In between conversations about movies, UVA basketball, and local gossip, I learned that Fairlight Farm raised poultry; grew cole crops such as cabbage, kohlrabi, and broccoli to extend the growing season March to December; and were adding pear and cherry trees to the old apple orchard, which had been their father’s staple crop for many years. I grew more interested as Corbin asked Lynley about her plans for the future—had she considered wine grapes, berries, cattle? His questions made perfect sense to me; this was just the kind of local supplier Seasons was after, but I was confused by the awkward glances she threw my way each time the topic came up.
Finally, I’d heard enough to comment. “We should sit down. Discuss some of the particulars of your operation. My company, Castleton, needs local supply chains for the restaurant Corbin is spearheading for us in Charlottesville, and it sounds like Fairlight Farm could be a good fit for us. We could discuss it, m-maybe over dinner?”
Lynley looked back at me, stunned. “Are you seriously asking me this, after . . .”
“Ah, yeah. Um, I thought perhaps—”
Lynley threw her napkin down. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I think it’s completely inappropriate, given the circumstances. Excuse me.” She got up and headed for the hall closet to retrieve her coat.
Jane muttered an apology and followed her sister out of the room.
Corbin and I sat and stared at each other.
“What just happened here?” I finally stammered.
Our chairs scraped the floor simultaneously as we stormed the front door. They’d made it as far as the porch.
“I knew they were friends, but I didn’t realize Corbin worked for him.” Lynley shook her head. “And you knew, Jane! How could you put me in this situation?”
“I know you were upset before, honey, but I think maybe we should talk to them again. I can’t believe they would be so unfair.”
“No way, in any Circle of Hell. I’m not putting myself through that again.”
I caught up with the two just as they reached the sidewalk. “Wait.” I took Lynley’s elbow, but she shook me off and whirled around.
“Back off, Mr. Darcy.”
I stepped back, hands raised. “Okay.”
“Come back inside,” Corbin pleaded. “We’ll talk about it.”
“Go ahead if you want, Jane,” Lynley answered, her voice as frosty as the night, “but I’m leaving.”
Corbin looked between Jane’s down-turned face and her sister’s fiery expression. Finally, Jane turned toward the house with Corbin following behind.
“What is your problem?” I hissed at Lynley. “Fairlight Farm is your business, isn’t it? You should treat it as such and realize what Castleton could do for you. This is an opportunity that doesn’t come along every day, especially for an operation like yours.”
“What do you mean, an operation like mine?”
“A small-time operation. You need a buyer for all that expansion you’re planning. Unless you want to keep selling flowers and apples to the locals.”
“What’s wrong with selling to the locals?”
“Nothing.” I pinched the bridge of my nose to ward off the headache I felt coming on. “I don’t understand why you’re being so difficult and . . . spiteful.”
“I’m spiteful? Maybe you better look in the mirror, pal. I’ve already been down this road with you. Don’t play dumb with me.”
My mind whirled as I tried to understand the fury and indignation pouring off her. It was made even more difficult by the strangely appealing spark of anger in her eyes and the patches of flame burning in her cheeks. “I’m sensing subtext here,” I murmured to myself.
She paced out and back, ignoring or perhaps not even hearing me. “I’m sure you’re too important to remember a penny-ante sales pitch like mine.”
“What?”
“I met with Castleton’s vice-president last fall, about supplying some of your restaurants with produce.”
“You did?”
“You don’t remember then. I figured as much.”
“So, enlighten me. What were you told?”
“I was told that your chief supply chain officer axed my proposal, due to expansion into other markets that required more established and ‘stable’ suppliers. The vice president who met with me was very sympathetic but said his hands were tied. That was before he offered to soothe my sorrow with a night on the town, ending in his hotel room.”
“What?” I repeated. “Who was this?”
“The vice president of acquisitions, George Whitman.”
“This has to be some kind of mix-up. Mr. Whitman would never do that! He’s been one of our most loyal board members for thirty-five years.”
She looked momentarily confused. “That can’t be. This guy was young.”
“Unless . . .” I paused, dreading her answer. “Was it Whitman Jr. who said this to you?”
“Perhaps. Does this younger Whitman work for you?”
“Yes, but . . .”
“So, whether he was senior or junior is irrelevant—except for the sexual harassment angle. You’re the one who squashed a substantial opportunity for a small-time operator like me.”
“But . . .”
“You personify big business at its very worst, and I’ve got no use for Castleton or for you.”
She yanked open her car door, and while I stood there agape, she threw the car in reverse and backed recklessly down the driveway. I watched the tail lights disappear down the street, and then, shivering, I went back into the house.
I found Corbin and Jane sitting at the kitchen table.
“I’m sorry about Lynley storming off,” Jane said quietly. “She was angry when Castleton shut her down without what she thought was a fair chance.”
“I think I know who she talked to, and maybe what happened there. Trust me, he’s not a vice president at Castleton. It’s not the first time he’s exaggerated his own importance to people outside the company, but it is the first I’ve heard about this level of inappropriate conduct. You can bet I’ll deal with it.”
