“And why not?”
“Because I’m not one of those media-type guys. What you see is what you get. No fancy, prewritten answers. No highfalutin words. Just plain-spoken, plain-living. So, a strict interview? Not my thing. But a conversation—that I can do.”
The warmth radiating from his stormy eyes, his flesh, his face is too much. His voice drops; my breath follows.
I inhale. “So, an unstructured interview, then. Like a friendly conversation. Open-ended, free-flowing.”
He nods. “Hope that won’t make things harder for you.”
I shrug. “Just might take a bit longer than I originally anticipated to get everything I need. You’re okay with me taping our conversations, right?”
He doesn’t even blink.
Despite the non-reaction, I make a show of pressing the record button and holding my phone. Like a hidden shield between us. “So, tell me about yourself. How you got into organic farming.”
He sets his mug on the rustic wooden coffee table in front of us, staring off for a long moment. “Raised by a single mom. Thought I had something to prove, so I joined the Navy?—”
“A sailor, then?”
He shrugs reluctantly. “SEAL. Don’t like to talk about it.”
My whole body stiffens, though I work to stay composed. Not all men who’ve worn the uniform are bad. But no words can soothe the visceral reaction of my body. My grip tightens on the phone, the light winks back at me.
Anson stares at me thoughtfully but says nothing. Thankfully.
The big cowboy scratches his chest, finding his words. “Wounded warrior. Where the scars come from, in case you’re wondering. Ambush, not at liberty to give details.” His eyes flicker to mine, a dark and swirling thunderstorm.
“After the rehabilitation, the Purple Heart, all that bullshit … guess you could say I was aimless, directionless. No idea what to do with myself outside of the service. Explored all the usual civilian paths—police, sheriff’s deputy, security. But I’d already seen enough of the worst side of people. Wanted something else.”
“And so, you found horticulture?”
“Nope. I found pain, heartache, disappointment.” The words come out flat. His jaw works once. A muscle jumps, and he won’t quite meet my gaze.
“My grandpa died. Vietnam vet. Like a lifeline to me.” His words are raw—slow and deliberate. “Felt untethered and kind of went inside myself. Where you’re not supposed to go as a vet.” He stabs his fingers into his shower-damp hair, eyeing me.“Sorry if this isn’t the story you want. You can cut all this later, do your writer magic. But this is where it began, so it’s where I have to start.”
“You’re doing fine,” I whisper.
“Turned to reading and hiking to clear my head. Eventually, came across the line that changed my life. Voltaire’sCandide: ‘We must cultivate our garden.’”
My mind explodes at his words. “Wait, you read French literature.”
He chuckles. “An English translation. Part of the library I inherited from Grandpa. Still have it in my bedroom—thin, dog-eared, half the pages underscored. That line? Highlighted, underlined, circled. Looked like it got him through some things. Figured I’d try it. Only I took it literally.”
He stops, stares at me for a long moment. Like he’s trying to figure me out. Or maybe whatever’s going on between us. It feels like a third person in the room, can’t be ignored.
“Well, it’s obviously working for you.”
“Being in nature is working for me. Away from violence, destruction, ill intention. Focusing on what really matters.”
“And what’s that?” I ask, wispy-voiced.
“Family, good food, good living.”
“Speaking of food,” I say, stomach rumbling again.
He smiles. “Ready to cook together?”
More ready than he could possibly know.
