by Gaelen Foley
He parked and waited in his convertible for a minute, wondering if the old farmer might still be taking that nap Bea had mentioned. Doing some quick calculations off the top of his head, Harry tried to ballpark a more accurate offer, now that he was seeing the place in person.
Just then, a pair of slobbery old dogs came limping over to his car. They sat in the dirt and stared Harry down expectantly, tails thumping slowly. They both looked to be Lab mixes, brownish and graying around their dark, soulful eyes.
“Hey there, buddy,” said Harry to the bigger one through his open window.
The mutt flopped on its side, flashed his bulging white belly at Harry, wriggled on the gravelly ground to scratch its back. The smaller one sagged into the dirt to take a rest. Harry laughed. He figured that was enough of a welcome, so he stepped out of the car, decided against indulging his instinct to rub the old mutts’ bellies—he didn’t want to risk getting his outfit dirty before his meeting—and made his way toward the porch.
He almost laughed when he saw a freshly baked blueberry pie cooling on a window sill. Who does that?
Once again getting that strange feeling that he’d wandered into a fairytale, Harry knocked on the frame of a screen door and waited.
A tiny, round woman wearing pink capris and a white, scoop-necked blouse bustled toward him to answer. “What can I do for you, young man?” she asked through the screen, peering up at him with greenish-gray eyes. Her helmet of precisely sculpted silver hair reached the height of Harry’s sternum.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. Are you Mrs. Palmer?” Harry asked, friendly as ever, bending down.
“Depends,” she said brightly. “If Roadtrippers sent you, then yes! But if you’re a bill collector, no.”
Harry smiled. He’d seen the reality TV show she was talking about. His mother was a fan, too. Senior citizens across America were being chosen to travel cross-country in RVs, test their outdoor adventure skills, collect big-ticket scavenger hunt items from each of the fifty states, and have it all filmed for the world to see. Contestants could win a hundred thousand dollars, and they got to keep their RVs.
“I’m definitely not here to ask for your money,” he assured her with a smile. “But I’m afraid I don’t have an RV to give you, either.”
Still, she eyed him suspiciously. “What can I do for you, then?”
“My name is Harrison Riley, and I’m with an investment company in Pittsburgh, Diamond Enterprises. I just drove out here today, actually, hoping to speak with your husband. If Mr. Palmer is available, would it be possible for the three of us to sit down and talk? I promise not to take up too much of your time.”
The sweet old granny peeked behind Harry, and her eyes got big as she spotted his expensive car. “Eddie’s just waking up,” she said. “Come on in.”
“Thank you.” Harry tucked his sunglasses into his shirt as he stepped through the doorway.
“You sit here,” she instructed, pointing to a chair in the kitchen. It was steel-framed, wrapped in bright yellow vinyl, something straight out of 1965. It sat next to a matching yellow-topped Formica table and three other chairs just like it. “Help yourself while I go get him,” she added, setting a pitcher of lemonade and a glass in front of him.
“That looks great, ma’am. Thanks.” Harry began pouring as the busy little lady swished in her slippers down a long hallway. He lifted the glass, toasted the air, and smiled as he waited. The farm was a lovely, cheerful place, and he had a feeling Mrs. Palmer had a lot to do with that.
He took a sip of fresh-squeezed lemonade and studied his surroundings while he waited. The late afternoon sun lit up the kitchen. Some fruit flies shimmied above a bowl of plums on the countertop.
As he rose to take a casual snoop around, he noticed stacks of china plates and bowls through the glass windows of an old wooden hutch. Porcelain teacups painted with tiny roses swung from hooks beneath its shelves.
A rolling pin, a few bowls, some silverware, and three plates, all dripping wet, rested in the dish strainer. A landline telephone, mustard-colored, plastic, big, and chunky, just like the one in the kitchen of the house he had grown up in, stuck to the wall next to a big corkboard.
Envelopes, Post-its, torn pieces of paper with scribbled handwriting, an electric bill, a late notice from Highland Regional Hospital, a few appointment cards for various doctors—a GE specialist, a blood test lab—were thumbtacked to the corkboard, layers deep and with no particular organization, from what he could tell.
