by Jane Green
twelve
The bedroom was dark and hot. Nell had been saying for years that she ought to get the farmhouse air-conditioned, but Theodora always said the heat didn’t bother her. This wasn’t just heat, though; it was stifling, airless, and it smelled of old people, and sickness. It smelled of a life coming to an end.
Theodora was lying back, propped against pillows, not wide awake, as Carly had told her downstairs, but fast asleep. Her chest heaved up and down, her breathing labored. Nell watched her sadly, marveling again at how frail Theodora had become, how tiny she now was, how pale.
She sat in the old Windsor chair that was next to the bed and slipped her strong hand underneath Theodora’s frail one, as her eyes filled with tears.
This happened sometimes, explained the doctor. At this age, a fall and a broken hip sometimes meant the beginning of a demise. There wasn’t anything to be done, other than to make Theodora as comfortable as possible. As long as she was eating and drinking, she would carry on.
How long will it take, thought Nell, if she is no longer eating or drinking? Days? A week? She stroked Theodora’s hand, thinking about how much she loved her. This was the mother Nell should have had, but it didn’t matter, for Theodora was always more of a mother to her anyway. Nell wasn’t the kind of woman who needed motherly advice, who needed cossetting or coddling. But Theodora loved her in exactly the way Nell needed to be loved.
Theodora had always looked at Nell as an equal. Even when she was seventeen. Theodora respected her, asked her advice, and listened when Nell gave it. She was always available when Nell sought her out. Theodora wasn’t a big talker, much like Nell. Their walks were often conducted in companionable silence, the two of them striding across the fields side by side, or riding the Cushman through the orchards.
Theodora was always the same. Her moods were never changing; she was always cheerful, and she was direct. If she didn’t like how you were doing a job, she would tell you, in a matter-of-fact way that never caused offense. You knew where you were with Theodora. How unlike my mother, Nell had always thought. In many ways, Theodora was almost masculine. She ran the farm by herself and had to make tough decisions without worrying about what other people might think of it, of her. In doing so, of course, she was adored by everyone who worked there.
None more so than Nell. One of the workers once joked that Nell had imprinted herself on Theodora, like an orphaned duckling. Nell had flushed bright red, although later she realized it was true. In the absence of a consistent, present, emotionally stable, unconditionally loving mother, she had chosen Theodora, without even realizing it.
River, too, looked upon Theodora as a grandmother. She had raised him alongside Nell, with her no-nonsense approach and insistence that he be taught responsibility as soon as he was able to sit up. Theodora was the one who gave River jobs around the farm as soon as he could walk and talk; she was the one who taught him to read with flash cards, just as she had taught her own sons. Her boys were now all grown-up and far away, none of them with an interest in the farm.
Nell blinked away the tears that were pooling. It’s life, she tried to tell herself. Theodora has had a good run, and she is old, and this is what happens. I cannot sit here and cry.
She looked up and realized that Theodora was awake, and watching her. Nell squeezed her hand, then drew her own away, unused to intimacy. She’s embarrassed that she could not continue holding the hand of this woman she loves, this woman who would not be around much longer.
Theodora smiled at her. “I have never said this to you, Nell, but you know I love you. You have been my daughter all these years.” The tears were back in Nell’s eyes, this time trickling down her cheeks. “You’ve been a better daughter to me than I could ever have wished for, and a better farmer than I have ever been.”
“That’s not true,” said Nell.
“It is true. You have the build of a farmer. You’re tall and strong. More than that, your instincts are perfect.” She smiles warmly, gazing at Nell. “I want you to know I’m ready to go. Not today”—she reached up, slowly, and patted Nell’s arm reassuringly—“but soon. And, Nell, I want you to know I’m leaving the farm to you.”
Nell froze. She stared at Theodora, thinking she must have misheard.
“None of the boys have ever been interested in the farm. They’re too busy making money, and the last time Jeffrey came up, all he kept talking about was the value of the land and how many subdividable plots there might be. I want this farm to stay a farm, and I want it to be yours.”
