by Gaelen Foley
She turned to peer out the back window and saw him standing on the sidewalk just where she’d left him, looking so lost.
He would recover, of course. Strong and smart as he was, he could fix this, but not as long as he had the contagion of her bad luck jinxing him, as she’d jinxed so many others. Then the cab sped up to make a green light, and when it whipped around a corner, Bea fought back a sob as Harry disappeared.
CHAPTER 16
The rooster’s strident crowing the next morning Bea had cursed and ignored, turning over in her bed. But when the sweet, comforting smell of cinnamon-sprinkled dough baking in the oven downstairs began to filter from Gram’s kitchen, that got her attention.
Scones or muffins? she wondered dully, dragging her swollen eyes open to stare at the wall beside her bed. Waking up to a heavenly scent like that made the prospect of a new day not entirely unbearable.
The farmhouse had been dark when she’d finally arrived last night in her rental car. It had taken an hour longer than usual to get there because of the Hooper Bridge detour, but with most of the roads in Harmony Falls cleaned up after the storm, she had found her way home in the dark with no problems.
And just as Harry’s face had been the last thing on her mind before she’d cried herself to sleep, it returned to greet her first thing in the morning. She pulled the thin white sheet over her head like a dead woman’s shroud, aching from head to toe to think of how distraught he’d looked through the taxi’s rear window, standing there alone on the sidewalk.
She felt guilty as hell for what she’d cost him, and heartsick with the loss of what might have been. But even though she knew how he’d misinterpret her leaving, Bea was certain she had done the right thing.
It was so gallant of him to want to save her, but she simply refused to drag him down with her any more than she already had. He could still recover, she was sure. He was the answer guy. There were probably a half a dozen companies who’d want to snap him up within a week…as long as he stayed clear of her general disaster zone.
And so, as heavy as the leaden sadness sank into her bones this morning, as hollow as her chest felt, like the heart had been stolen right out from in between her ribs, at least she could not accuse herself of being a selfish bitch in this case, the way she feared she’d been for so long with her grandparents.
That had to end, too, she resolved.
As for Harry, he might not see it yet—he probably despised her right now—but Bea was convinced that she had done what was best for him. That knowledge was the only thing that gave her the gumption to sit up at last and haul herself out of bed.
A few minutes later, she shuffled downstairs to the kitchen, tying her pink hip-length robe around her waist. At once, she laid eyes on her energetic little grandmother, who was already busy washing dishes.
Bea shuddered at the thought of having to break the news to Gram and Pap that things hadn’t worked out with Mr. Culpeper in Pittsburgh. They’d be disappointed, but she knew they were tough enough to handle it.
She walked up behind her grandma and dove in for a big, strong hug.
“Oh, Honey-Bea! You scared me. I didn’t even know you were back from the city,” the old farmwife yelped in surprise, then chuckled, turning to Bea.
“Sorry, Gram. I got home last night. You and Pap were already asleep.”
“Well, go sit down.” She shooed her away. “Zucchini bread’s almost ready,” she added brightly.
“Smells wonderful.”
“Coffee?”
“Yeah, can you inject it right into my vein?”
Gram laughed and filled a wide-mouthed orange mug, Bea’s favorite, with steaming black coffee. Just being in her cheerful grandmother’s presence made her feel better, and the coffee slowly helped to clear her head.
Which brought her to a simple question: Well, what now?
She mentally recapped where things currently stood, now that she’d had coffee: she felt miserable but she’d done the right thing. She might be the queen of bad luck, but at least she could no longer accuse herself of being self-centered.
And on that note, it was no longer okay with her to make her grandparents wait to pursue their own dream. They had done so much for her already. It was time to return the favor. They should go on their cross-country RV trip while they were still healthy and spry enough to enjoy it.
It was time to end their long wait.
Since all three Palmers had already made their peace with selling the majority of the farm, Bea decided that if her grandparents still agreed, they should just move forward with the sale, as planned.
