“No, no,” he said, “it’s not too early at all. Why don’t you start by telling me a little more about what you have in mind?” Charlie’s expression was impassive, his voice neutral. A jolt of queasy cold wormed its way through my gut.
I’m not ready for this meeting that I asked for. I don’t even really know this man . . . I’ve spent all this time working on assumptions about our current and potential working relationship that aren’t necessarily his assumptions at all. What was I thinking? That we would talk about how we each feel about things and then come to some mutual understanding, or kick the can down the road a little more to keep this in the realm of fantasy?
I’d opened a negotiation, and Charlie Aiken was a skilled businessman. All of Steven’s misgivings and warnings swarmed around my head like a cloud of gnats. Then Steven Stone rule number one in a negotiation shot out of the buzz: Always get the other guy to put his cards on the table first—as Charlie had just tried to do.
“Actually, I was hoping you would tell me what you have in mind,” I said, “where you are in your business plan and whether you’ve given any thought specifically to the pressing/fermenting part of the process.”
Charlie Aiken’s eyebrows arched almost imperceptibly. I chose to interpret this as appreciation for my parry rather than amusement. He sipped his tea before saying, “Our four acres of apples are still a year or two away from full production. We’re committed to the growing side of things, and then we’ll probably tool up for the bottling and distribution, either here or downstate. What happens in between is still an open question.”
Back in my lap.
“You know,” I said, “in all this time we’ve been talking, we haven’t ever really talked financials. I’ve done a little research, and the equipment alone for the cider press will be $20,000.”
“Who’d you talk to?” Charlie asked.
“Goodnature in New York. It seems they provide equipment to a sizable number of operations around the country. I liked the people I talked to.”
“Yep, you’ve talked to the right folks.”
“Look, Charlie, I know in your mind you’re partnering with James, and I’m not sure how it would work even if you were willing for me to be a third. What if instead, at least to begin with, you granted me an exclusive contract to process your fruit?” Though my mind was working like an out-of-control sewing machine, gobbling up the fabric of my sketchy plans as I tried to keep my credibility clear of the needle, my voice remained calm. I looked straight at Charlie and more words came, as though pulled through me from a more knowledgeable, savvier source. “I’m thinking of a ten-year contact.” Do I even want to be in this business for ten years? “That would allow me to amortize my investment in the equipment.”
Charlie’s eyebrows rose again, and I could see him working to absorb this idea. “Would your son join you?” He was thinking of the ten-year span also.
“I’m not sure. I wouldn’t do this based on his decision, but it’s a possibility. I’ve begun the reconstruction of the building out back that I think will be suitable for a cider house. What I need now is a clearer sense of where I’m going with this project and, like I said, what you’re thinking about it.” There was more, much more, that I wanted to discuss: what he knew about regulatory changes that would impact production, whether he thought shipping downstate for bottling would be cost prohibitive. But for now I just wanted a gauge on Charlie’s internal plan, his vision for our collaboration. I knew he’d bought an old press from a defunct cider mill, but I also knew that aside from some sample home-style brewing, he hadn’t done anything with the barn or the equipment to gear up for real production, and I doubted his setup would be efficient or economical for a modern cider operation.
He was silent for a long moment. I took comfort in the fact that I saw no signs of retreat or discomfort in his expression.
“That could work,” he said. “If this cider thing takes off anywhere near as much as the craft beer movement, there’ll be a demand for pressing and fermenting facilities.” He fiddled with his teaspoon and looked as if he would say more, but didn’t.
“So where do we go from here? Should you and I meet with James? Do you have a sense of what he thinks?”
“Meeting with him would be a good idea. I think he’s ready to do the next step of concrete planning, and to be honest, we have to if he’s going to be more than a silent partner. Why don’t you sketch out as much as you’ve worked out and we’ll do the same? Then the three of us can get together and compare notes.”
I sat back in my chair. I wasn’t exactly certain of what had just transpired between us, but I felt like we’d made progress. Charlie relaxed a little as well, and as he finished his tea, we chatted about the rumors of development plans for some of the unused buildings in our sleepy town and the forecasts of harsh weather to come in the next several weeks.
For the following half hour, I showed Charlie the cider house renovations and fielded several guarded questions from him about Steven, whom he’d still never met. Was Steven going to retire any time soon? Was he thinking of spending more time up here? I hoped my perfunctory answers and enthusiastic redirecting of our conversation to the improvements in the shed signaled to Charlie that I would consider and act upon any business venture, including our potential association, independent of Steven’s plans. I quashed a momentary irritation. Would Charlie have asked about my wife’s plans if I were a man? In a brief moment of guilty recognition, I realized that he would have asked—and that if he had a wife, I’d wonder whether she would be on board.
When I waved Charlie’s truck down the driveway close to noon, I saw the plow had come through, making his trip to the main road less hazardous. I spent the next couple of hours ticking off chores in anticipation of leaving for several weeks. I shut down the upstairs, having restored bed linens and thoroughly cleaned after the full house at Thanksgiving. I liked the cocoon feeling of living entirely downstairs during the winter, when Steven rarely came north. Occupying the small original bedroom, sleeping next to the kitchen, I rarely strayed into the other living areas of the house.
