Weekends in Carolina

by Jennifer Lohmann

  Could she take the compost with her? Assuming, of course, that she had somewhere to go, which she didn’t.

  Her father’s farm was always available to her, but she wasn’t interested in conventional farming. It was a science and she preferred the art. She also preferred working a farm where birds felt safe to nest amongst her trellises. Her mom was a closer refuge. Her mom would tell her that embracing the experience would make her a stronger person, but Max didn’t have the patience for that right now.

  She had plenty of farmer friends who could take her compost, if she could get it to them and figure out the regulations that applied to moving compost from one farm to another—because there were sure to be regulations. And come the end of summer, what else would she have to do but haul truckloads of compost off to her friends?

  Had she already given up? Max stopped her tractor midturn. Did she continue with the meticulous record keeping and work of farming or did she call it quits?

  The wind shifted directions. She could tell by the scent the breeze carried on its back that the compost was maturing well. When she finished turning all the piles, she’d stick thermometers into them and record their temperatures into her little book. At night, it would just be her and Ashes and she’d transfer all that information to her Excel spreadsheet, where she had five years’ worth of composting data. If she didn’t do it for the future of the land, she’d be doing it for her own satisfaction.

  Mother Nature had originally drawn her to organic farming, and she wasn’t about to shirk the woman because some man threatened to take the dream away. With the finality of that thought, Max shifted the tractor back into gear and turned the pile again.

  * * *

  TREY WAS WAITING for her when she got back to the packing shed to park the tractor. For the first time since she’d met him, he looked dirty. Trey had packed up Hank’s filthy house and not gotten a spot of dust on his nose but now—Max blinked—he had red clay on the knees of his jeans and the ball of a sweet gum tree stuck in his hair. He was leaning up against the wall of the shed, his knee bent and foot flat against the wood. Stick a piece of straw in his mouth and cowboy hat on his head and he’d look like an escapee from some cowboy movie. He already walked like he’d been on a horse for too long.

  She ignored him and her negative thoughts as she walked around to unhook the front-end loader attachment from her tractor. Trey didn’t really walk like he’d been sitting on a horse for too long. Just because she wanted to shove a stick up his ass right now didn’t mean she didn’t like the way he walked. And just because she liked the way he walked didn’t mean she couldn’t dream of dropping the front-end loader on his head.

  “I was watching you,” he said as he pushed off the wall, “as you did whatever it was you were doing with the dirt.”

  “Compost. I was turning the compost.”

  “You stopped for a long time, then started again. Why?”

  She didn’t trust him. “Thirsty.”

  “You didn’t drink anything.”

  “Hungry.”

  “You didn’t eat anything.”

  “I had to pee.” She enunciated each word, in case he missed the irritation on her face.

  “Did you have a thunder jug in the tractor and I missed you using it? Because while I’m not into that sort of thing, I’m really curious about the physics of it.”

  Max felt her face go hot and knew she was fifteen colors of red, seventeen if she included her freckles. “What I really mean to say is that it’s none of your business.”

  “Do you believe in God?”

  Honestly, if he wasn’t the most calculating person she’d ever met, she’d say he was nuts. “I’m sure that’s not any of your business, either.”

  “What’s important to you? What will you swear on?”

  She opened her mouth to tell him to piss off then noticed the intensity of his eyes. “Those compost piles are important to me. The garlic I’ve got in the ground and am waiting to sprout. The plants slowly unfurling in the greenhouse.” This time her face was hot from anger rather than embarrassment and her blood boiled and rolled through her body to match. “This whole damn farm is important to me, which you know and you’re selling it anyway.”

  He shook his head and Max couldn’t tell if the rise of his mouth was irritation, amusement or both. “If piles of rotting shit are what you want to swear on, you can swear on them. Did my father drink?”

  “If he did, he hid it well. I never saw him.”

  “He’d never hidden it well before. I don’t know why he would start.”

  “I know Hank was an alcoholic. He never made a secret out of it and he warned me no alcohol would be allowed on the property if I wanted to farm it. As far as I know, neither of us ever broke that rule.”

  Trey turned from her and walked away. She went back to her tasks in the packing shed, certain he was leaving, when she heard his voice again. “I’ll sell you the farm.”

  “In three years?”

  “No. Kelly said Dad quit drinking and I believe him and you, but I still don’t want to own this farm any longer than I have to. When your lease is up, I’ll give you right of first refusal.”

  Max thought about her compost piles and the investment they were to the future of the land. And she wished they were the kind of investment that she could cash out. “Even if I do get a mortgage, I won’t be able to afford to pay you what the developer can offer.”

  “I’m not asking for you to match their offer. We can figure out what a fair market value is.”