Of course, that would mean she’d have to suck it up and call Tammy, since the agent’s contract didn’t expire until the end of September. Circumstances were too dire after the twister to wait it out. Once Bea ate a little crow, assuring the woman she’d cooperate this time, then Tammy could take whatever steps needed to put the farm officially back on the market and find them another buyer. It sucked losing out on the million-dollar offer from Diamond Enterprises, but there was no use crying over squandered opportunities.
Now was the time to buck up, pull herself together, and knuckle down. Because not all hope was lost, Bea reminded herself. The list of solutions that she and Harry had come up with together for saving her remaining chunk of the farm were still entirely doable. The Christmas trees, the you-pick-it strawberry and pumpkin fields, the farm shop, the campground…
Harry himself had said her ideas were solid. He had believed in her.
The thought of carrying out these plans by herself made her miss him terribly, though. With his energy, his enthusiasm, and his can-do attitude, he had not only made these feats sound possible, he’d even made doing all that work sound fun. Now it shocked her to discover that, without him, her dream suddenly didn’t feel like much of a dream anymore.
She stared down unseeingly at her hands molded around her coffee mug, wondering if she’d break. It felt like the moment of truth.
Half of her, maybe more than half, wanted to give up. Admit to her parents they’d been right all along, go find some kind of job, and just get it over with.
Slowly, from somewhere deep inside her, buried beneath the wreckage of the storm, Bea dug deep and discovered an untapped reservoir of strength. She’d been knocked down, badly, but she wasn’t beaten yet.
All she had to do was find the courage to forget about her past fumbles, shake them off for good, and dare to believe in herself one more time.
She could do this.
She could start over from scratch. She’d done it before and felt fairly sure that she could do it again. To hell with that storm, that tornado. She wasn’t going to let it get the best of her. Even with a broken heart, she decided then that she would do what farmers always did and find a way.
Gram pulled a steaming-hot loaf pan from the oven just as Pap stomped in through the screen door from outside.
He took one look at Bea and said, “Well?”
Bea sat up straighter. It was time to break the news. She gave her grandfather a hard, regretful look and shook her head. “I’m sorry, Pap. Mr. Culpeper rejected our proposal, and he’s not willing to negotiate.” She paused. “The guy’s a total jerk.”
That was all they really needed to know. If Pap heard about Curt’s vulgar behavior toward her, things could get ugly.
Silence.
Pap stared at her. Gram sat down next to Bea, held her hand, and squeezed. They all looked at one another, back and forth, and said nothing.
At long last, Pap shrugged, simply walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. Bea heard him thunk down into his recliner and flip on the History Channel.
The hiss and zoom of World War II fighter planes droned on in the background while Bea lifted her coffee to her lips, her hand quaking slightly.
“Worse things have happened,” Gram said with determined eyes, still holding Bea’s hand. “People are starving in Africa, for goodness’ sakes. The Palmer family is gonna be A-OK
.”
Bea gave her a tremulous smile before the old woman rose and bustled off to flip her zucchini bread onto a cooling rack. Then she watched her grandmother with tender veneration. Jean Palmer was all sugar-dusted pastry on the outside, bright stainless steel on the inside. And she had no idea how much Bea admired her right now. The power behind the throne.
Pap never could’ve endured all this without her.
“Only thing harder than farming, honey, is farming alone.”
Bea swallowed hard and blinked away a tear. Gram sliced into the loaf of bread even though it was still too hot to eat. She set a sliver of it on a plate and dropped a dollop of butter on top. “Here,” she said, setting it down in front of Bea at the table.
“Thanks, Gram,” Bea replied, choked up as she watched the butter melt. She listened to her chickens clucking off in the distance, the sound of a helicopter flying overhead, until the wave of emotion receded. Finally, she bit into the warm, moist bread and savored the mouthful. “Wow. You still got it, lady.”
Gram put her fists to her hips and wagged her bottom back and forth. “Don’t I know it,” she teased with a smile.
