I told him to piss off.
“Come on, man,” he’d said again last week as we jogged together down one of the dirt roads that bordered our forty-six acre farm. “It’s been three years. You’re not even trying to move on. When are you going to get over her?”
“Fuck you, Brad,” I’d replied, taking off with long, fast strides that left him in the dust. Not trying to move on? Every fucking day I got through meant I was moving on. Every morning I got out of bed meant I was moving on. Every goddamn time I took another breath meant I was moving on.
And as for getting over her, it would never happen, so he could parade an endless supply of hot women in front of me, but it would just be a waste of time.
I’d already met the love of my life; I’d known her since we were kids.
I’d married her, and I’d lost her.
There was no reprieve from that. There was no redemption. There was no second chance.
I didn’t even want one.
Four
Margot
“Are you sure you want to take this on right now?” Jaime reached across my desk and handed me the client file, her expression doubtful. I’d just volunteered to take over a new account that involved a few days of travel, a lot of research, and not much money. The client was a small family farm focused on sustainable agriculture. The perfect place to get the hell out of town and not bump into anyone I knew. “A farm doesn’t really seem like your thing.”
“Why not?” I asked, stuffing the file into my bag. “I used to ride horses, remember? I think I even have a pair of boots laying around.”
“You kept your horse at a hunt club. This is a farm.”
“How different can it be?” I flipped a hand in the air. “I’m sure I can handle a farm. And like I told you, Muffy says it’s best if I leave town for a while anyway, at least until the gossip dies down.”
“Until the gossip dies down?” Jaime grinned as she crossed her arms. “That’s going to take a while, Sconewall Jackson.”
She wasn’t kidding. It had been almost a week, but Sconehenge was still a wildly popular tale among the country club set, who hadn’t witnessed a good Scene in months. (“All this good behavior is so tiresome,” my grandmother had complained at dinner last week.) The story had been embellished to include Tripp taking a scone right in the nuts (a change I liked) and Amber throwing a plate of beignets at my head (one I didn’t). Scones were selling out at local bakeries, the shop that made the ones I threw started calling them Jilted Heiresses (I turned down the endorsement deal), and people were fond of quipping, “Revenge is just a scone’s throw away” at cocktail parties all over town.
My mother was beside herself (“Really, Margot, who on earth is going to want to be seen with you now?”) although my grandmother had cackled with glee when she heard the story. My father seemed rather confused by the whole affair, and Buck was only sorry he’d missed it.
But we’d agreed that after a sincere apology to Mrs. Biltmore (made the following day when I’d had to go back and pick up my Mercedes since I’d been too drunk to drive it home), I should probably make myself scarce for the rest of the summer. “Or at least until someone else behaves badly,” Gran whispered. “I’ll keep an eye out. Nobody pays any attention to old ladies, and we see everything.”
“So tell me what you know about this client,” I said to Jaime, packing up the rest of what I’d need from my office over the next two weeks. Valentini Brothers Farm was in the thumb area of Michigan, about two hours north of Detroit. I’d rented a little cottage on Lake Huron that was less than a mile from it, and I figured I’d use the time I wasn’t working to relax in a beach chair, read a book, rethink a few things about the direction of my life.
“Not much,” admitted Jaime, perching on my desk. “It’s owned by three brothers. Quinn met one of the brothers, Pete, and his wife, Georgia, at a local farmers market and they got to talking. You know how Quinn is, he makes friends with everybody.” She rolled her eyes, but I saw the blush in her cheeks, which always appeared when she talked about him. Jaime didn’t like to believe she was a romantic, but she was head over heels for Quinn. “Anyway, the guy mentioned that they were struggling to grow their brand awareness and increase customer engagement—although he didn’t put it like that—and Quinn, of course, was like, ‘Oh, my girlfriend can help you. That’s exactly what she does!’ He gave them my card, and Georgia called me last week.”
“But they know it’s me coming and not you, right?” I stuck some pens and highlighters into my bag along with a stack of post-it notes.