  She put her hand on her chest and leaned against the wall, decisions pounding in her ears. Her heart alternated between racing for some unknown starting gate and slowing down to a crawl as she debated whether this was good or bad news. Planning and working for the farm only to have it not happen might be worse than planning to pick up and move in December. Not just a dream deferred, but a dream ripped out of her grasp because she didn’t have the strength to hold on.

  He walked toward her with the slow, purposeful stride she had admired. The clay mud patches on his jeans had dried and they cracked with each step. Her eyes traveled up his body, noting each imperfection in his clothing that hadn’t been there this morning.

  She didn’t know how someone should react to the news that their father had stopped drinking. Trey had apparently reacted to it by falling to his knees in prayer. Or sliding down a hill.

  After pausing to wonder how he was going to get the pine needles out of his sweater, she met his gaze. Like this morning, his eyes were dark and steady.

  “I’ll think about it,” she finally said.

  “Think about it?” Now his face showed a reaction and it was easy to read. He was angry, though he had the same tight control over his voice that he’d had over his eyes. “This morning you were begging me to sell you the farm, and now you’ll think about it?”

  “If you had looked at the spreadsheets this morning, you’d have seen I have a plan and it doesn’t have me buying the farm for another three years. I’m not sure if I can afford it by December or if I’ll even get close enough to qualify for a mortgage. Before I promise either of us this solution, I want to run the numbers.”

  Her words washed the anger off his face and he nodded. “I’ll help you.”

  “Run the numbers?”

  “Find a mortgage. Manage your money. Whatever it takes so that you can afford the farm by December.”

  She knew how to manage her own money, but the help would be nice. When harvesting started, she would barely be awake long enough at the end of each day to record everything in her spreadsheets, much less spend the time looking for a mortgage. Passing on that burden would be a relief.

  “Why? Why did you change your mind?”

  Trey looked away and Max didn’t think he would answer. When he began to talk, the crack
in his voice was the only indication that he felt anything. “When I was kid, all I ever wanted was for my daddy to quit drinking. I made regular deals with God about what I would do if he stopped. Each time I learned about a different religion, I made a bargain with their god, too, just in case. Once, when I learned what paganism actually meant, I made a bargain to become a farmer and worship Mother Nature if Daddy quit drinking.” He looked at her—through her—and his eyes were hot enough to make her shiver. “The time for me to be a farmer has passed, but it seems like I would still be keeping my promise if I sold you the farm.”

  Max searched his face for sincerity. She found it, but she didn’t know how much to trust it. Still, this was a gift horse and looking it in the mouth would be stupid. If he wasn’t sincere, she wouldn’t be any worse off and maybe she could use the time to convince him of the farm’s worth.

  “I’ll still need to look over my finances before I agree.”

  This time it looked like he was assessing her face for sincerity. Whatever he found made him nod. “Okay. I’ll even give you a week to fully explore your options before telling me yes or no.”

  A week to research other financing options and then nine months to buy the farm. She could do this. It wasn’t in her plan, but she could still do this. She marched over to be directly in front of him and stuck out her hand. “Done.”

  When the side of his mouth kicked up this time, she knew it was with pleasure. He looked her straight in the eye, took her hand in his firm grip and gave a steady shake. “Till next week, then.” Despite the jolt his hand sent down her spine, she was also shaking on the finality of a relationship based on anything other than friendship. It was simpler this way, less risky.

  Trey turned back to the woods, to whatever path had brought him to her packing shed, leaving Max with the uncomfortable feeling of missing the warmth of his hand in hers.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TREY SAT IN his office at his computer. The intensity with which he stared at his screen probably made it look like he was doing work. But instead of researching statistics from the home state of the congressman whose staffer he was meeting for lunch, he was looking at the Carolina Farmers Association website.

  At his request, Max had emailed him some financial information so he could evaluate the options available to her. She was right—she didn’t have enough money to get a mortgage by December. Included in her email had been a link to a News and Observer article about farmers trading work for equity.

  It was a nice idea, but he didn’t want to wait out three years with her paying him rent, nor did he want to wait out the time it would take her to earn equity in the land. He wanted it gone.

  So why was he spending so much time looking at a farming website and thinking about the farmer?

  Trey clicked over to his email and scrolled down to the first message Max had sent him. The picture of her and the farm popped up on his desktop and he maximized the image so it took up his entire screen. Bullshit about deities he didn’t believe in aside, Max was the reason he wasn’t going to sell the land to the developer—and that was if he was being polite. If he was being honest, he had seen enough of her body to want to see more, without clothing hindering his view.

  Helping Max buy her dream lessened the sleazeball feelings that had crept down his neck when fantasies of taking off her clothes had interrupted his plans to sell her life away. Now he could pretend to forgive his father, help a small farmer gain more security and undress Max in his mind.

