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When we pulled up to the farmhouse, her hand was on the handle before the truck came to a complete stop.
“Thank you again. For everything.”
“Of course, if you need anything, I’m right next door. I don’t care if it’s three o’clock in the morning.”
A tiny grin tugged at her lips. “I’ll just throw a rock at your window.”
Seeing her grin, even if it was just a tiny smile, made me feel like a superhero, like I was faster than a speeding bullet and could leap a tall building in a single bound.
“Or you could text.”
Her nose scrunched. “Yeah, that would probably be faster.”
She got out, and I watched her until she got inside and shut the door. I had a lot of questions that I didn’t have answers to—but I did know one thing. Daphne Moore was going to be in Firefly for four more weeks.
31
DAPHNE
Papers filledevery inch of the surface on my aunt’s eight-foot cherry oak dining room table. I was a systems girl. I’d separated the documents, which were mainly comprised of invoices and bills, into years and then months.
For the past nine hours, I’d been inputting the information into QuickBooks and making monthly spreadsheets. I was finally seeing the light at the end of the organizational tunnel. The hazy cloud of confusion was clearing, and I was beginning to see the bigger picture of the business's current state.
This morning, I arrived promptly at the hospital at seven a.m. when visiting hours began. When I walked inside the hospital room, Aunt Rhonda was already awake and agitated. Zoe was with her and let us both know her blood pressure was dangerously high. From a quick conversation with the doctor and then Zoe explaining things further once he left the room, we were told that they’d determined that Aunt Rhonda had a heart attack and possibly a stroke simultaneously. She also had underlying conditions that had gone untreated for years, including coronary heart disease, anemia, high blood pressure, and diabetes. She had a quadruple bypass scheduled in two days.They wanted her in a more stable condition before she went under the knife.
Even hearing the direness of her diagnosis, Aunt Rhonda still insisted that she was going home. She sat up in bed and demanded her discharge papers. When both the nurses and I tried to explain how serious the situation was, she continued to get more and more upset, which caused her blood pressure to skyrocket. Even after being sedated again, her agitation did not subside. The only thing that managed to calm her down was when I told her I would stay in Firefly and take care of everything that needed to be done with Moore Farms Moonshine while she recovered.
That promise was weighing heavily on me as I sat in the farmhouse trying to make heads or tails of what I’d gotten myself into. Last night, I told Alexandra I’d see her in a month. I made that bold statement because I knew that I had two weeks of vacation and fourteen days of sick leave in the bank. But that was it. If this took any longer than that, I was screwed. I was not under the illusion that Alexandra would allow me to go on extended leave, even for a family emergency. She would have no problem finally following through on her threat to fire me.
But what choice did I have? None.
Aunt Rhonda didn’t have any other nieces or nephews. She had no children of her own. Her parents were both gone. Her only sibling, her brother, my father, was a narcissistic alcoholic who lived in another country.
Before she drifted off to sleep this afternoon and I left the hospital, Aunt Rhonda gave me detailed instructions on what needed to be done and where to find all the necessary paperwork. It was a list of a dozen tasks that were all priority status and a half dozen that would be if I didn’t take care of them in the next few days.
Now that I had a better grip on the business, I could understand where her stress was coming from. It had taken me all day to get a handle on everything because the business hadn’t been brought into the twenty-first century. Aunt Rhonda had been running Moore Farms Moonshine for the past twenty-five years, and from what I could see, she was still using the same bookkeeping methods that Grandpa Moore had implemented in the seventies when he’d founded MFM.
She used paper checks to pay employees, vendors, the gas company, landlords, and pretty much everyone. Her system of keeping track of things had no rhyme or reason. She basically stuffed things into manila envelopes and put them in bankers boxes. Her ledgers should have given me all the information I needed, but they were incomplete and not filled in correctly.
The past five years, I noticed a steep decline in her bookkeeping. Which was understandable. Just keeping up with the admin would be a full-time job since it wasn’t digitized. Now, it was. I knew she might not be happy about the changes I’d made, but the modernization was necessary. There was no way she could keep going like she was.
Once Aunt Rhonda saw how much easier it would be to keep track of everything, and how much time and stress it would save her, I had faith she would come around. Or at least, that’s what I was telling myself when the doorbell rang.
My eyes were blurry as I stood from the table, and I felt a little lightheaded. I realized then that I must have been staring at the computer screen too long without a break. The last time I’d gotten up was when Mrs. B, who ran Beasley Boarding House, came over with lasagna and cinnamon rolls.
She wasn’t the only visitor who had come bearing food today. That was the sixth meal to arrive. Mrs. Lambert, the principal of Firefly High, dropped off a pot of stew. She explained she’d worked with Aunt Rhonda when she started teaching. In herfirst year, she was Aunt Rhonda’s teaching assistant. Before taking over Moore Farm Moonshine when Grandpa Moore died, Aunt Rhonda taught first grade for twenty years.
The first meal to arrive today was from Ray, who worked at Southern Comfort; he came with a pot of chili and a basket of homemade cornbread. Caroline Shaw and Anna May Birch delivered a casserole and a chicken pot pie. Gloria Alvarez, who worked for MFM in the distillery for forty years, delivered two trays of beef enchiladas. All of the dishes had come with get-well wishes and reheating instructions.
I had enough food to last me for a month, which was good because I couldn’t cook, and that seemed to be how long I would be here. When I opened the door, I expected to find someone dropping off a dish. Instead, I found something equally appetizing and arguably more delicious. Harlan Mitchell was standing on the porch.
He was wearing a white T-shirt, jeans and a baseball cap. On most men, it would not be a drool-inducing outfit. But on him, my mouth watered like a popped fire hydrant.
The soft cotton of the T-shirt clung to his arms and chest in just the right places. The material was taut over the muscled planes of his chest and fell loose around his waist. His jeans were worn, and they hadn’t been distressed in a factory. These jeans were faded from the sun and worn from work.
His hands were in his pockets, and he grinned as he stared down at me with his whiskey gaze.
“Hey,” I said breathlessly, surprised to find him there.
