by Wendy Tyson
Dr. Finn patted the goat’s head. “Your wee lassie will be perfectly fine.” He smiled. “At least this time.”
Megan leaned against the table, relieved. “Thank you.”
“Happy to help.”
Bibi was bustling around the big farm kitchen. She put a steaming cup of coffee in front of Dr. Finn and patted his shoulder. He threw her a grateful smile.
“Cinnamon bread?” she asked. “It’s fresh.”
“Oh, I wish, but I have appointments waiting.” His warm response brought a smile to Bibi’s face. To Megan, he said, “I’ll come back tonight to check those stitches. In the meantime, the area will have to stay open to the air. Anything I put on there, the lassie will eat.”
Megan nodded. This was the fifth time Dr. Finn had been called to the farm in the last two months alone. Usually his presence was required because one of the goats had eaten an inedible object—like shoestrings, electrical wire, or even a garden hose. Visits were so common, she had a line of credit with the clinic.
Dr. Finn ran a palm along the length of Dimples’ body. Not for the first time, Megan noticed his big hands, surprisingly long, slender fingers bare of rings, and nails cut short, neatly squared-off.
“She must have slipped at the edge of the creek. Wedged herself down between the rocks. That’s how she got cut.” He stroked the goat’s head again absentmindedly. “She’s a lucky one to be alive.” Dr. Finn looked up. “Do you know how she escaped her pen?”
Megan glanced at Bibi, who shrugged and said, “I looked outside while I was baking and happened to see Heidi up on that roof.”
Megan frowned. “I wonder how she opened the gate.”
“It should have been latched,” Bibi said. “Maybe she kicked it in?”
“I don’t think so. The gate looked fine.” Megan glanced at Dr. Finn and said, “Heidi’s clever, but she’s not that clever. She’s never been able to open the gate before.”
“Maybe the other goat did it?”
Megan shook her head. “She’s less likely to get out than Heidi.”
Dr. Finn looked thoughtful. He took a sip of coffee, swallowed, and said, “I guess there’s always a first time.” He thanked Bibi again and stood, unfurling to his full height. “Goats are smart little buggers.”
“But what about the cat?” Megan asked, remembering their newest family member and the balled-up letter. “Bibi, did you let the cat inside?”
“Not that I can recall.”
Megan was still thinking about the cat when Dr. Finn looked at her and said, “Will you be okay for now, Megan?”
Megan nodded, still distracted.
The goat still nestled in the vet’s arms, he said, “I’ll get her settled back in her pen to make sure she’s okay. Then I’ll be back around six thirty tonight. Does that work?”
Megan agreed and thanked him. When the vet was gone, she grabbed her keys off the wall.
“I’ll see you later.”
Bibi looked startled. “Where are you going?”
“To the café.” Megan grabbed the crumpled letter off the table and handed it to her grandmother. “Do you know when this letter arrived?”
“A few days ago.” Her grandmother looked chagrined. “I forgot to give it to you. Those stupid letters. Permits, inspections, licenses…this farm has been standing since 1764 and now this arrogant man can tell us what we can or can’t do.”
“I know, it feels unfair,” Megan said, keeping her tone steady to mask her own annoyance at the commissioner. “But we have to play by the rules. The fact that my father didn’t is what got us in this predicament.”
“Bah.” Bibi waved her hand. “Simon never liked the Birch family. His mother doesn’t like us either. Simon’s only making trouble. It’s what he does these days, make trouble for simple folk who want to be left well enough—”
Megan shook her head. “He’s simply doing his job. And right now, I need to do mine by meeting him at the café.” She looked down at her jeans and sweatshirt—now soiled by mud and pinprick spots of goat blood—and thought about changing. There was no time.
“Well, tell him we don’t need his stupid inspection,” Bibi said, but she looked worried. “We can get along perfectly fine without his blessing, right?”
Megan’s lips twisted into the semblance of a smile. If only it were that simple. She kissed her grandmother on the forehead and thanked her for her help. “Don’t worry, Bibi. I’ll handle it. The farm will be up and running in no time, just as we planned.”