Bea laughed and continued eating, feeling comforted, at least for this moment. At last, determined to put some order to the chaos, she started planning her day. “Think I’ll pull some greens today,” she said. “Some of the fields should be drying out by now. I need to check on the sweet potatoes, too.”
Suddenly, Gram clapped her hands together. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Lance and the dudes were here yesterday.”
“Oh? I didn’t have them scheduled.”
“I know, they came on their own. You know all the crops you kids picked right after the storm?”
Right, thought Bea. All those smashed tomatoes the guys had rescued from the greenhouse, all the fruit her friends had gathered off the ground to make into jam, all the green beans Finn and his trail guides had picked for her.
She’d been hoping the produce would make it to the weekend so she could sell it at the Sunday market.
“Well,” Gram continued, “all those crates and barrels were just sitting there in the barn, so the boys loaded them up in Lance’s van, and apparently they set up a little stand in town.”
“What?” Bea said, shocked.
“And guess what? They sold it all! Bless their little hearts.” Gram shuffled quickly to the hutch where she always stuffed her very important papers. The tiny lady reached high, lifted up onto her tiptoes, and pulled out a white envelope.
“Here.” She marched back, presenting it to Bea.
Bea tore the envelope open with the side of her thumb and found a thick, folded stack of cash. She looked at Gram, astounded.
“And they insisted on not getting paid,” Gram added. “They said they were just volunteering.” She sighed, beaming like Mrs. Claus reviewing the names on Santa’s Nice list. “Such good boys.”
Bea couldn’t believe it. Two hundred dollars! That might be chump change to Culpeper, but around here, that would pay a bill.
Without warning, Bea’s eyes welled up again—this time, not from sadness, but the cozy warmth of unconditional love, loyalty, and support. Looked like more people than she’d realized believed in her, after all. Pressing her lips together to keep from weeping while her grandma put a comforting arm around her waist, she took a moment to regain her composure.
She was way richer than Curtis Culpeper, she decided, or Peter Montclair.
And the reminder of that fact galvanized her. After suddenly kissing her grandma on the temple, Bea pulled away and went striding toward the hallway.
“Where you buzzing off to now, Honey-Bea?”
She turned at the edge of the kitchen and lifted her chin. “I’m getting dressed, putting on my boots, and I’m getting back to work,” she declared. “I’ve got a farm to save.”
Gram beamed at her with quiet, knowing pride. “Atta girl.”
Two hours later, Bea had filled up a few big buckets with freshly picked romaine, some of which was a little waterlogged, but the kale waiting in the next row looked to be in good shape—kale was pretty indestructible.
So there was that.
As usual, the fresh country air and relatively mindless physical labor began to have their reliable effect of soothing her hurts, clearing her head, and making her feel better about life in general. The constant muddy bending started bothering her knees after a while, though, and as the sun rose higher, the flies started biting. It was time to take a break. Sadly, she had never quite managed to get Harry out of her mind the whole time.
Drawing off her work gloves, Bea returned to the house for a glass of lemonade. When she walked past the rental car—she’d made plans with Chloe to return it later today—it dawned on her she should probably let Harry know she had gotten home safe.
She was obviously not his favorite person right now, but, gentleman that he was, he’d probably want confirmation. So, once she had trudged into the kitchen, washed up a bit, and poured herself a nice, tall glass from the pitcher in the fridge, she scrounged up her courage and texted him.
Hi, she wrote, home safe. She faltered, but had to ask. U doing ok?
She bit her lip. There was so much more she wanted to say. But since she had made up her mind to stay out of his life before she wrecked it any further, she just hit send.
She bit her lip and tried not to stare at her phone, but lost that battle. Leaning with the small of her back against the sink counter, she folded her arms across her chest, sipped her lemonade with butterflies in her belly, and stared at it lying there on the kitchen table across from her, willing it to ding. Would he even answer? Maybe he’d write back: That’s nice, who the hell cares?
Maybe something worse?
