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Chapter Twelve
Margaret steps out of the house and is immediately embraced by the frigid air. It feels almost tender as it kisses her skin. She trails Samson to the giant rusty green truck, parked in the driveway with the engine still loudly purring away. Smoke billows from the tailpipe smoky stream snaking through the air.
Samsons' face is touched red by the cold air of the morning. He opens the door of the truck for Margaret. "Uh, thanks," she mumbles. Her cheeks suddenly felt hot. She dismisses it, reasoning that it must be that time of the month soon.
Samson climbs into the driver's seat. He turns the key in the ignition, the truck snarling. Samson puts the vehicle in reverse, and the gears churn and groan. "Thanks for agreeing to come to the farm."
Margaret nods while tucking her incredibly soft, lengthy brown hair behind her right ear, “Yep.”
As Samson drives down the road, Margaret notes the few citizens of the tiny town who are out and about.
Margret takes a deep breath and concentrates on the present moment.
Samson, who is dialing up the radio's volume and tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of the current song, catches her eye. She wasn't familiar with the song, but the singer on the radio sang about a blue sky and a rusty Chevy that was ready to roll on a gravel road that feels like gold, she slowly moved her head in time with the country song.
Margaret shifted her head to the window, unaware that Samson had spotted her movements, which made the young man smile.
Margaret's eyes move back to Samson. Their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, she feels a warmth within her chest. They share an awkward silence as Samson put his focus back on the road.
Samson promptly steers the vehicle down a long, winding lane made of gravel and sand. After about a mile, a driveway is visible. He maneuvers the truck onto an unsteady dirt driveway. When Margaret casts a brief glance around, she sees a petite white house next to a field and a large red farmhouse structure that is at least three times the size of the home in front of them.
"Is this it?" she asks, disoriented. In the distance, she hears the cries of cows.
Samson nods firmly and hurries out of the truck to open her door. He extends his hand to her. Before leaping out of the truck, she awkwardly takes his hand; soft with a firm grasp. The moment her feet hit the ground, he releases her hand, as if it's a venomous snake about to strike.
When Margaret looks into his eyes, a wave of uneasiness sweeps over her. Margaret's gaze is covertly drawn to the way his smile sparkles. He appears to be in excellent spirits.
Feeling the reddening of her face she asks, "You are aware that I can open my own door, correct?"
"Yes, but I'm delighted to open your door for you, Madam." Samson proclaims with a wink, "I want to be a gentleman; that's how I was raised."
Margaret rolls her eyes at this. "Did you just call me Madam?" she asks, laughing.
Samson chuckles and nods. "Yes, I did," he says, smiling brighter at her reaction.
He shrugs and motions Margaret to follow him up the driveway.
Margaret doesn't know why, but there is a minuscule spring in his step, and he appears to be extremely content.
She moves forward, following the tall, generous boy in front of her, into the quiet, chilly countryside. The only sound is Samson's boots slapping against the earth.
Her heartbeat suddenly speeds up when she hears the sound of his voice.
"Well, this is my home," he declares, returning his gaze and glowing smile to the girl.
Margaret brushed the curtain of shining hair out of her face, as they walk towards the house.
The air is full of dust, hay, and animal excrement, along with the beautiful smell of flowers. Margaret’s nose is perplexed. She tries hard not to appear disgusted. The birds chirp, and a gentle breeze skips through the branches and swings across the leaves. Cows are still yelling in the barn.
“That's Gretie by the way,” Samson says to Margaret as he unlocks the front door.
Margaret takes in the view of the home. It's small and adorable, with white wooden siding, and faded gray trim. There is a small flowerbed full of brightly colored blooms with a small white fence around it.
“Huh?” Margaret mutters realizing Samson had spoken.
Smiling awkwardly as she looks away from Samson and towards the barn, feeling a little embarrassed that she had missed Samson's comment about the cow.
"Oh, Gertie is the loud cow! I see," she says with a smile.
She turns back to face him while he studies her.
For an instant, they share powerful eye contact.
Her eyes are solid ground to him, ready to support you when you tumble, like the deep intoxication of vintage wine, boiling with expensive taste. Her eyes remind him of Dove chocolate, refined and exquisite, the color taken for granted by those who are overly fastidious.
Her hair flows down her back, offering a gorgeous contrast with her rich orange tee-length dress. Samson holds the door open for the lovely lady to walk inside.
"Welcome," he says warmly.
“Thank you so much," Margaret responds politely feeling quite flustered under his gaze.
Once they walk in, Margaret discovers that the environment is pleasant and buttery, smelling like a freshly cooked raspberry pie.
