him, in order to make money, you need to act like you have money. And now that I’ve taken over the day-to-day running of the firm, I can’t skip out on the annual display of wealth and privilege.
“I’ll never understand why men like playing a game where they whack balls across grass,” Julia retorts.
“It’s more a game of focus than whacking balls, but I see your point.”
“And an excuse to see who has the biggest balls. Or at least bank account.”
I shrug. “It is what it is.”
“I suppose.” Julia reaches up, messing up my hair so it’s no longer slicked back and perfect. That’s the good thing about her staying with me. She keeps me grounded. She doesn’t let the people I have no choice but to associate with influence me.
Leaning down, I kiss her forehead, then walk to Imogene, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “Love you, sweet pea. You be good for your mama, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
Then I turn, steeling myself to spend the next several hours surrounded by people who think happiness is measured in terms of stock portfolios and love is a sign of weakness.
Chapter Four
Londyn
Large expanses of green abutting picturesque blue skies surround me as I navigate down sparsely populated, narrow country roads. In Atlanta, everything is so compact. Even in the more upscale sections of town, land is at a premium. You’re lucky if you have more than a quarter acre of land.
Out here, it seems like there are miles between houses, everything about this area in stark contrast to the frenzied atmosphere of the city. It’s hard to imagine that less than sixty miles from these dusty country roads is a busy metropolitan area. It feels like a different world out here. Like I’m not even in the same universe as the one I left an hour ago.
Glancing down at my phone, I check to see if there’s cell reception. As expected, it’s spotty, which I imagine is why the woman on the phone insisted I write down the directions instead of simply relying on my GPS.
As I navigate along pasture-lined roads, I feel more and more out of my comfort zone, especially when Confederate flags seem to outnumber American flags. When I think of Atlanta, I don’t consider it as being in the South, although it is. It’s a melting pot of different backgrounds, cultures, and ethnicities. I forget that’s sometimes not the case in the more rural areas. I just pray the woman I’m about to meet is nonjudgmental. Otherwise, I have a feeling this meeting will be over before it has a chance to begin. And I really want this to work out.
When a tiny brick building comes into view, First Baptist Church visible on the faded sign, I press the brake as I squint for the next landmark the woman told me to look for. After another couple hundred yards, the gated archway with Rosebud Acres etched overhead appears.
Slowing to no faster than a crawl, I navigate my SUV down the dirt path, the uneven road bouncing me as I drive under heavy moss trees, everything in a state of overgrown neglect.
I have no idea what to expect when I arrive at this property. The woman didn’t give me too many details, other than the home being over a hundred years old and in dire need of a complete renovation. She said she wanted to hear my ideas first. It’s a pleasant change of pace from my old firm, where we didn’t have much independence in that regard. Not like this.
After driving another half-mile, I round a bend and stare in awe at the scene that greets me. A white two-story, cottage-style home sits past a circular drive, a welcoming porch beckoning visitors to stop by and relax for a refreshing glass of lemonade. It’s seen some better days, the paint faded and the wood chipping in places. It just needs some love.
Goosebumps form on my arms and nape as I step out of my car, practically able to smell the history of the property in the musky, humid air. While I do have a master’s in interior design, my bachelor’s is actually in art history. I’ve always dreamed of merging the two. If all goes well, I’ll be able to do just that here.
The wood groans under me as I ascend the steps leading to the wide front porch, the exterior dirty and window screens off their tracks. I glance up at the porch beams, the wood