“Yes. They were fine with that. I think they’re just anxious to get some advice.”
“Are they farmers too?” In my head I imagined a couple that looked like Auntie Em and Uncle Henry from the Wizard of Oz.
“No. I mean, I think Pete does work on the farm but there’s another brother who runs things. Georgia and Pete are both chefs, actually.” She cocked her head. “Or they were. But a lot of this I’m getting second-hand through Quinn, so you’ll definitely want to read the New Client form they filled out, which I just emailed to you this afternoon. That has more info.”
“Will do.” I closed up my laptop and tucked it into the case, then switched off the lamp behind me. “I’ll keep in touch with you while I’m there, and I’ll definitely be calling to consult with you.”
“Sounds good.” She stood up, a mischievous grin on her face. “I’ll be trying to picture you on a farm. Milking a cow. Riding a tractor. Maybe a cowboy.”
Rolling my eyes, I breezed past her. “The only thing I’m interested in riding is maybe a horse. I have zero interest in tractors or cowboys.”
“You never know,” Jaime said following me out of my office. “Maybe a roll in the hay with a strapping young cowboy, all big burly muscles and country drawl, is just what you need to get out of that dry spell.”
Halfway down the hall, I turned around and parked my hands on my hips. “I’m going up there to get a job done, Jaime. Then I’m going to hide out and just breathe for a while, and I don’t need any man, muscled or otherwise, to help me do it.”
She clucked her tongue, a glint in her eye. “You’re a scone cold bitch, you know that?”
I turned for the door so she couldn’t see the smile on my face.
I made it to Lexington shortly after seven that night, having made only one wrong turn on my way there, which I saw as a victory. Like all Thurber women before me, I have zero sense of direction. I seriously don’t know how any of them got around before GPS. “It was called a chauffeur,” says my grandmother.
The property manager had said to call her when I arrived and she’d come over with the key. While I waited for her, I wandered around the side of the quaint shingled cottage down to the beach. It was warm and windy, waves rolling in briskly over the rocky shoreline. Holding my hair off my face, I slipped off my sandals and wandered to the water’s edge. The water felt icy cold on my bare feet.
I breathed in the damp air, smelling lake and seaweed and something being grilled nearby. My stomach growled. Had I eaten lunch? I couldn’t even remember. But whatever that was smelled delicious.
“Hello?” called a voice behind me. “Ms. Lewiston?”
I turned and saw a stocky, middle-aged woman wearing a hat and sunglasses waving at me, keys dangling from her hand. Heading up the beach toward her, I decided I’d ask if there was a grill at the cottage. I’d never actually used one, but I was sure I could figure it out with a little help from Google. It was time to step out of my comfort zone, anyway.
Without throwing things.
The manager, Ann, gave me the key and showed me around the cottage—not that there was much to show. Bedroom and bathroom at the back, one big living room with a kitchen over to one side, and windows along the front with a view of the lake. But it was clean and bright, newly decorated with a beach theme, and almost had a little Cape Cod vibe to it. I felt at home there.
After settling in, I went to the little market
I’d seen passing through town and picked up some groceries. There was indeed a small grill on the cottage’s patio, but Ann said she had no idea if there were instructions anywhere. “But it’s just a standard charcoal grill,” she remarked, as if that made any sense to me. “There might even be some charcoal and lighter fluid in the utility closet.”
Lighter fluid? Good God, for cooking? Sounds dangerous. I thanked her and said I’d look around, but figured I’d better stick to what I knew how to do in the kitchen, which was basically hit buttons on the microwave, boil water, and spread peanut butter and jelly on bread.
I ended up eating the prepared chicken salad I’d bought, but I did manage to cook some green beans, which I’d picked up on a whim because the sign said they were local, and they were delicious. Same with the peach I ate for dessert with some vanilla ice cream. I wondered if the vegetables or fruit—or even the chicken—had come from Valentini Brothers Farm, and thought how strange it was that I’d never, not once in my life, considered where the food on my plate had been grown.