“She looked him up on your website before the meeting. George Whitman is a vice president at Castleton.”
“George Whitman Sr. is, but my guess is she talked to Whitman’s son. He works for us, for now, anyway. Still, I don’t get her foolish outburst with me. A businesswoman ought to have better control of herself.”
Jane sighed. There was no trace of her perennial smile now. “Lynley does have self-control. She’s as professional as they come, and that made the sleazy proposition hurt even more. The encounter with Castleton really shook her confidence.
“She went to the company headquarters last fall, surprised that she actually got to talk to Mr. Whitman in person, but the name was the same so . . .”
“Whitman took advantage of her unfamiliarity with the board and officers.” I turned to Corbin. “This is one reason why we need to get photos up on the website.”
“Lynley was on cloud nine after the initial lunch meeting. You remember, she had a business appointment the day after we met you all.”
I didn’t remember that. All I could recall was my ineptitude and Lynley’s voice, her eyes, her smile . . .
“It was a last-ditch effort,” Jane went on.
That brought my attention back to the present with a jolt. “What do you mean?”
“I do the books, so I know that things have been precarious for a couple of years now. Last fall Lynley and I put our heads together with Dad because the farm isn’t doing well. The things Lynley has tried—a website, new crops, making connections with other farms in the region—they’ve helped, but it just isn’t enough. We’re on the verge of having to let people go, or sell off land to meet mortgages, pay off equipment—stuff like that. Lynley has been doing some IT consulting on the side, but she might have to break down and take a full-time job if things don’t change, which means even less time and resources for the farm.”
“So, you needed a
bigger buyer like Castleton to keep growing.”
“Just to keep up, really. That’s why she contacted your company.”
“Jane, I know Lynley is upset about what happened with Whitman, and rightfully so. In fact, I’m downright furious and embarrassed about him mispresenting my company. But I wasn’t blowing smoke when I said I was interested in working with you.
“I may be able to make amends for how Whitman treated her. If that had been a legitimate interview for a new supplier, Lynley would have had a fair chance. From what I’ve heard here tonight, Fairlight Farm is a perfect fit for what we are trying to do for the Charlottesville place. Won’t you let me try to fix this?”
“It isn’t entirely up to me.”
“I know, but I want to make a start, and perhaps you’re a softer sell.” I tried to lighten the mood with a joke, but she just tilted her head and looked at me thoughtfully.
“I suppose I’m softer than Lynley, at any rate. How?”
“First, I’d like to meet your father, see the operation.”
“I don’t want to go behind Lynley’s back.”
“Me neither. No pressure, I promise, but unless I can see the farm and talk to someone, there’s no way I can make this right. And I don’t think Lynley will listen to me right now.”
“She’ll cool off. She’ll listen . . . eventually.” Jane’s smile returned. “But you’re right. She probably won’t listen right now.”
Spring
The March wind blew my car all over the road. Sharp, crisp sunlight broke through billowing purple and gray clouds outlined in white. Why was the weather always tempestuous when I drove into Alton? Much like the woman I was driving in to see.
I’d toured Fairlight Farm now and talked to Mr. Barrister. I’d laid eyes on the greenhouse, seen the chickens, perused the business plan Lynley, Jane, and their dad had drawn up. Their ideas were good ones: careful, incremental expansion, a balance of familiar and new concepts, sound farming principles. I wished all our potential suppliers were this organized. It was going to work out well for them to supply Seasons with quality ingredients for the chef’s recipes. Now I just had to convince the last third of the ownership that I wouldn’t screw her . . . over. Treat her badly. You know what I mean.
Her stepfather told me I’d find her in the greenhouse. I walked down the charming flagstone path and carefully opened the door. The warm, humid and perfumed air stole my breath for a second. I smelled the hyacinth, let my gaze run over the colorful sea of gerbera daisies that I knew would find themselves on restaurant tables and in sweetheart bouquets all over Hertford County. I saw a flash of white behind a potted lilac and approached the aisle with, I had to admit, a certain amount of trepidation. I’d repeatedly faced a boardroom of powerful, opinionated men and women with equanimity. Why did this slip of a young woman unnerve me so?
I stopped at the end of the aisle and waited. She was so engrossed in her work she hadn’t seen me approach. Humming to herself, she smiled ever so slightly while inspecting little beds of herb plants and intermittently wiping damp soil from her fingers on her gardening apron. I wondered what she was thinking.
“Lynley?”
She startled and stood there, staring at me, wild-eyed. I had a vision of striding over and yanking her into my arms before I captured that rosebud mouth with mine. I could almost feel her fingers tangled in my hair and hear my own blood roaring in my ears.
She closed her eyes, in that endearing gesture of gathering her wits, and when she opened them, the cool professional demeanor enveloped her like a regal robe. Under it, though, I saw a glimmer of uncertainty.
“Hello, Mr. Darcy.”
“Liam, please.”
“Liam, then. What are you doing here?”
“I came to talk to you. You’ve seen my offer?”
“I have.”
“Well, I’m here to answer any questions you might have as you consider it.”
