Page 1 of Good Directions

1

ANTON

“My peaches bring all the girls to the yard…”

Throwing my arms up, I angle my hips backward, shaking what my mama gave me. My mama who, if she were here to witness this, would roll her eyes and sigh so heavily it would probably disrupt the pile of peaches on the small roadside stand in front me. Not that Miss Belle’s silent judgment would stop me.

“Your peach does no such thing,” Hux, the brother directly behind me in the family lineup, comments. “And based on the look of those peaches…”

I flip him the bird, stepping back from the stand, hoping that Jackson, the high school kid I’m paying minimum wage to work the stand, isn’t listening to this. The thing is, Hux is not entirely wrong. As much as I want him to be.

After all, I turned to him to help save my trees.

Because when Mother Nature throws a major curve ball at you, you reach down into your lineup and see who can pinch hit. And when you have a brother who is a fucking tree expert, he becomes the designated hitter.

“We’ll be fine. These’ll all be gone in a couple of hours.” I shrug off his comment like it’s nothing. Like this whole situation isn’t eating at me from the inside out. “People are desperate for peaches this year. Cary sold out last week at the farmers’ market in under an hour. Last week, this stand was empty by noon. It’s the worst season since 1954, and with the majority of the harvest going to retail, people’ll take what they can get their hands on. Even if they are small.”

It’s a minor consolation that we’re selling out. Because that’s never been an issue. For as long as I’ve been in charge of the agriculture department at Hayes Industries—the Fortune 500 company my family still owns and operates out of our small town in rural Georgia—we’ve never had a problem selling peaches. Or peanuts and pecans.

The precious three Ps.

Whether it be wholesale to grocery chains or locally at the Hickory Hills farmers’ market and our roadside stand here, a Hayes peach is highly sought after.

A freak, unseasonal hard freeze in April that stunts the harvest and results in producing under thirty percent of what it should yield makes them even more so.

“Good thing you’ve got experience handling small items, huh?” Hux smirks, looking all too proud of himself for trying to land that one.

“Is that what you tell Dolly?” I throw back at him.

“Ain’t nothing about me small.” He winks. “And my girl has zero complaints.”

I start to respond, but stop myself. Because Hux is right; nothing about his lumberjack self is small. Including the holes in his ears from the ear gauges.

I also have no intention of ragging on his childhood best friend turned girlfriend, Dolly McLain. It took the two of them forever to finally see what was right in front of them— what everyone else knew—and I’m not going to poke that bear.

Again. Because I did once and Hux nearly kicked my ass.

Instead, I change the subject.

“What are you even doing out here?” I ask.

It’s a legit question. Yes, the corner of Tifton Highway and Abernathy Road is a big intersection and the turnoff to get to our small town of Hickory Hills, but we’re still ten miles outside of town. And another twenty-something from Tifton itself. Other than our roadside stand, there isn’t much out here.

Or anything, actually.

“On my way up to Atlanta,” he says, shifting his weight and crossing his tattooed arms. He scans the pile of peaches on the table again, then grabs one, taking a large bite. “Meetin’ up with James Brennan from the Department of Natural Resources. Plus I need to stop by the restaurant supply outlet and see if they have a new industrial thermometer for the oven at the diner. Dolly thinks hers isn’t workin’ right, so I told her I’d swing by on my way back and pick up a new one to install.”

“That’ll be $3.50,” I comment, almost instinctively. Hux doesn’t balk, taking another large bite, his own silent way of saying bite me. As much as I joke about charging my siblings every time they steal a piece of produce, it’s usually not an issue. This summer, though, I feel the loss of every one of those peaches. “And you’re meeting with the DNR on a Saturday? What happened to weekday meetings?”

“It was the only time either of us could make it work.”

“He couldn’t come here? Driving to Atlanta, even on a Saturday—that traffic is going to suck.”

Hux shrugs, as if him making the three-hour journey north is no big deal. “We take turns on who goes, and it’s my turn to head up there. I’m hoping it’s early enough in the day that it won’t be too bad. Yet.”

I quirk an eyebrow up at him. There’s a small chance he’s right, that it’s early enough in the day that the traffic gods might shine down on him since he’s headed north. But it’s also a Saturday in late June, and frankly, all bets are off when it comes to the beach traffic that passes through the state of Georgia—in either direction—on the weekend all summer long.

“You could come with,” he suggests. “Maybe find you a date.”