A tack holding a postcard of the Grand Canyon in place was coming loose, so Harry pressed his thumb against it hard to tighten it, which was when he noticed the calendar. He frowned at what he saw. Wonder what all the doctor’s appointments are about.
At that moment, a lumbering figure approached from down the long hallway. From the shadows emerged a towering old man with wide shoulders, a stiff, square jaw, and thick, tinted glasses. The remnants of a potbelly bulged from underneath his t-shirt with the words I Kicked Cancer’s Ass screen-printed on it.
Harry felt his heart drop like a stone down to his feet when he read the slogan on that t-shirt.
Ed Palmer had tucked it into faded blue jeans that looked soft from years of wear. He wore a tan fabric belt around his middle, all-black sneakers on his giant feet, and a starchy trucker hat on his head that shrouded a thick pelt of gray hair.
He stopped walking when he reached the kitchen, looked at Harry, and growled, “You got a name, son?”
“Harrison Riley, sir. I’m with Diamond Enterprises,” he replied, holding out his right hand for a hearty shake.
The old farmer obliged, the palms of his hands rough and callused.
Wow, Harry thought. This would be a real man-to-man here, he realized. Part of his job required altering his demeanor to match the client’s. He’d dealt with gruff and tough before; hell, he worked for a Texan. No problem, he thought, resolute, only wishing he’d dressed down for the occasion.
“My wife said you told her who you are, but she forgot your name. Sorry,” the farmer said bluntly.
“No problem, sir. Just call me Harry,” he answered with a smile.
“Well, Harry, if you’re interested in buying the place,” the client said, hands on hips, “it ain’t for sale.”
“I had a feeling you might say that, Mr. Palmer,” Harry admitted. “So I’ve come with a rather extraordinary offer.”
“Who’d you say sent you?” the old man asked. He took off his glasses and gave Harry a suspicious look, folding his arms over his chest.
“Diamond Enterprises, the company I work for, is owned by Mr. Curtis Culpeper, of Texas. He’s my boss.” He reached for his wallet, pulling out a business card. “We’re a medium-sized investment firm in Pittsburgh. Curt’s a good guy. Kind of a farmer himself.” Harry was looking for common ground, even if he was stretching the truth a little. Curt’s cattle ranch counted, didn’t it?
Mr. Palmer motioned to the kitchen table, ordering Harry back to his seat without a word. “Jeanie, you comin’?” the farmer yelled for his wife, who had bustled off to somewhere toward the back of the house.
“Don’t wait for me, dear,” she replied from a faraway room.
“This is truly a beautiful farm, Mr. Palmer.”
“Ed. Everyone calls me Ed,” the old man replied. “And I don’t know any Culpepers.”
“Well, Curt actually heard about your farm from a real estate agent he knows. Tammy Reese?”
Ed Palmer gave a low grunt, as if to say, Figures. “Yeah, we know her, all right. What’s she got to do with you?”
“Well, she’s a friend of my boss and, er, something of a…business partner.” Harry searched for the right way to frame this. “At Diamond Enterprises, we make investments. In people, technology, new startups. And sometimes in real estate development.”
The farmer just looked at him, bored and unamused with the spiel from marketing. He leaned back in his chair.
Cut to the chase, Riley. You’re losin
g him, Harry warned himself. It was obvious this client wasn’t in the habit of mincing words.
“We invest in things, like your farm, for instance, and hope that we can make them more profitable,” he said.
“You sound like my grandkid,” Ed replied. “She keeps saying the same thing. More profit, more profit.” At the mention of his granddaughter, Ed Palmer cracked his first smile. “You want some more lemonade?” He poured some for himself.
“No, thank you,” Harry said. “This grandkid of yours, she runs a fruit stand out on Clover Highway, is that right?”
“That’s my Honey-Bea,” Palmer said. “We called her that, short for Beatrice, ever since she was little. But she’s all grown up now, and damn near ready to run this whole operation. She’s the one you need to talk to.”
“Is that so?” asked Harry, amused at the nickname, but not at all pleased to learn he would, indeed, have to negotiate with her.