But then, that would be part of my challenge, wouldn’t it? To make people like myself more aware of where the foods I ate came from? Convince them it matters?
I thought about it as I ate, and then later I went through the file and learned as much as I could about the farm and the family that owned it. I read the New Client info sheet Jaime had forwarded, researched terms like “certified organic” and “sustainable agriculture,” and googled Valentini Brothers Farm.
Right away, I saw problems.
They had no social media accounts, and the website definitely needed to be updated, if not completely redone. It was cluttered and outdated, difficult to navigate, and had minimal engaging content. Zero personality whatsoever.
But there was a family photo.
Zooming in, I studied each person and wondered who was who. The oldest brother was already losing some hair, but he was tall and handsome, in decent shape with only the beginnings of paunch around the middle. He had his hand on the shoulder of a gap-toothed girl who looked to be about seven or eight. Next to them was the couple I assumed Quinn had met at the farm stand, Pete and Georgia. He was definitely the shortest of the three brothers, but had an adorable smile and thick dark hair. His fair-skinned wife, the only blond in the picture, was pretty and slightly taller than he was. Both her hands rested on her huge, pregnant belly, and I wondered how old the baby was now. On the end was the third brother, the only member of the family who wasn’t smiling. I zoomed in a little closer.
Well, damn. Maybe I would ride a cowboy.
He was tall, thick through the chest and trim at the waist. His jeans were tight, and because of the way he angled his body in the picture, almost like he was trying to back away from the camera, I could see the roundness of his butt. The sleeves of his plaid button-down were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms, and he had the same thick dark hair as the short brother, although he wore it slightly longer. His full mouth was framed by a good amount of stubble, and the set of his jaw was stubborn. Two vertical little frowny lines appeared between his brows. (Muffy would say he needed a “beauty treatment,” which was code for any number of expensive things her dermatologist injected into her face every few months.)
Was he as sullen as he looked, or had the camera just caught him at a bad moment? Maybe the sun had been in his eyes or something.
Still thinking about his ass, I fell asleep to the sound of the waves and dreamt about picking lush, ripe peaches off a tree, biting into them with ravenous delight.
Five
Jack
“Wait a minute. Stop right there.” My brothers and I were sitting at Pete and Georgia’s kitchen table going over expenses, when Pete said something about a marketing budget. “Why the hell do we need a marketing budget?”
“Well, for one thing, the PR consultant is coming tomorrow, and I’m pretty sure she expects to be paid for her time,” Brad said.
I stared at both of them. “What PR consultant?”
“The one we hired last week to help us promote what we’re doing,” said Pete. “And can you please keep your voice down? Cooper is finally quiet.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I snapped, although I tried to lower my voice. My one-year-old nephew, Cooper, had a hard time falling asleep on the nights when Georgia worked. I adored him—and I sympathized. “I never agreed to any fucking consultant.”
“That’s correct, you didn’t.” Brad was maddeningly calm. “But we outvoted you. The three of us own this business together, and we each have an equal say in how it’s run.”
“So you didn’t even tell me you went ahead with it?” I was yelling again, but I couldn’t fucking help it. I hated it when they sprung shit on me.
“Hey, it was you that stormed out after you didn’t get your way,” Pete said. “We sat here and discussed it for a while. And we decided that it would be worth the added expense to hire someone to help us promote.”
I crossed my arms. “We can’t afford it.”
“We can’t afford to do nothing, either,” Brad said. “Dad was a good farmer with ideas ahead of his time, but he was a terrible businessman, so we inherited a huge amount of debt when we took over. Then we had to buy Mom out when she moved to Florida.”
“I’m not a fucking idiot,” I snapped. “I know all this.”
“We also have families and our own bills to pay.”
They had families. I didn’t, and the reminder didn’t help. “Hey, it’s not my problem you’ve got an ex-wife who sued for alimony. Maybe you should have thought of that before you fucked around.”
