Page 2 of Good Directions

A date.

He really went there.

“Oh, don’t you worry about me,” I clap back. “I told y’all I got this. So y’all best be prepared for what I have up my sleeve for when you lose this bet.”

I turn to him, putting on the cockiest face I can. Especially since it’s one hundred percent bullshit. No part of me has “got this.” Quite the opposite actually.

I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life. But making the bet with all five of my brothers that I could find a date to our little sister’s wedding later this summer might just top the list.

Especially since I don’t date.

A station wagon pulls into the dirt lot, followed by an old pickup truck, signaling the start of the day. I give a nod to Jackson, letting him know it’s go time. These two might be the first, but there’s going to be a lot more where they came from as soon as word gets out that we opened this stand today.

“You better get, or you might be late for your date,” I tell Hux. “Would hate for you to show up at Willa’s wedding all alone.”

“James isn’t really my type. I prefer them blonder, curvier, and full of sass. Which I have already locked down.”

“You haven’t fully wifed her up yet,” I point out, using a phrase I know he hates.

“Only a matter of time…”

Hux waggles his eyebrows, grabbing another peach before he heads back to his truck. I laugh to myself, not knowing why I expected anything else from him. As the smack dab in the middle of the lineup of seven kids, Hux is in many ways the stereotypical middle child—stubborn, non-conforming, and complicated, but he’s also steady and unflappable.

Which is probably why he’s fun to poke at. He’s a challenge. One that my instigator self can’t help but resist.

For as different as we all are, the one constant between the seven of us Hayes kids is our devotion to the family company. Established in the late 1800s by our ancestor, Augustus Hayes, who along with his brother, Llewellyn, Hayes has grown with each new generation as they take the helm. We’re a well-oiled machine now, with me and my six siblings now the acting executive branch covering our wide range of industries including guns and ammo, a paper mill, agriculture, a brewery, personal safety, and a bait and tackle shop.

Another set of cars rolls into the lot, stealing my attention back to where it should be. At least for right now.

“Oh, I’m so glad y’all are here this weekend!” a little old lady says as she hands me a small bucket of peaches. “I was startin’ to worry that I was going to have to use canned peaches for my pie for the Fourth of July picnic next week. Every time I’m at the grocery store, everything is sold out.”

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” I shudder, overplaying the movement as I smile big, hoping to brighten her day. “Canned peaches? Should be against the law.”

“From your lips to God’s ears, young man!” She points directly at me, as if I were the preacher on Sunday morning, saving all our souls.

No ma’am…just our peaches…

“We’re doin’ our best, but Mother Nature wasn’t very kind this year.”

“Will y’all be back next weekend? Maybe with some of those ‘maters like you had last summer?”

My heart swells, excitement flowing through my veins that she even asked. At Hayes, our specialty is the precious three Ps—peaches, peanuts, and pecans—and we’re one of the best known in the industry for those. However, when you and your best friend are a pair of agriculture nerds, who deep down love to play in the dirt, you don’t stop there.

“We have some of our other produce at the Hickory Hills farmers’ market every Saturday,” I tell her. The hard freeze might have done a number on my peaches, but the grow house is doing just fine. More than fine, actually. “As for being out here next week, depends on what the trees do this week. But…”

I dig into my back pocket, pulling out the pocket-size spiral notebook and pen I keep there. Scribbling my name and number on a sheet, I rip it out and hand it to her.

“That’s my number. If you give me a call on Thursday, I’ll know if we’re gonna be out here or not. And if we’re not, I can bring you whatever veggies you might be looking for.”

The gesture earns me not only a thank you, but a hug, and a tip in the jar that we stuck by the register. It’s the least I can do, wanting to make sure that folks around here are taken care of.

The rest of the morning goes quickly, a steady stream of cars pulling over to the side to check us out. Most of the reactions are the same as the lady from this morning— excitement to finally see a local peach stand. Six weeks into peach season is too long to go without one.

Hopping up on the flatbed of my truck, I grab the bag of pork rinds from an empty peach crate and pop one into my mouth, surveying the stand. Or what’s left of it.

True to my word, we’re pretty cleaned out.

Enough so that I can probably leave Jackson to finish up on his own. The hot summer sun is out in full force, which means that the seasonal workers that we’ve brought in to help with the peach picking are likely on their lunch. This would be a great time to head to the processing plant to see how the day’s operation is going.