Even if he could persuade the grandfather, how on earth was he going to talk Honey-Bea Palmer out of her farm without getting stung?
“She got a dream to grow vegetables, God knows why. Some organic shit,” he grumbled. “Gave me a song and dance about sustainable this, environmentally friendly that. Don’t want me near no chemicals, I guess, after what they already done to me. But it’ll be her business to run in a couple more years, and I guess then she can do as she pleases. I ran it the way I thought best in my day, but times change, don’t they. She’ll get her turn if she wants it.”
“Family business?” Harry said.
“That’s right.” Ed cracked what Harry could only guess was another rare smile as he gazed into space for a moment. “Told the kid I’d teach her everything I know. All of a sudden I’m plantin’ kohlrabi and calling my chickens by name. You ever heard of such a thing?” The old farmer almost guffawed, not expecting Harry to answer.
And there it was: the weak spot Harry had been looking for.
His opening.
“But maybe that’s not exactly what you want?” Harry said, sipping his lemonade.
Ed shrugged. “I was a corn man all my life. Field corn and cows. I don’t really give a goddamn about kohlrabi, son.”
Keep talking, old man, thought Harry. Get the client to talk, then shut up and don’t interrupt.
“You see this here?” Ed asked, pointing to the shiny message on his shirt.
Harry nodded grimly.
“Got colon cancer last year. Had half o’ my intestines cut outta me. But I’m alive now, and I got better things to do than work until I die.”
Harry lowered his gaze in respect. Sheesus, he’s a tough old coot.
“I been helpin’ the kid along the last coupla years, like I said. She ain’t had it easy, but it’s Bea’s business now to run how she sees fit. Her time’s coming, and my wife and I are waiting till the girl’s good and ready. I ain’t rushing her into nothin’.”
“That’s a big sacrifice.”
“You got kids, Harry?”
“No, sir. Not yet. I’m not married.”
“Then I ain’t sure you understand,” the old farmer said quietly.
Just then, wee Mrs. Palmer swished back into the kitchen. “I hope you two don’t mind if I get dinner started while you talk. I promised Eddie chicken potpies.”
“Won’t bother me a bit, ma’am,” Harry said politely, more taken aback by this unconventional business meeting than he was letting on.
Ed swigged his lemonade while Mrs. Palmer scrubbed her hands in the sink and got to chopping a giant onion, a clove of garlic, some carrots, and a handful of red-skinned potatoes.
Harry wanted the lady of the house to hear their conversation, even if she was pretending not to eavesdrop. “Well, after that ordeal and all the good years that you and Mrs. Palmer have clearly put in here, you have any thoughts about retiring? Travel? Golf? Maybe some deep-sea fishing?”
“Oh, Eddie’s been promising me since our wedding night that we’d take a trip across country,” Mrs. Palmer answered with a dimpled grin before Ed could respond. “I’ve always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone Park, Mt. Rainier.” She scraped the diced onions from her cutting board into a scalding-hot frying pan. They zipped and crackled on the stove, fading to a quiet hiss after a minute.
“Sounds like an attainable dream to me.” Harry smiled at her, though he saw Ed send his wife a discreet admonishing glare.
“Well, maybe once Beatrice is all squared away,” her grandmother amended.
Harry realized then that money was indeed an issue for the Palmer family. They didn’t have to spell it out. The old man’s illness must have set them back, so—if he was reading this situation right—they had to wait for Bea to buy the farm before they’d have the cash to pursue their own retirement dream of hitting the road to see the national parks, apparently in an RV.
Their simple wish touched Harry’s heart more than he’d expected. But he wasn’t surprised that money would be tight for them right now. Especially after serious hospital bills. Cancer drug costs could be exorbitant. Besides, farming was a notoriously hard business, and Harry had read that oftentimes, a farmer’s wealth was tied up in things like livestock, equipment, and land. No liquidity.
His sudden urge to help these good, decent people was strong—and he was in a perfect position to do so. “Sir, do you have a piece of paper and a pen?”
The old man turned in his chair and reached his long, pale arm over to the kitchen counter, where an old, chipped mug held a handful of pens. A stack of scrap paper sat under it. Ed scribbled on one of the papers to make sure the pen worked, and then slid both across the table to Harry.