“Hey.” A warning note from Pete. “Don’t be a dick about this. We’re doing good things here, Jack, but organic farming isn’t cheap. And what good will our principles and hard work do us if we can’t keep the lights on?”
“And competition is stronger now,” said Brad. “The market is getting saturated. We need to do what we can to stand out.”
I sank deeper into my chair, a scowl on my face. I didn’t need any reminders about competition or market saturation or debt or mortgages or anything else on the list of Reasons Why Farmers Have the Highest Suicide Rate of Any Profession.
Pete put a hand on his chest. “Listen. I’m a chef, not a businessman, Jack. You’re an ex-Army Sergeant with farming in your blood and a commitment to doing it responsibly. But if we want to keep this place going, we’ve got to start thinking of it as a business too.” His voice softened. “I know it was always a dream of yours and Steph’s. But it’s more than a dream now, Jack. It’s reality. For all of us. And if you want to keep it, we have to invest in it.”
“Look, we know you,” Brad said. “We are well aware that you prefer to keep to yourself and do things on your own, your way. And we’ve let you make every major decision so far, supported your vision even though we knew how expensive it was going to be. Fuck, I was ready to sell this entire place when that soybean guy expressed interest. I never wanted to be a farmer.”
“Me neither,” said Pete. “I saw the ups and downs Mom and Dad dealt with year after year and wanted something more stable for my family. But you had a vision, a good one. It was enough to convince me to move back and help out. And we have history here. We want this place to thrive. That won’t happen unless people know about it.”
From the monitor on the counter came the sound of Cooper crying, and Pete sighed. “Dammit.” He started to get up, but I stood faster.
“It’s my fault. Let me.” Grateful for a break from the discussion, I switched off the monitor on the kitchen counter and headed up to Cooper’s bedroom. My bad mood lifted as soon as I saw him, and I scooped him up from his crib. “Hey, buddy.”
He continued to cry as I reached into the crib for the soft little blanket I’d given to him when he was born. It was about six inches square, pale blue, and it had a bunny head on one corner. “Bunny” was one of the only words Cooper said, and he was rarely without it in his little grasp.
I spread Bunny over my shoulder and cuddled Cooper close, and he rested his cheek on the blanket, stuck his thumb in his mouth, and quieted down. Lowering myself into the rocker in his room, I held his warm little body against mine, rubbed his back, and hummed softly. He was a little restless at first, but after a few minutes, I felt his body relax as his breathing became slower and deeper. I kissed his soft brown curls and inhaled the sweet scent of baby shampoo, torn between feeling lucky to be an uncle and heartbroken I’d never be a father.
I’d been close to my own, and his death had been tough.
It had happened suddenly, not even six months after I’d left the Army. I’d been a fucking mess at the time, still struggling to process the things I’d seen and done after deployments to Iraq and Afghanistan. Still trying to fit in again at home when all I wanted to do was isolate myself. Still feeling so on edge that every time I saw so much as a plastic bag in the road, I panicked. I was drinking too much, lost my temper too easily, battled nightmares and constant anxiety. Then in the middle of that, my father had a heart attack.
I’d felt powerless. And I’d wanted to give up.
It was Steph who pulled me back from the edge. God knows why, since I was an emotional fuck-up, and I’d never treated her right when we were young. She’d always been there for me, though, claimed she’d loved me since she was six years old and wasn’t about to stop now just because I was going through something. “I’m not letting you wreck yourself, Jack Valentini,” she’d said in her toughest voice, all five foot two inches of her. “You promised me you’d come back, and you did. I promised you I’d be here, and I am.” Her voice had softened. “Stay with me.”
With her support, I saw a doctor about my sleeping problems, a therapist for my PTSD, and stopped abusing alcohol. I thought more about what I was putting in my body and read up on the benefits of organic foods—both eating them and growing them. I remembered my father’s beliefs about responsible farming, and researched modern approaches to small-scale, sustainable agriculture. It gave me a purpose. It felt like a way to honor my dad, and I felt a connection to nature that I didn’t feel with people.
After We Fall Page 3