There are pictures of three distinct individuals on the bookcase to her left. In one, a taller man with olive-green eyes and a rough, graying beard is with Samson, as is a somewhat taller woman with red hair that is twisty in every way. The photograph below is clearly much older the young couple is seated on a picnic blanket holding hands and grinning at one other. In another, the three of them are at a park. The man is pushing the redhead woman, who is wearing a green shirt tucked into a jean skirt, on a swing. The words "you are always in our hearts" and "Poppii" are written on the side of the frame of the last picture on the shelf, which features the blue-eyed woman cradling a very fluffy grey kitten.
She appreciates how warm and inviting the home's atmosphere is. She notices the paintings of wildlife and scenery on the soft gray walls of the living room.
In wonder, Margaret whispers, "Wow," under her breath. Margaret couldn't help but look since this was so different from what she was used to in New York City. Everything seemed slower and more laid back here, and she almost felt at ease.
Samson begins guiding her to the kitchen. She follows him, saying, "It's lovely here."
"Thanks," Samson says.
As they walk through a small hallway leading towards the other room, Margaret feels Samson glance over at her every now and then. Suddenly feeling self-conscious about herself and unsure if there was anything smudged or stuck on her dress she looks down to adjust it slightly before meeting his gaze once again.
When they arrive at the kitchen, Samson lowers his hand onto the marble countertop and motions to Margaret.
"Can I get you something? Whatever your heart desires." He gives a friendly smile.
"I'm kinda thirsty," Margaret admits, almost hesitantly.
"I have Verners, Faygo, water, and apple juice," Samson responds.
"Uhm, what kind of Faygo?" Margaret inquiries. "Are there multiple flavors? I've never tasted it, but my mother enjoyed it when she was a kid."
"Well, you're in luck because there are many flavors, but if you've not experienced it, you ought to try orange, which is what we have," Samson replies with a charming smile as he walks over to the sparkly silver fridge.
"All right," Margaret says.
"Was your mother raised in Michigan? Faygo is only available in Michigan," Samson declares, pouring orange liquid into two glasses.
Margaret, feeling a little investigated reacts, "Uh yeah. She was born here."
"Very cool," Samson adds as he hands Margaret the cup of orange liquid. "So, Margs, what brings you to the state of Michigan?"
Margaret takes a moment to fully understand what the boy in front of her has just stated. "First off, did you just call me "Margs"?"
“Oh, excuse me, is that not good? I ought to have asked first,” Samson says with a nearly regretful expression.
“Um no. No, everything is in fact great.” Margaret responds, putting a reassuring grin back on her face.
Samson's grin spreads back across his face. His lips are full and pink in color, curling up, revealing his wonderfully white teeth, and his stunning bright blue eyes are wrinkled. "Okay, that's perfect. Margs. So why do you currently live in this state?"
"Uh Umm…" This time, Margaret understands why her chest is pulsing more rapidly. "Family issues?" Given her uncertain tone and hesitation, she hopes he will refrain from asking her additional questions.
She feels her body become tense as she looks at the cup of Faygo she has yet to try. She uses the opportunity to send some into her mouth so that even if he asks, she won't be able to respond. In her mind, she becomes frantic. He could ask further inquiries, and it terrifies her. What would he think of her if he knew what her family was like? If he knew what her father did. If he found out her father's name and recognized it.
His family looked so sweet and kind.
“How does the Faygo taste?” Samson asks as if he senses her thoughts.
Margaret is taken back for a moment and after quickly regaining her composure, she takes another sip and smiles warmly. “It’s good! It's flavorful with a nice sweetness without it being too sugary. As I said, this was my first time trying it and now I know why my mom enjoyed Faygo so much as a kid."
Samson gives her a gentle smile.
Margaret slowly lets out a sigh of relief as she turns the glass around in her hands, looking at its orange color.
Samson motions for her to follow him to a different room being careful not to spill anything on their way there.
He goes over to one shelf containing numerous bottles all labeled Faygo in various colors - blue raspberry, red pop grapefruit crush... He picks up two bottles and hands them both to her so that she can inspect them closer if desired. Looking intently at each label he explains how Faygo had been created by Russian immigrants back in 1907 in Detroit who wanted to bring affordable soft drink options every family could afford even during difficult times making sure they included fresh natural ingredients which were basically unheard of commercially made products throughout those years thus changing American food industry entirely opening ways never thought possible yet still managing somehow maintain low production costs keeping prices practically same since beginning maintaining original name 'Fergus Brothers'.
“I only know this because my dad really likes Faygo and says in college his roommate was related to the brothers,” Samson smirks. “I don't believe him.”
Margaret bursts out laughing.
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