“But . . . your children . . . Theodora. I can’t. It’s so kind of you, but . . .” She thought how shocked Theodora’s boys would be, how they would threaten lawsuits.
“I told them long ago. They’ve all got insurance policies on me that will see them each right. It’s in my will, and everything has been drawn up. They’ve acquiesced to all of it. I meant to talk about it with you before, but then I had the fall, and . . .” She didn’t say anything else, just shrugged and closed her eyes.
“I don’t know what to say.” Nell shook her head, then realized that without another word Theodora had once again fallen asleep.
She walked downstairs in a daze. Carly was standing in the kitchen on the phone. Nell waved a good-bye to her that she may or may not have seen, then she walked down the porch steps. She stood for a minute staring out at the familiar and comforting landscape, breathing deeply and trying to still the ache in her heart. She looked around at this farm she had loved for the last sixteen years, this farm that had become her home. This farm that was about to be hers. She was in shock. Those meadows, with their cornflowers waving in the breeze, would be hers. The orchards, at the other end of the track, would be hers. The huge barns, used to store feed and equipment, hers. The cattle? Hers. The sheep? Hers. The chickens, hers. The farmhouse? All hers.
Her phone started buzzing. She paused, at first not recognizing what it was. But then she took the phone from her pocket and saw that the call was from Lizzy. She hadn’t spoken to her sister in months. Something must be wrong. She answered and put the phone to her ear.
Lizzy’s words came spilling out in a jumble, Nell hardly understanding any of what she was saying. Something about wanting the farm, pop-up dinners, cooking. She couldn’t do this right now. Whatever it was Lizzy wanted, she couldn’t do this at all, not with Theodora dying, not with having just begun to realize the weight of responsibility that was about to settle on her shoulders.
She tried to say no gently, kindly, but Lizzy threw a shit fit, shouting and cursing. Not now, thought Nell, ending the call in her sister’s midshout.
• • •
The phone buzzes again and Nell shakes her head in tired disbelief. Her sister is the last person she wants to talk to right now, particularly her sister when angry. She looks at the screen and sees it isn’t her sister calling back but her mother. Her mother whom she rarely hears from unless she needs something. She presses accept.
“Darling!” Her mother’s voice is jarring, the clipped English accent that has never softened despite spending her whole adult life in America, still as English as if she stepped off the Queen Mary yesterday. “I’m so glad I got you! I’m in New York but they’re holding a dress for me at Mitchells. Can you dash into Westport for me and pick it up?”
Nell breathes a sigh of relief. “You’re not calling about Lizzy?”
“Lizzy? Why would I be calling about Lizzy?”
“I thought she may have called you just now. She just phoned to ask me something about the farm, and ended up screaming at me when I said no.”
“The farm? What can Lizzy possibly want with the farm?”
“I wasn’t really listening. I just had some . . . big news.”
Nell waits for her mother to ask if she is okay, perhaps what the news is, to express some concern.
“So can you?”
“Can I what?�
�
“Pick up the dress at Mitchells?”
She knows she shouldn’t have expected anything else. “I don’t know, Mom. I’m in the middle of my working day at the farm. I don’t know if I can get away. Isn’t there someone else who can do it?”
“The housekeeper’s gone home and she’s not returning my calls, and I’ve been feeling a bit nauseated so I’m going to lie down for a while. Please, Nellie. Try and do something for me. It’s not much to ask. You know I’ve been having these terrible dizzy spells lately, or I’d hop in a car and get it myself.”
Nell refuses to take the bait. Her mother has a history of dizzy spells, or headaches, or backaches, a series of mystery ailments when she feels she isn’t getting quite enough attention.
“It’s nothing to worry about, but I do think it’s getting worse. I just haven’t been quite myself. Dizzy and now nauseated, and a little weak in my feet. It’s very odd.”
Nell frowns, now alert. “Weakness? I think it’s time you went to see a doctor.”
