Southern Seducer (North Carolina Highlands 1)
I don’t exactly love my job, but I do like my boss. I got lucky in that department.
It took Mom and me a week to pack up ourselves and the baby. I figure we’ll stay at the resort for a long weekend. A week at most. Long enough to feel rested, but not so long that we miss home.
I also don’t want to take advantage of Beau’s already-generous invitation. Knowing him, he’d have us staying on the mountain for the entire month.
We should be getting close. My GPS tells us we have five more minutes to go.
We go up a hill, then up another, each one steeper than the last.
Maisie starts to fuss in her car seat beside Mom. My stomach clenches and my shoulders tense, the way they always do when she cries. I feel the creep of overwhelm rise inside my gut: a quiet tide of exhaustion and shame and anger.
As if reading my mind, Mom says, “She’ll be fine. My ears are popping so hers probably are, too. Paci will help.”
I look up at the rearview mirror again. “Thank you, Mom. For coming with us. I really appreciate the help.”
After my parents divorced, Mom quit her job at the white-shoe law firm where she’d worked for decades (“white-shoe” meaning an established, elite firm that’s among the best of the best in the business). She landed an executive position at a local nonprofit specializing in women’s advocacy.
Yes, she’s a rock star. And yes, I hope to make a similar career change at some point in my life, mostly because I see how much happier Mom’s been since she made the jump.
I just have no clue what the hell I’d do outside of finance. I went into bond sales because I liked economics and, frankly, wanted a job that paid well. I figured the more money I could save in my twenties, the more time it would give me to chase that second act I always dreamed of but couldn’t quite figure out.
The pay is great. So are my co-workers. I’m well liked, and I’m good at what I do, but I don’t see myself doing it forever.
That being said, I’m not sure if I have any real skills that might translate to another role, one that’s ideally more fulfilling, with less-insane hours and more flexibility.
“My pleasure.” Mom is focused on the car seat, one hand holding in Maisie’s paci. “I want you to feel better, Annabel, and I’ll do what I can to help you get there. Doesn’t sound like it will be much hardship staying at the farm anyway. Tom and Marianne were just up here and said it was fabulous. Best food and wine they’ve had in the South.”
“The Beauregard boys always loved their food,” I say.
We round a bend, and a clearing comes into view. A wide creek—river—not sure what it is—ambles along sun-bleached boulders. A trio of figures stands in the water, fishing poles in hand. One of them, a tall guy with broad shoulders, casts a line as we pass. The sun glints off the thin thread of his line. For a second—the time between heartbeats—I feel summer: hot sun, cold beer, lingering sunsets.
For a second, I feel a glimmer of something that doesn’t hurt.
“I feel like I’m in a Brad Pitt movie,” Mom breathes. “The one where he’s on that river.”
“I think we’re really going to like it here.”
She laughs. “I think you’re right.”
We approach a white slatted fence that stretches out on either side of the road. Gas lamps flicker from aged stone posts on either side of a wooden gate. A simple yet elegant sign greets us.
BLUE MOUNTAIN FARM EST. 1752 ELEVATION 3700 FEET
And behind that, another sign, this one smaller: Follow Signs To Check In At Main House
I gawk as the forest opens up around us, slowing down to a crawl to take it all in. The property has been completely transformed. An enormous sloping hill rises ahead. A few stone buildings are set into the hillside, their white shutters and wide windows open to the spring air. Horses roam in a field to our left, while an impressive garden is on our right. A woman in a chef’s jacket is bent over a row of something green.
A big blue barn tops the hill. Its shape is irregular, rambling, like it’s been added on to over the years. Rustic but perfectly restored. Through its open doors I glimpse guys in aprons setting tables. Must be the famous Blue Mountain Farm Restaurant, named one of Bon Appetit’s most exciting new restaurants in the world last year. It’s barely been open two years, and I have yet to give it a try.
I feel a pang of hunger, right on cue. Breastfeeding around the clock has made me ravenous. No one tells you you’ll be nursing your infant every two to three hours until you’re actually holding said infant in your arms. I can’t wait to try this food I keep hearing about.