Here goes, thought Harry. It was time to make the pitch.
Considering the generous, nearly unlimited budget he’d been given to acquire the property, Harry decided to make the Palmers an offer they couldn’t refuse. They were not the type to beat around the bush, and he wasn’t sure he’d get a second chance.
Besides, those hospital bills tacked to the corkboard had told him this sweet old couple could use it. Curt would barely notice, and, God, the old man had beaten cancer. They longed to see the world beyond their farm’s three hundred acres, and it was in Harry’s power to make their dreams come true with the stroke of a pen.
Not to mention Curt’s dream of finally outdoing Monty once and for all, and Harry’s own ambition of becoming CEO. It was a win-win.
Maybe not so much for Bea. But she had seemed tough and smart enough to land on her feet somehow. Young and strong, she had time to figure something else out; her grandparents didn’t.
Slowly, dramatically, Harry wrote a number well over Tammy Reese’s original asking price on the piece of paper. He let his hand rest over top of the figure, just a hint of a few zeroes peeping out for the client to see.
“Now, here’s what we’re offering you, Mr. Palmer. For the farm, the house, everything within the property line.” He let the words linger for a moment. “I truly hope you’ll both think about this long and hard. Talk about it, and then get back to me once you’ve had a chance to consider, okay?”
With that, he slid the offer over to the farmer.
Ed Palmer peered at the number.
Harry didn’t necessarily expect a gasp, but a raised eyebrow, perhaps. A cleared throat, a flicker of surprise, some reaction. But the old man just looked back at Harry like he’d seen an old shoelace, a dirty tissue.
“We’ll talk it over with the kid,” the old tank said.
Harry masked his astonishment. Some poker player, this guy. “Right. Sure. Of course,” he said, smiling but perturbed the old man wasn’t more impressed. “If either of you or your granddaughter have any questions, I’ll be more than happy to answer them. My cell phone number is on my business card.” Harry pointed. “I’ll be staying at the Sweetwater Inn. I could check in with you again tomorrow,” he said, one last attempt at getting the old battleax to soften.
“Thanks for your time, son,” was all Ed Palmer said, rising fr
om his chair and crossing to open the screen door, practically shooing Harry out.
“Take care of yourself, young man,” Mrs. Palmer hollered through the window over the blueberry pie. “It was lovely meeting you.”
“And you as well,” Harry called back. “Thanks for the lemonade.”
The old Labs ambled toward Harry to nudge him goodbye, and as Harry bent over this time to give both dogs a good scratch behind the ears, he decided to check his cell phone one last time before he hopped back in the car.
Finally. Harry was relieved to see one and a half bars lit up on the top of the phone. Fourteen new texts, ten new voicemails, and he didn’t even want to know how many email messages awaited him. A quick peek revealed that Curt and Dana were about to send a search party out for him if he didn’t check in soon. They were frantic, wondering what was going on.
Sketchy svc up here, Harry typed. Looking good. Nice place. Offer made. Palmer cagey. Good poker face. Wife, no prob. 1 more day. Will check in again soon, he finished, then hit send.
Though he had his work cut out for him, Harry felt fairly confident that things would soon fall into place.
The tricky part, of course, would be managing the sassy brunette.
Sorry, babe, Harry thought as he went back to his car. It’s either your dream or mine.
He didn’t care how damn sexy she was. He wasn’t leaving empty-handed.
Reaching for the door handle, he paused with a frown to wipe a streak of farm dust off the paint job. Then he got in, started Ruby up, and headed back to town to await landfall of the storm he fully expected from Beatrice Palmer.
# # #
Bea had decided to pack up shop for the day about twenty minutes after Harry left. His visit had left her restless. Besides, she had put in a respectable length of time at the farm stand and could knock off for the evening with a clean conscience.
Then she began the tedious routine of closing up the few crates of unsold produce and loading them back into her pickup. She got her cash box, her purse, and the rest of her belongings and put them all in the cab. Then she lowered the sunshades, locked the shutters across the openings, and put up the Closed sign.