“If it doesn’t go away in a couple of weeks, I will. I’m quite sure it’s because I’m dehydrated and it’s been so hot. I’m sure I’ll be fine, but, darling, would you get the dress?”
“I’ll try. I just saw Theodora . . .” She doesn’t know why these words are coming out of her mouth, nor the ones that come after. Later that night she thinks she must have still been in shock. What other explanation can there be for her wanting to share news, good, bad, or otherwise, with her mother?
“How is the old goat?” Theodora and Ronni have never liked each other. Neither has ever said it out loud, but on the rare occasions her mother has been to the farm, Theodora has been formal, and reserved. She knows Theodora does not approve of frippery, of drama, of manipulation—all qualities her mother personifies.
“Dying,” says Nell.
“I’m sorry.” Ronni has the grace to seem embarrassed. “I wouldn’t have been so flip about her if I’d known.”
“She has had a wonderful life, but it looks like it will be over soon. And . . .” She pauses. “She has left the farm to me.”
There is a long pause. “She what?”
“She has left the farm to me. In her will. The farm is mine.”
“How do you feel about that?”
Nell tries to think. “I don’t know,” she says eventually. “I have no idea how I feel. I only found out a few minutes ago. I think I’m in shock.”
“Well, that’s nice of her. I thought she had all those children. At least River won’t have to worry about his education now. What do you think the farm is worth? There are plenty of developers looking for land. I can talk to that lovely Jim. He’s a Realtor and he can give you a valuation.”
Nell frowns as she holds the phone to her ear. “I’m not selling it. She’s leaving me the farm precisely because she wants it maintained as a farm. I just have to figure out how to have it make more money. I’m the farmer here. There’s no point being a farmer with no farm.” Nell resists the derisive laugh that threatens to punctuate her point. “Even if it isn’t yet making the money it needs to.”
“But that’s ridiculous,” says her mother. “You’re thirty . . . thirty-five? Thirty . . . What are you?”
“Thirty-three.” Nell again fights the urge to laugh in disbelief.
“Thirty-three and a single mother of a teenage son. The last thing you need is to single-handedly shoulder the responsibility of a huge farm that’s in financial trouble. If you want to farm, sell it and buy yourself a small gentleman’s farm somewhere in Litchfield County. Not an ugly working farm with cattle and sheep and equipment and hundreds of workers. That’s far too much for someone like you.”
Nell feels her jaw tense. “What does that mean? Someone like me?”
“Nell, you’re a single mother. What hope can you possibly have of finding someone, of having a relationship, of finding happiness, when all you do is farm work? It’s bad enough that you’ve devoted your life to this farm, have given it the best years of your life, and now you want to take on even more? You can have your cake and eat it, but this farm is too much. Even for you.”
Nell holds the phone away from her ear and shakes her head as she stares at it, with absolutely no idea what to say next. There is nothing to say. She walks over to a bucket of feed next to the driveway and drops the phone into it.
Feeling better, she sets off, forgetting her mother, forgetting the dress at Mitchells, forgetting everything other than Theodora, and the farm.
thirteen
It was Tom who found the space for their pop-up supper club. Not his parents’ rooftop, but one belonging to a friend who had an apartment in Gramercy Park, with a rooftop no one used. They could do it there.
The three of them met at the apartment and jumped in excitement at the rooftop—it was perfect. The fact that it had nothing whatsoever on it, no greenery, nothing, didn’t seem to phase Sean in the slightest. “We’ll bring it all in,” he said. “We’ll turn this place into a rooftop fairyland.” They immediately got busy organizing their opening night.
Earlier this morning, the day of the first show, they arrived with borrowed tables and chairs. They hauled everything up in the service elevator, then carried it by hand up the last staircase to the roof.
They brought poles to string lights on, and sandbags to hold the poles, but, looking at it now, Lizzy can see it isn’t really working. All the poles lean in different directions, the lights extremely precariously taped to each, all of it swaying with the wind.