In mid-afternoon, I headed into town for some last-minute holiday shopping which I always liked to do at the few local shops that stayed open all year. After my meeting with Charlie Aiken, I wanted to talk to Sally at Dolls and More. She’d mentioned at one of our Thursday night knitting sessions that her sheriff son knew someone who worked with the state liquor control commission. After the first of the year, I would start the research I needed to do on hard cider regulations.
Town was quiet on this weekday afternoon, and after a trip to the grocery store, I headed across the street to Dolls and More. I found Sally arranging a display of fabric dolls fashioned by members of a doll-making class she’d conducted over the last few months.
“Hey Sal, these are beautiful.”
The dolls, which filled an entire wall of tables and display shelves, showcased the talents of a dozen women. Representing holiday themes, literary and children’s characters, or just fanciful creations, they were dressed and accessorized in beautiful ensembles of sewn, knit, beaded, and embroidered costumes, with faces drawn, painted, and sculpted to perfection. Sally looked pleased, and I marveled again at her one-woman creation of this fiber-arts outpost in our little town.
We chatted, and I got her son’s contact information so I could ask him how to proceed. As I hadn’t checked in with her since Thanksgiving, we caught up on our families and particularly about Andrew, who Sally knew had a job in law enforcement.
“He probably knows, but my son Steve says there are more open jobs in the sheriff’s departments statewide than there have been in five years. Who knows when that’ll happen again?”
“Thanks for the info. They’re still hoping to stay somewhere downstate. They’ve just announced they’re pregnant, and they’ve got some good job leads. I don’t think I’ll get them up here yet.”
Just then, the door to the storage room at the back of the sho
p opened and Julia Reiss emerged, an open box loaded with bags of yarn nearly hiding her. Sally started toward her, but Julia said, “I’ve got it, Sally, I’m good.”
I hadn’t seen Julia since the day at the log cabin with Alex, but I’d thought of her often.
Sally turned back to me. “What’s your older son doing out in Iowa again? Is he talking about moving back this way?”
I’d only told Sally the bare minimum about my plans for the cider business, and even less about Alex joining me, so I navigated carefully around my answer, particularly as Julia had now joined us, stacking yarns in shelving only a few feet from where I sat.
“He’s a physician’s assistant in an orthopedic practice. He’s always talked about wanting to come back to Michigan, but he doesn’t have any current plans.”
Julia continued to stack yarn, but she’d adopted a listening posture.
“Seems like anymore, I see more PAs than doctors,” Sally answered. “Maybe he can find a job around here, now that the economy is finally picking up.”
I saw my chance to shift topics. “So I’ve heard. Sounds like the town is finally going to get some new development. I just hope we don’t end up with a zillion new condos along the lakeshore.”
Sally filled me in on what she’d heard about a new restaurant and entertainment facility with bowling lanes that just sounded too fantastic for our town, but would provide a needed boost for year-round residents and tourists alike. Of even greater interest, a West Coast venture capitalist with Michigan roots apparently planned to develop a goat farm and cheese making operation not a mile away from my house.
Producing artisanal cheese along with hard cider was an idea I’d had for making my farmhouse property purchase productive. My heart sank for a moment at the idea of someone else pursuing the cheese opportunity. On the other hand, a boutique farming business close by couldn’t hurt, and I had my hands full with formulating my plan for the cider alone. I’d have to google this guy. Get in touch, maybe.
As I prepared to leave, already wondering when I’d find the time to make all these contacts and analyze what I’d recently learned, Julia stopped stacking yarn and joined me at the table of dolls.
“It was fun meeting your family at the Leytons’ over Thanksgiving,” she offered, sitting next to me.
Sally registered surprised interest as she, too, stopped her positioning of doll arms and legs and laid down the T-pins in her hand. Julia hadn’t, then, already told Sally about that night.
“I thought everyone enjoyed the evening.” I turned to Sally and said, “Gina Leyton invited some neighbors for a labyrinth tour and bonfire the Saturday of Thanksgiving. I actually talked my boys into going, and they had fun. Julia met them all and gave us a guided tour. She managed to get all my guys to try it and repress all their snide remarks.”
Sally wasn’t your labyrinth kind of a person. “Uh-huh,” she said vaguely.
Julia smiled, however, and seemed pleased at my compliment. “Seth looks a lot like you.”
“Do you think so? I’ve always kind of thought he looks like both of us.” Seth was tall and thin, and had dark, curly hair, just like Steven and me. He had Steven’s eyes but my narrower face. The other two boys were also tall but decidedly departed from our looks, with their bulky builds, fair hair, and broad faces. Was Julia fishing to confirm which of our children were adopted and which were biological? I’d grown used to trying to work around people’s curiosities about our “blended” family. Today, however, my patience with that dance was thin.
“My two older sons are adopted, so that’s why they don’t look much like us,” I said with more vehemence that I intended.
Julia had no response to this information beyond saying, “That makes sense. Well, I really liked talking to Alex. How old is he?”
“He’ll be twenty-eight in September.”
