, certainly, but his bone structure is still so deftly defined his face looks like a statue cut from cold, hard stone.

He walks to the edge of the stairs and peers down, both hands shoved deep in his pockets.

“I hear you’re here for a job,” he says, and I immediately understand that I’m looking at Mitchell, the primary owner of Galloway Farm. His voice is rough and gravelly, a bullfrog croak that hints at a youth full of swallowing smoke.

I peg him in his sixties, which makes sense, considering this place is forty years old.

“Yes, sir,” I say. That word, sir, slipping from my lips without my conscious permission.

I don’t know why I said it, why I felt the need to address him like that, but something about the man commands attention.

Some hidden aura that seems to have made everything around us come to a stop: the birds, the wind, all of it suddenly nervous and still like the world itself is holding its breath.

Or maybe it’s just my old Southern upbringing; that programmed politeness peeking out from some long-dormant place.

“I’m Claire.”

I swallow, purposefully leaving out my last name, and I wonder if he’s going to ask me for it.

I wonder, if I tell him, if he’d recognize it at all.

Surely he wouldn’t—he’s probably employed hundreds of workers over the years—and we stand still for a second, my body rigid as he takes me in.

I’m suddenly self-conscious under his scrutiny and I start to fidget, my fingers digging into my palms, until slowly, he smiles, and I feel my shoulders relax a little.

“Claire,” he repeats, the soft sound of my name on his tongue melting the tension I’ve been carrying around like a puddle of wax in the searing sun. “Welcome to the Farm.”