Betty’s POV
The drive to Brent’s family farm stretched out like an endless ribbon of asphalt, the monotony of the scenery doing little to calm Betty’s nerves. She fidgeted with her shirt collar, smoothing it repeatedly, then ran her fingers through her hair for the hundredth time, silently cursing herself for caring so much about how she looked. The late afternoon sun bathed the world in hues of gold, but all Betty could feel was the jittery anticipation churning in her stomach.
As she turned onto the gravel driveway, the sight of Brent’s family farm came into view. The warm, earthy scent of freshly cut grass wafted through the air, mingling with the faint smell of woodsmoke. Endless fields stretched out before her, swaying gently in the breeze like a green sea, with the cozy farmhouse nestled at their heart. Its rustic charm caught her eye—the weathered wood siding, the wraparound porch adorned with flower boxes overflowing with bright blossoms, and the old rocking chairs that seemed to invite her to sit and stay awhile.
Brent stepped out onto the porch as she pulled up, looking effortlessly at home in his worn jeans and a plaid shirt that brought out the warmth in his hazel eyes. His easy smile was the first thing to settle her nerves, though the butterflies in her stomach remained.
“Relax,” he said as she climbed the steps, his voice low and soothing. He reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “They’re going to love seeing you.”
Betty tried to smile, but her lips wobbled slightly. “I just hope I don’t embarrass myself. It’s been awhile.”
“You couldn’t if you tried,” Brent said, his grin widening.
The door opened, and Alice and Bradley stepped out, their faces lighting up at the sight of her. Alice, with her kind eyes and a floral apron tied around her waist, pulled Betty into a hug that lingered just long enough to feel maternal. “Bethany,” she said, her voice tinged with nostalgia. “You’ve grown into such a lovely young woman. Your mom would be so proud.”
Betty swallowed hard, her chest tightening at the mention of her mother. “Thank you, Mrs. Tuttle.”
“None of that ‘Mrs. Tuttle’ nonsense,” Alice chided gently, patting her arm. “It’s Alice. Always Alice.”
Bradley, standing a step behind his wife, offered a firm handshake. His sun-weathered face creased into a warm smile. “Good to see you again, Bethany. Brent’s been talking about this visit all week.”
“Has he now?” Betty said, glancing sideways at Brent, whose sheepish grin confirmed it.
Inside, the farmhouse was as inviting as its exterior, the scent of roasted chicken and fresh herbs filling the air. The table was laden with a hearty spread: golden-brown roasted chicken, a mountain of creamy mashed potatoes, a basket of freshly baked rolls, and green beans glistening with butter.
They sat down, the clinking of silverware soon mingling with the easy flow of conversation. Alice, ever the storyteller, began recounting tales of Betty’s childhood. “Do you remember the summer you and Brent got into that patch of mud by the creek?” she asked with a chuckle. “You came back covered head to toe. Your mom had to hose you down before she’d let you in the house.”
Betty groaned, her cheeks flaming as Brent laughed openly at the memory. “I thought we agreed never to bring that up again,” she said, hiding her face in her hands.
“I’m afraid we’ll never let you live it down,” Alice teased.
Bradley joined in, shifting the conversation to the farm. “It’s been a good season,” he said, his tone taking on a hint of pride. “The crops are strong, and we’ve expanded the operations a bit. Brent’s been a big part of that. He’s got a knack for it, just like his old man.”
Betty glanced at Brent, who gave her a small, almost shy smile. The weight of Bradley’s words hung in the air, hinting at something deeper—Brent’s decision to stay on the farm wasn’t temporary.
As the meal wound down, Alice’s voice turned wistful. “It’s so wonderful to see you two together at last,” she said, her gaze soft as it rested on Betty and Brent. “Megan gave us quite a scare, but it’s clear now who really belongs here.”
Betty froze, her fork hovering mid-air. Megan. Her throat tightened as Alice’s words sunk in. Before she could respond, Brent reached for her hand across the table.
“I wouldn’t want anyone else but Betty,” he said simply, his voice steady, his eyes locked on hers.
Her heart raced, and she forced a smile, though her emotions swirled in a chaotic storm. The words—his and Alice’s—echoed in her mind long after the plates were cleared and the evening wound to a close.
As Brent walked her to her car under the soft glow of the porch light, Betty couldn’t shake the unease creeping into her chest. The night had been warm, the meal delicious, the family welcoming—but those words lingered, casting a shadow she couldn’t quite ignore.