I watched Julia settle into herself with this information. I hadn’t anticipated her unusual interest in us. Perhaps she saw Alex as a dating prospect. Why not? He was good looking, had a good job, and she had no way of knowing about the aspects of his personality that sometimes made his mother worry for his future. Still . . .
“And the other two are younger?” Julia asked.
“Yep. Andrew is twenty-five and Seth is twenty-two.” And then I thought to ask her, “How old are you?”
“I’m twenty-five too.”
Sally had moved off to the front of the store to take care of a lone customer who had wandered in, and I decided to counter Julia’s questions with my own.
“I know the Leytons have left for Arizona for a while, and you’re out there alone. After New Year’s I’ll be back up here, and likely by myself, so if you ever need anything, or just want to visit, let me know.”
For the second time that day, I had surprised myself with something that seemed to spring forth unbidden from some part of me not directly under my volition.
“Wow, thank you. I will definitely take you up on that,” said Julia, a pensive smile lighting her beautiful face. “That’s very nice of you.”
The call from Julia came well before New Year’s. Only two days later, she phoned.
“Mrs. Stone? Hi, this is Julia. I wonder if you have some time today for me to come over. I kind of want to take you up on your offer.”
She sounded uneasy, but also somewhat urgent. I had a lot to finish before leaving in two days’ time, but I could manage it, and decided I wanted to. Curiosity overcame resistance.
“Sure. I’ll be here all day. When’s a good time for you?”
“I could come now, if that works.”
“Okay. I’ll see you soon.”
Half an hour later, a small Toyota pickup made its way between the stone pillars and up the long drive to the house. People on the Leelanau Peninsula didn’t drive little red Toyota Tacomas, and I wondered if the truck was heavy enough to get through the wallop of snow likely to be dished up in a Leelanau winter. But it suited Julia well, and she hopped out and made her way to the back door with loping grace.
“Thanks for seeing me,” she began after we’d settled with tea in the outsized chairs in the den. The day was dull but no snow fell—it was a day to be nestled into an upholstered chair in a warm, cheery room.
Wisps of uncertainty and then resolve seemed to travel across Julia’s face like cats’ paws on the water. I waited and then asked, “So, how are things going?”
Her beautiful blue eyes filled with tears, but still she didn’t speak. I certainly hadn’t expected tears, and I worked to mask my discomfort with a neutral expression. With difficulty, I remained silent, and sat quietly.
Julia drew a deep breath and spoke at last. “Remember I told you my Mom had me when she was really young, and she and my dad didn’t get married until later?”
“Yeah, I do remember that. You spent a lot of time with your great-grandmother, who taught you to knit, right?”
“Right. Well, my parents recently decided to move into a house that has a workshop my dad can use as a studio, so he doesn’t have to leave home to work. I thought it was a little late for that, but whatever.”
I realized that this was the first time I’d heard Julia sound like a typical twenty-something. Until now she had seemed more grounded, more articulate, less likely to produce an eye-rolling, gum-smacking barrage of whatevers or you-know-what-I-means than other young people her age.
As if she’d heard me, she resumed, her voice tame and measured. “My parents hired me to go through their attic and basement and sort things to purge that they didn’t want to move.”
“Mm-hmm,” I said.
“When I went through an old file cabinet, I found a folder with a bunch of information and some correspondence from an attorney.” Julia gripped her fist and seemed to shrink right before my eyes into a frightened child. She was rowing on a river of distress, fighting to stay afloat. “I guess my mother arranged to be artificially inseminated and be a surrogate mother for a couple who couldn’t have children. There we
re letters from three different men, and correspondence about a contract, but I never found a contract.” She hesitated as her voice constricted to a near whisper.
I shut my eyes for the briefest moment. I felt a prickle of dread race up my arms, across my chest, and into heat on my face. Before thought, even, the heat, and the sudden absence of oxygen. She is going to say something terrible now, and I will hear it, and then I will have to do something about it, whether I want to or not. There was no stopping Julia and I forced my eyes open and looked directly at her. She spoke again, quietly, her fear radiating into the room.
Her eyes looked haunted. “I didn’t even know what surrogacy was. I had to look it up. And then I thought, okay, my mom needed money and she thought this would be a way, and then”—Julia’s voice thinned and she gulped for air—“there was the part of the correspondence where they asked about her sexual relationships and she said she was in a relationship with my dad . . . but that he was sterile . . . he’d suffered some sort of trauma.”
Now, Julia was crying softly. Her courage seemed to have deserted her. In a near whisper, she finished, “One of the three letters asking my mother about surrogacy was from Steven Stone.”
Chapter 16
Julia Reiss left my house. I threw on running clothes and took off for the beach. A treacherous veneer of ice made running on the sand a bad idea, and I knew better than to run this rattled. Not a good day for a fall. I have to keep my wits about me. My father’s face suddenly rose in my thoughts and the sob that had been threatening escaped as I gasped for breath. I so missed him, but I could never have turned to him with this one. His skill had been to point to the joy of the everyday, not shoulder the intractable. He liked his problems simple and solvable. Still, I missed his comforting presence and his steady belief in everyone’s ability to overcome the challenges, pain, and disappointments of daily life. A tear burned to ice on my cheek in the cold.
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