Marcie's Turnips ©

An amazing thing happened to Marcie Roberts last spring. She became a country woman. Her great-aunt, Lulu Barnett, passed away, leaving Marcie— her only living relative—a respectable sum of money, along with a farmhouse and one hundred acres on the eastern shore of Maryland.

“I don’t know a darned thing about farming,” Marcie told her friends at work. “I’m going to sell the farm and see the world.”

Marcie gave notice at her office, and two weeks later drove from Chicago to Maryland. Upon arrival, she would spend a night in the farmhouse before meeting with Mr. Greeley, a land developer, the following morning.

The landscape of the eastern shore was rural and flat. Not a bit like Chicago, she thought, and enjoyed the feeling of peace that overcame her. After a maze of winding country roads, she turned into a driveway and put her foot to the brake.

“At last, River Road Farm!” Her eyes followed the lengthy tree-lined drive, which ended at a quaint two-story white farmhouse, resplendent with green shutters.

“Beautiful!” she gasped. It was hard to believe that she, Marcie Roberts of Chicago, could be the owner of such tranquil perfection!

“Owner for a day,” she reminded herself. After all, she expected to be under contract with the developer by tomorrow afternoon. Feeling a bit like Scarlet O’Hara approaching Tara, her Honda crunched along the gravel drive and braked to a stop in front of the tidy farmhouse. Up the steps with key in hand, she turned the lock in the door.

“I think I’m in love!” she exclaimed, as she stepped across the threshold. The wooden floors creaked underfoot, as the decades of Aunt Lulu’s life unfolded before her eyes. Traveling from room to room, she viewed old photographs and familiarized herself with her temporary new home.

“So charming!” she said to the papered walls.

Her tour ended in the parlor, where she noticed an envelope resting on the mantle of the fireplace—her name written on the front in shaky handwriting. Opening the sealed envelope, she read aloud its contents.

“Dear Marcie,

I am sure it is a complete surprise that I have left River Road Farm to you—especially since we have never met. Like you, I was a city girl, but gave up my city life for the man I loved, and never regretted it. George and I never had children, but River Road Farm was the blessing of our lives. It brought much joy to our hearts, and I hope you love it as much as we did.

Best Wishes for a happy life,

Aunt Lulu Barnett

P.S. For years, I have leased the land to the Turner family, the next farm over.

“Oh, what a sweet letter,” Marcie lamented. “I wish I could have met you, Aunt Lulu.” A pang of guilt pierced the moment, when she recalled her upcoming appointment with Mr. Greeley, the land developer.

Marcie spent a heavenly night in a brass bed, under a hand-made quilt. The room overlooked a sparkling river behind the house, afloat with enchanting white swans. In the morning, still in her bathrobe, she took her coffee out onto the porch. The early morning sun warmed her as she perused the vast domain Aunt Lulu loved so well.

“My word!” Her eyes focused on a small herd of deer in the field. The herd took off, leaping across the field, startled by a red pickup truck coming up the drive at a good clip.

“Horrors, company!” Marcie stood, sans makeup, in her pink chenille robe, her hair having yet to feel the bristles of a brush. "It can't be Mr. Greeley—he won't be here for three hours yet!"

The truck came to a halt behind her Honda. It was too late to run and hide, so she humbly waited to greet her visitor.

“Miss Roberts? I’m Chat Turner. I have the farm next to yours. I knew you’d be here today and thought I would come by and give you a welcome.”

The cat got her tongue and rendered her speechless. The last thing she expected was the handsome young man in the blue-checkered shirt. She wanted to fade into the woodwork!

“Hello, Mr. Turner,” she said, coming to her senses. “Uh, would you care for some coffee?”

“Sure would!”

Marcie left him standing on the porch while she frantically rummaged through her purse in the kitchen. Finding her lipstick, she rubbed a dab onto her cheeks and applied it to her lips. A quick run of fingers through her hair sufficed as a comb-out, and she grimaced at her reflection in the toaster before returning to the porch with the coffee. Marcie sat on the porch swing and Mr. Turner on the top step of the porch.

“Your Aunt Lulu and Uncle George were nice people. I knew them all my life. Miss Lulu leased us her land after George passed away, and I would like to continue doing so, if it’s agreeable with you.”

“Well…I…I’m not sure what I’m doing with the farm yet.” Mr. Greeley lurked in the shadows of her mind. She tried to envision the beautiful space before her cluttered with townhouses—and shuddered.

“Oh? Let me show you around the place, so you can see what you have here,” Chad offered.

Marcie changed into her jeans and sweater, and combed her hair. It was a glorious morning, and Mr. Turner was a wonderful guide. Not only was he handsome, but he could name every plant and critter that crossed their path.

“You’re a regular nature encyclopedia, Mr. Turner!”

“Since we’re neighbors now, why don’t you call me Chad?”

“I’d like to meet your wife and children sometime, Chad.”

“So would I, Miss Roberts, but I don’t have any—yet.”

Marcie's heart fluttered in relief. “You can call me Marcie.”

Back from the nature walk, Chad bid goodbye, and opened the door to his truck. “Oh, Marcie," he called out. "There's a dance in town tomorrow night. Would you like to come with me?"

“Yes!” she blurted, without a moment's hesitation.

Marcie stood on the porch watching the last plume of dust from Chad's truck evaporate into the morning air. Taking her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, she dialed out.