the farmer's daughter

the farmers daughter: 3

He was working through college
On my grandpa's farm
I was thirsting for knowledge
And he had a car
Yeah, I was caught somewhere between a woman and a child
One restless summer, we found love growing wild
On the banks of the river on a well beaten path
It's funny how those memories they last
Like strawberry wine and seventeen
The hot July moon saw everything
My first taste of love, oh bittersweet
Green on the vine
Like strawberry wine

Strawberry wine By Deana Carter

"We can't thank you enough," your mother clasps her hands together, "are you sure you don't want to stay for dinner?"

"I gotta get back," Johnny huffs, hooking his thumbs in his jeans pockets, "but I'll be back in the morning."

"You will?" Your mom bats her lashes in surprise as you glance over from peeling potatoes.

"Yep," he nods as he looks around, meeting your gaze briefly before turning his attention back to your mother, "going to help the kid with planting."

"What? You can't-- Johnny, we... we could never pay you back," she fans herself.

"I'm not asking for anything," he shrugs, "I kind of owe Pat. He's always been good to me."

"Oh my gosh, and he will appreciate it so much," she touches her cheeks as her voice cracks, "we really can't afford to turn away help, but you will be staying' for dinner. It's the least we can do."

"Yes, ma'am," he answers, "but you don't work yourself too hard. You gotta make sure to get Pat back on his feet before you worry about me."

"Oh," she sniffles and dabs her nose with her knuckle, "I'm so sorry, it's been such a difficult week."

"Ma," you come around and offer her a paper towel from the role, your own eyes stinging.

"Anyways, I...I'll go now," Johnny says stringently.

"Thank you," you eke out as you hug your mother, and she buries her face in your shoulder.

He nods at you as he passes, continuing into the hallway. You rock your mother and crane to watch him go, his broad shoulders stretching the cotton henley. He peeks into the front room as he stops to get his boots on, staring in at your dad, still blank in his recliner.

You tear your eyes away as your mom pulls back and wipes her cheeks, "Uh, I'm a mess."

"It's alright, ma," you assure.

"I hope so," she murmurs as her throat tightens, "I really do."

As promised, Johnny returns early the next morning. You're in the kitchen putting on a pot of coffee as you hear his truck. You leave the percolator to boil as you sweep down the hall, yawning into the crook of your elbow as you near the front door.

You open in and stand inside the screen, watching his headlights fade as he shuts off the engine. He steps out, grabbing a beaten metal lunch pail out behind him. It hangs from a thick leather strap; you wonder if he takes it down to the mill for his shifts.

"Morning," he comes up the steps, "Shane up?"

"He's getting there," you say evasively, "you want some coffee?"

"Brought my own," he shows the thermos strapped to the top of the lunch pail.

"Hm, well, why don't you come in while you wait? Shane will be up soon, I'm sure."

"I don't mind," he says.

"I hate to leave you out here," you insist, "ma's upstairs with dad," you explain, "pretty quiet in here. Not used to that."

"Mm," he grumbles and bows his head. He grabs the screen door as he steps forward, catching it as you retreat ahead of him.

He enters, and you scurry back to the kitchen as you hear the percolator thrumming, the lid shaking noisily. You take out a cup for yourself and one for Shane. Johnny enters, and you turn to him as he looks around placidly.

"You're right. It's quiet," he agrees.

You give a shaky smile and go to the fridge. You take out the packet of bacon wrapped in brown paper and put it on the counter.

"I'm making breakfast. Ma and dad will be hungry. Do you like bacon or sausage?" You ask.

He considers you. You face him, awaiting his answer. He watches you, his expression hard to read.

"You don't have to worry about me," he states.

"I'm not worried, I'm just... offering," you placate.

His brown eyes make you nervous as they bore into you. Like everything else he does, he watches you with intent. What it is, you don't know.

He hums and nods, as if agreeing with something you said. You arch a brow curiously as he tilts his head and drops his eyes to the counter. He steps up to the island and puts his pail down.

"I'll do the eggs," he says.

"Oh, please, sir -"

"Johnny," he intones.

"Johnny, sorry," you squirm. There's something different about him. He's just as steely as ever but much more... there. You always felt like he hadn't seen you before.

"No worries," he waves you off and goes to the fridge, opening the door and searching until he sees the eggs. "You seem like the sunny side up type."

"I do?" You wonder as he plucks out eggs one at a time.

"I think so," he says softly, a grit in his throat.

"Hm," you scrunch your lips up, "I don't mind it. I usually have french toast. That's how I liked my eggs."

"Not really eggs..."

"There's eggs on the bread," you argue, "and cinnamon, and a little icing sugar."

He scoffs, and his cheek dimples. It's as close to a smile as you've ever seen from him. He places the eggs on the counter before he goes back for more.

"What about you? How do you like your eggs?" You ask before the tension can grow stifling.

"I take two hard-boiled eggs to work. A slice of rye, carrots, cashews, and dried berries. For lunch, I have ham and cheese. Most days, I miss lunch. Too busy."

He speaks matter-of-factly. He does seem like a man of routine. You never thought very much about what he did beyond his visits, but it makes sense.

"I usually forget lunch too," you grin, "but I make up for it at dinner."

He snorts again, setting down another handful of eggs. "I'll do some scrambled," he rolls one aside on its own, "and some french toast for you."

"Oh, M-Johnny," you stammer, "that's--"

"I like to keep busy. Keeps me focused," he says sternly.

"Oh, uh, okay," you relent, "I'll... go get Shane," you look at the clock, "he said he'd be up ten minutes ago."

"His own fault if he doesn't have time to eat," Johnny tuts. "Grown man."

"Sure is," you agree as you breeze around the counter, "be right back."

You get to the door before he responds, "I'll be here, sweetheart."

You're in the hall before you register what he said. You falter and stop at the bottom step before you can ascend the stairs. You look back to the kitchen, staring at Johnny's shoulders as he cracks eggs into a bowl.

Sweetheart... you don't think you've ever heard a morsel of affection from the man. He didn't even laugh at your father's jokes. Well, there is a lot going on. He's just being nice because your dad's sick.