Ah, but not Harrison Riley, she thought with a pained half-smile. He was always gracious. Only once had she seen him lose his cool.
It must’ve been his mental association of his boss with the father who’d abandoned him that had made him flip his lid, she concluded. A double betrayal from both father figures. Poor guy. She closed her eyes briefly, aching, wishing she could be there for him the way he’d been there for her after the tornado.
Then, with a glance at the clock, she let out a sigh. A good ten minutes had passed. It didn’t look like she’d be getting a response. Might as well get back to work.
Next up: mucking stalls. Oh, joy.
Ding!
With a small gasp, she flew across the space between the counter and the table, seizing the device. She tapped it with a trembling finger and read his terse reply: Thx for letting me know. Good here.
“That’s it?” She gripped her phone in both hands and read the message several times with wide eyes. She wished she could shake another message out of it. Then she remembered something else she had wanted to say: FYI if Curt threatens to press charges, tell him I’ll press charges against HIM. Got yr back.
After a moment, the phone dinged again: Thx. Haven’t heard anything.
If you do, lemme know, she wrote back. My dad’ll help u 4 free. “Since it was my damn fault,” she added under her breath, then hit send once again.
That one he didn’t answer.
Belatedly she realized that maybe his male pride did not like the reminder that he might be in a position now to need pro-bono legal work. She stared at the screen, wondering if she should type out yet another message explaining, rephrasing, whatever—but instead she put her phone away.
Their business had been handled. Harry didn’t write back.
Another hour and a half later, the mind-lulling nature of physical labor on a quiet afternoon worked its magic once again. She was in the barn, hefting the pitchfork, the wheelbarrow parked just outside the open stall door.
She’d put the lazy pair of aging trail horses outside to enjoy the sunshine while she brooded on her next move. The prospect of having to go crawling back to Tammy Reese in order to get the farm officially back on the market made her cringe.
; Although the repetitive scooping and swinging motion of cleaning out a horse stall soothed the anger she felt about the whole situation, the smell was less than pleasant. She only wished there was some way a person could shovel all the shit out of their life as easily as this. Cart it away in a wheelbarrow, never to be seen again. Or better yet, sprinkle it over fields as fertilizer so that at least something good could come of it…
How that led her to suddenly think of Vanessa Montclair, Bea had no idea. Perhaps her subconscious had been rehashing all that had happened since she’d met Harry. But in that moment, the oddly Zen nature of farm tasks suddenly blossomed into a full-blown inspiration.
“Holy shit,” she murmured, stopping in her tracks. Now there’s an idea…
Her heart started pounding. She finished up the stall, refilling it with fresh sawdust, then hurried into the house and washed up again.
Damn it, I’m gonna call her. If I can find her number, that is.
Whether it was Harry’s out-of-the-box thinking and obsession with finding a win-win, or Chloe nudging her to network, Bea wasn’t sure. But she had received a personal introduction to Vanessa Montclair just the other night, and that was at least an opening.
The haughty financier hadn’t shown much interest in her when they’d met, but God knew the two of them had something in common now.
Besides, Bea had a perfectly acceptable reason to contact the smart, powerful woman. Admittedly, it seemed like a wild idea. Nevertheless, tracking down Vanessa’s contact info took her all of thirty seconds. Her office phone number was right there on the classy Silver Oaks Resort website, where she was listed as the vice president and CFO, just under her father.
Though a little nervous, Bea figured she had nothing to lose. She took a sip of water, then punched in Vanessa’s office number at the resort. After a few rings, the call went to voice mail.
Bea hurriedly focused and left a message: “Hi, Ms. Montclair, this is Beatrice Palmer. We met the other night at Apex through Harrison Riley. I don’t know if you remember me, but the reason I’m calling is that I’m actually part of the family that owns the farm Curt Culpeper has been talking about buying. I have news about that, and about Harry, that I think might interest you, if you’d like to call me back.” She left her number and wondered if she was absolutely nuts as she hung up. She shrugged to herself. Wait and see.