Two
Megan drove through Winsome at a greyhound’s pace, her truck striving to cradle the backcountry curves. Winsome was a quintessential rural Pennsylvania town, the kind of place where family trees were deeply rooted and neighborly alliances—and grudges—measured their ages in decades, not months. Only forty miles outside of Philadelphia, it felt like a different world. The landscape was notable for its old stone farmhouses, cobbled streets, and tiny, iron-fenced graveyards, a favorite with history buffs. Tourists loved Winsome in the fall, when the horizon was ablaze with the burnt orange, crimson red and molten yellow leaves of birch, mountain maples, ash, and oak trees, but they especially loved Winsome in the summer, when the Bucks County farms bloomed and the wildflowers lining Winsome’s main streets painted the town in a kaleidoscope of vibrant colors.
Now, with spring slow to come and summer seemingly far off, Winsome’s muddied landscape didn’t seem all that endearing to Megan. She drove her pickup truck straight through what served as a downtown, navigating around pond-size puddles of standing water, and made a left onto Canal Street, Winsome’s main thoroughfare. She pulled right in front of the sign for Washington Acres Farm Café & Larder.
Winsome’s love affair with its Colonial roots had made naming her organic farm and café easy. Rumor had it George Washington had spent time in Winsome long before the town was a town, and that same rumor pegged the Birch homestead as the place he’d stayed. Truth? Megan wasn’t sure, but truth didn’t always matter much to people when it came to a good story. Or a good name.
She glanced at the sign and took a deep breath, saying a silent prayer for patience. Simon Duvall’s brand new Chrysler Sebring convertible was parked two spots down, next to a bright green and white sign that read “Win Back Winsome!” Fitting, since the “Win Back Winsome” campaign had been his baby.
A few years back, Simon and a group of Winsome residents got together within the Winsome Historical Society and created a beautification board. The Board’s mission: to refresh the town’s tired main streets, especially Canal Street. Canal Street, creatively so-named because it ran parallel to the old canal, once transported goods between Pennsylvania and destinations north. It was the pride and joy of Winsome. The donkey tracks, still visible on either side of the canal, had been reinvented into walking paths.
Megan made her way along the spanking new pavement that lined Canal Street’s businesses. She was late, but as she walked past the ornate benches, metal lamp posts, and small gardens—all new as well—that had been interspersed between the crumbling facades of centuries-old buildings, she wondered where the money was coming from. Every day, the Beautification Board seemed to add something. Winsome was not a wealthy place, and the cost for the changes caused by the “Win Back Winsome” campaign had to come from somewhere. Megan figured higher taxes made up a portion of the shortfall. And an impossible zoning process was making up the remainder.
Megan opened the café doors to find Clover Hand, her store manager, and Simon deep in conversation at the counter. At the back of the store, the Dorfman brothers, Megan’s contractors, were putting the finishing touches on the new lunch counter.
“Simon,” Megan said. “I’m sorry I’m late. We had a bit of an emergency up at the farm.”
Simon turned to look at her, distaste evident on his face. “Yes, well,” Simon said. “I have another appointm
ent after this, so let’s get on with it.”
Megan nodded. She peeled off her dripping raincoat and placed it on a coat rack by the front door, taking her time. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Neil Dorfman, a stocky redhead with a bushy mustache and a red-veined nose, watching her. Clover, too, seemed entranced. Her long, thin fingers covered the bottom half of her long, thin face. The room pulsed with tension.
Megan pulled the failed inspection letter out of her bag. “I received your notice, Simon. I hope we can clear up any misunderstandings today. You know as well as I do that in order to be up and running in time for the spring harvest, I need the town’s approvals soon.”
Simon took the paper from her, glanced at it, and handed it back. “Then I suggest you do as the inspector suggests.”
“But Roger Becker did the last barn inspection, and he didn’t suggest anything.”
“I’m sure Roger gave you a list of things to fix.”
“That’s the only correspondence I have, and it’s from you.” Although, even as the words left her mouth, Megan wasn’t so sure they were accurate. Bibi’s reaction earlier told her that perhaps Roger Becker had sent her a list—a list that ended up in the garbage.
“That’s not my problem, Ms. Sawyer. While you were busy being tardy, I took the opportunity to look around the café. I have my own list of things that need to be fixed or completed before you may open here as well.”
Megan closed her eyes. “Simon, we’re supposed to open Monday. I have orders to fill, shelves to stock. Perishables.”