  Trey understood conflicting motivations and how emotions and good intentions could be manipulated by shiny objects. Max was Trey’s shiny object. He never would have believed that he’d be lusting after a woman in muddy work boots, but he also never would have believed he’d want to make the five-hour drive from D.C. to Durham to spend time on the family farm. But here he was, sitting at his desk thinking about driving to talk with her, rather than doing all this by email like a sane person. If he wasn’t honest with himself about his attraction to her and how that attraction could alter his decision-making process, he would act against his better interest.

  Trey clicked the link for a Durham credit union. The credit union offered favorable rates and had a low barrier for entry, not to mention that their entire purpose was to help local businesses like Max’s Vegetable Patch. But Max still didn’t have what she needed. Even if Trey didn’t charge her rent until December, she probably wouldn’t get there. Her income seemed decent, if not steady. She kept her costs down, but both her income and her costs were variable. Trey had winced when he’d seen her tractor repair bill from last year.

  Maybe he could extend her lease. He didn’t need the money and she was a low-maintenance tenant. She would sign the document and he’d be able to ignore her while collecting a monthly rent check. Not needing the money meant he could lower her rent and she’d be able to buy the land sooner. Not by December, but sooner than three years. He sat back in his chair and clicked over to the picture of her again, before hurriedly clicking back to the credit union’s website, angry at his own hubris.

  He would never be able to ignore her.

  Being a manipulator of people’s emotions and interests didn’t make him immune from being manipulated by his own. He was determined to act only in his own best interest, but he didn’t know what his best interest was anymore. Max’s smiling face and the teeming greenery behind her made him wonder if she was his best interest. But she came with the farm.

  Selling the farm over to Max meant accepting a complete break in their relationship. He wouldn’t have any excuse to email her or go down to North Carolina. His best interest, Max’s best interest, ended their relationship, which he didn’t want, either.

  Making him a whiny child unwilling to let go of a toy he didn’t want any longer.

  His best interest was to stay true to himself. He could sell the land to Max, feel like he’d done the right thing for the little person and get on with the rest of his life.

  He needed to find another way for Max to raise money.

  * * *

  WHEN TREY’S PHONE buzzed in his pocket on his way to his apartment from the metro station, his first inclination was to ignore it. This week felt like it had been a month long and he still had tomorrow’s shit to deal with. Sure, tonight’s fund-raiser sounded like fun—and probably would be fun—but it was also work. Since he’d gotten back from North Carolina, everything seemed like work and all work seemed like a chore. He needed to shift his focus back on his goal—keeping out of North Carolina—not on some freckled farmer. Responsibility got the better of him and he dug his phone out of his coat pocket.

  The 919 area code was unexpected.

  “Trey Harris,” he answered.

  “Trey,” Jerome’s voice boomed through the phone. “Kelly didn’t think you’d answer a phone call from the Triangle area code. He owes me five dollars.”

  “Jerome, hello.” Trey stopped his trod through the slush. He and Jerome emailed occasionally, but they were not in the habit of talking to one another over the phone. “I didn’t expect to hear your voice on the other end of the line.”

  “I’m fixin’ to offer you basketball tickets.”

  “Oh, that’s great, but I really can’t get away from work right now.”

  Jerome chuckled. “What, you’re washing your hair that weekend? You don’t even know what I’m offering.”

  Whatever it was, Jerome’s offer required crossing into North Carolina. “Basketball games are great but...”

  “Duke at the Dean Dome.”

  Trey leaned against a nearby building and tried to parse what Jerome was saying. “You’re inviting me to the Carolina-Duke game in Chapel Hill,” he clarified. It was the biggest game of the basketball season, aside from the Carolina-Duke game played in Durham. “What’s the catch?”

  “Why does there have to be a catch?” Jerome a
sked after a moment of silence, which meant there was definitely a catch. Probably a grappling hook. Or a harpoon.

  “Both teams are good this year, so even assuming you have seats behind a giant screen in the upper deck, you could sell those tickets for at least five hundred dollars. But you’re calling me out of the blue to offer them to me. Do you need a kidney?”

  “With your dad dead, you have no reason to visit North Carolina until Kelly gets married—whenever that happens.” Having to wait on the state to repeal an amendment banning gay marriage meant Trey might never have to visit North Carolina after he sold the farm. And he could do all the farm paperwork from D.C.

  “I didn’t visit North Carolina when my dad was alive.”

  If Jerome heard him, he ignored him. “I thought I’d use basketball tickets to bribe you to visit Chapel Hill, and Alea didn’t think you’d take anything less than Duke tickets. So Duke tickets it is. The game is next Friday, 9:00 p.m.”

  Trey didn’t need to be told when the game was. Duke-Carolina games were a part of his circadian rhythm. “And Alea doesn’t want to go?”

  “She’s seven months pregnant and has no interest in small stadium seats or watching college kids sweat.”

  “And she thinks I’ll drive down for the Duke game?” Who was he kidding? Of course he’d drive down for the Duke game.

  “If you want to argue with Alea.”