“We’ll just tell everyone to stay away from the poles,” says Tom, who, Lizzy knows, has never been more excited than he is now at the prospect of debuting his cooking skills to a paying public, and whose idea the poles and sandbags were in the first place. “It will be fine. Relax. It’s going to be great.”
Lizzy doesn’t see how it is going to be fine, but Sean seems okay. He just shrugs as they go back downstairs to the apartment to cook.
This supper club will be small. Sixteen people. Sean is doing a starter of burrata, peaches, and a basil-infused oil. Lizzy is making dessert, a caramel apple tart with vanilla thyme crème fraiche. Tom insisted on cooking the main course, curried braised lamb with a parsley, apricot, and pignoli stuffing; a wild mushroom and truffle quinoa; and anchovy cream.
Friends have offered to be servers, and they’ve helped set up the long table that will seat all the guests. It isn’t quite the wonderland they had hoped. Lizzy thinks the table is pretty enough, with its checkered tablecloth and Mason jars of wildflowers, but it just sits in the middle of a big square gray concrete rooftop, surrounded by air-conditioning units. Maybe it will be better at night, she thinks. Hopes. Maybe the lights will stay up and the candles will cast a warm glow, and our guests will be transported.
The kitchen in the apartment is tiny. Tom is in the narrow galley trying to dry rub his lamb and finely chop the pignoli and parsley for the stuffing. Lizzy is in the living room rolling out pastry on a marble slab that sits on top of a rickety old wooden table. Sean has gone out to grab the burrata fresh from the market.
It is awkward, and exciting, and nerve-racking and squashed, to have to keep sliding past Tom to reach ingredients in the fridge, to figure out how to cook all the pies in the one tiny oven that also has to handle Tom’s lamb.
Tom is confident. Lizzy stays in the living room, but every time she asks if she can help him in any way, he waves her away with an “I got this.” Every now and then Lizzy thinks about how they could have been on the farm in Easton, and she gnashes her teeth with fury remembering how Nell dismissed her so quickly.
She hasn’t spoken to Nell since that fight. To make things worse, her mother then texted her that Nell was inheriting the farm. Even more of a fucking bitch, she decided. Screw her, and her stupid farm. But oh, my God, she kept saying to Tom, who does that? What kind of a sister actively hinders her younge
r sister’s career?
Tom’s take on it is that Nell is jealous. “Look at her and look at you,” he said, insisting Lizzy bring up a family picture on her phone. “She looks like a guy with long blond hair. You’re gorgeous and fun and vibrant. She looks serious and dull.”
Lizzy feels a pang of wanting to protect Nell. She is her sister, after all. And she isn’t like a guy with long hair; she is . . . gorgeous. Handsome, actually, if more masculine than Lizzy. And she isn’t really serious and dull. Maybe just quiet and a little detached.
And not for a second does she believe Nell could be jealous of Lizzy. Nell isn’t jealous of anyone. Nell doesn’t really care about anyone, other than River, and certainly doesn’t care enough to compare herself to someone else and find herself wanting. That isn’t her style at all. The only things she cares about are River and the farm. And once upon a time Lewis Calder, but look how that turned out.
Fuck her. Really, fuck her. Arranging some apple slices carefully, if a bit energetically, Lizzy vociferously agrees with everything Tom said, and piles on some more.
• • •
“It wasn’t a complete fucking disaster,” says Sean, lighting up two cigarettes and handing one to Lizzy, who takes a deep drag before knocking back the vodka and pouring them all another glass.
Tom is sitting on the ledge, elbows balanced on his knees, head down and swaying slightly as he looks at the floor.
“Just a partial fucking disaster,” Lizzy says. “Did we have to refund more than the two who created a stink?”
“Only one more. Everyone else was very understanding. I didn’t bother asking them if they wanted to join our mailing list, though. Didn’t want to push it.” Sean meets Lizzy’s eye and grins. “Oh, come on”—he looks at Tom—“you have to laugh, Tom. Shit happens. We fucked up. You’ll get over it.”
Tom sways, lifting his head to take the vodka and down it in one.