“You didn’t have to make a special trip, just for me. You could have called. You could have sent someone else.”
“I could have. I thought this situation deserved some personal attention, given—well, given everything.”
“You needn’t apologize again. I did read your letter.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Many times.”
I grinned and took a step closer to her. “You did?”
“I’m glad you fired the horse’s ass.”
“Even his father agreed there had to be consequences. What George Jr. did to you, well . . .”
“It’s bad for business?”
“It is. It’s also embarrassing for Castleton.”
She looked down at her feet. “I’m sure.”
“And most importantly, it was wrong.”
“Yes.”
“So, will you?”
“Will I what?”
I let the moment hang, suspended with possibilities. “Will you consider my offer?”
“Your offer?” She took a step toward me, then stepped back. “Oh, right. Castleton’s offer. Yes. The offer is more than fair. Generous, in fact.”
“Thank you.”
“It is, as you said last winter, a good opportunity for us.”
“About that . . .”
“My stepsister Mary is an attorney over in Richmond. She’s going to look over the contract, and if she okays it, Jane and Dad and I have decided we’ll take Castleton’s offer.”
She stepped forward again and extended her hand. I shook it and held it, until she almost wrestled it away from me. Such a little hand. Such a capable hand. She put down her trowel and untied her apron, laying it gently on the table beside the plants.
“I traded a floral arrangement for a twelve-pack from that new microbrewery over in Sussex County. You wanna come up to the house and try one? I’ve heard they’re pretty good.”
“Sure.” My tongue had gone all thick and stupid and felt too big for my mouth.
We ambled, side by side, up the path toward the house, both of us perhaps knowing that once we went in, this fragile thread connecting us could break.
I cleared my throat. “I re-read Pride and Prejudice.”
She laughed. “You did?”
“I did. And then I had a long talk with my mother about why she named me after Mr. Darcy.”
“Really?”
“I’d always assumed it was a joke, but after I talked to her, I realized it wasn’t.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she gave me that name because she wanted me to grow up to be the kind of man Mr. Darcy was—down deep inside. She wanted me to be a man who would stand up for the people he loved and truly help them, even if it was behind the scenes. She wanted me to see people for who they are, not what they have.”
“All good aspirations.”
“And she wanted me to be a man who could learn from my mistakes.”
“That’s actually a lovely sentiment. Did you forgive her?”
“After hearing her explanation, it seemed like there was nothing to forgive.”
“So, you revisited the fictional Mr. Darcy. Any new revelations to share?”
“I still think Mr. Darcy is a putz.”
“He has his moments.”
“But not for the reasons I remembered.”
“Oh?”
“No. He’s a putz because he sees something genuinely appealing in Elizabeth, and he rationalizes first off that he doesn’t see it, and later on, that he shouldn’t want it. And that’s stupid, because attraction hovering over real substance, that’s what every man wants in a woman.”
“It is?”
“Then he inadvertently insults her at a time when her feelings should have been paramount. A bitterly rejected proposal shouldn’t be necessary to make a man honest with himself. So. Putz.”
She stopped. I did too, and we faced each other.
“But to his credit, after he gets over being angry, he considers her point of view and changes his manners.”
“True.”
“I think that’s a bit extreme, don’t you?”
“You wouldn’t think so if you were female and living in Regency England. Trust me, saving her family’s reputation by finding the wayward sister was a big deal.”
“I guess.”
“Empathy, followed by action. It’s the one-two punch of the romantic hero.”
When we reached the back door, I tried again to say what was in my heart. “Lynley, I . . .”
“Yes?” She stopped, her fingers on the door handle. Her eyes were bright and shiny, and wary. I thought about how Whitman had wronged her, how it might look if I pursued her now, after all that had happened. Perhaps if we’d been just two people discussing Jane Austen over a drink in a hotel bar, and none of this other had occurred, there wouldn’t be all this baggage, this awkwardness. Friends, that’s what we should be now. Friends, with a good business relationship, because that seemed to be all she wanted.
“You think this craft beer would work for Seasons?”
“I wouldn’t ask you to try it if I didn’t think so.” She smiled, beautifully—and opened the door.
Summer
I sat in the lounge at Seasons on opening weekend, listening to the happy sound of glasses clinking and the murmur of multiple conversations around me. Corbin had outdone himself. From the warm cherry wood trim to the rich, gold walls decorated with local art, the dining area radiated comfort and upscale chic. And here in the bar was a more casual feel—red leather seats in the booths and on the barstools. The warmth of cherry wood trim and furniture carried over from the dining room. Poster-sized black and white photos of local farms and the farmers who ran them were scattered on walls painted in muted earth tones. I picked up my drink and wandered around, admiring the photography—and nearly choked on my bourbon and branch when I rounded the end of the bar and saw Lynley’s face over a corner booth. Her amused little smile reminded me of that time when she’d overheard me dissing my literary namesake in a hotel bar—wow, almost a year ago.
The Darcy Monologues: A romance anthology of Pride and Prejudice short stories in Mr. Darcy's own words Page 51