“By the grace of God, Ms. Sawyer, that is not my problem. We have rules here in Winsome. Rules. They may not have had many rules in Chicago, but in these parts, order matters. Safety matters.” He narrowed his eyes. “Unless you don’t care about order and safety.”
“Oh, please,” Clover muttered.
Megan shot her a warning look. Simon was a pompous ass, but it wouldn’t do to exacerbate things by baiting him.
“Look, Simon, let’s be reasonable. You know that order and rules matter to me, but we’ve jumped through every hoop the town has set up to get the farm and café running. We’ve delayed the store’s opening twice. I fixed absolutely everything you asked me to—”
Simon walked toward her, gut first, wearing a diamond-patterned knit vest over a ruby Polo shirt. Simon’s appetite for power was only rivaled by his appetite for craft beer. Or so Megan had heard. Eyebrows raised, he thrust something at her, the skin under and above his salt and pepper beard a livid red.
“Everything, Ms. Sawyer?”
She snatched the paper and read through the handwritten list. “Fire extinguishers? We already purchased them.”
“They’re not stored properly.”
“You never told us how you wanted them stored.” Megan scanned the list further. “The numbers marking the street address are too small?” Megan eyed him, incredulous. “They’re a hundred years old and carved into the brick fascia.”
Simon shrugged. “Rules.”
“And the café sign is six inches too large?” At this, Megan tossed the list on a workbench and spun around to face the zoning commissioner. “Six inches too large for what?”
“It creates an eyesore.”
“That sign cost three thousand dollars!”
He shrugged again, looking smug. “Perhaps you’re in over your head, Ms. Sawyer. An organic farm? A café? Your father tried this route before and found it led nowhere.” He bent to pick his umbrella out of the stand by the door. He took the list off the bench. “I’ll have our secretary type this up and send you a formal letter. Once you get that, you have thirty days to comply. Only then will you get the permit.”
Megan flinched at the comment about her father—because it was true. She said, “And the farm?”
“Do what my inspector told you to do.”
“But your inspector gave us no specifics.” Megan looked at her contractors, who had also done the bulk of the work on the barn and produce prep areas. “Right, guys?”
Both Dorfmans stared at their shoes. Dave, who, unlike his brother, was tall and lanky and completely bald, mumbled something unintelligible. They were afraid of Simon, Megan knew. No one, especially those in the construction industry, wanted to be on Simon’s bad side. Frustrated, Megan turned back toward the commissioner.
“I’m opening next week.”
“Thirty days. Protocol.” Simon waved his hand. “Good day, Ms. Sawyer.”
“Oh, for goodness sake,” Megan exclaimed, but Simon was already gone.
“Bastard,” Clover said. “You’re a lawyer. Can’t you do something about this?”
Megan sat down on a milk crate, head in her hands. She’d come to Winsome in part to escape the practice of law. A legal battle with her hometown was the last thing she wanted. “I’m not going that route—not unless they give me no choice.”
“Well, what he’s doing—what they’re doing—isn’t fair. I told him that, but he wouldn’t listen.” Clover pouted. Clover had a face that, at twenty-three, still looked sixteen, and when she was upset, she had a tendency to pout. She also had a tendency to wear very little clothing, and today was no exception. A green canvas miniskirt ended right below her derriere, and a tight brown t-shirt ended a hair above her belly button. But that was Clover, and Megan had come to love her just as she was.
“You’re right. It’s not fair,” Megan said, heart heavy. “Simon is a zealot. He believes he’s doing something good, which can make him even more dangerous.”
“But why stall on the farm?” Clover asked. “You’re fixing up an eyesore—no offense to your family—and you’re producing food for the community. What could be wrong with that?”
It was Megan’s turn to shrug. “Simon wants things his way.”
“That ain’t it,” Neil Dorfman finally spoke. Clover and Megan both looked at him, surprised. Neil rarely spoke, and when he did, it was usually in grunts and monosyllables.
“Then what is it?” Clover asked.
He looked at Megan. “I heard your property was supposed to be sold to the Winsome Historical Society.”
Megan’s eyes widened. She couldn’t see Bibi selling that house to anyone, much less the Historical Society. Bibi despised local politics almost as much as she despised the permitting process. Her grandmother did not have much love for rules or the people who made them.
“Who told you that, Neil?”
“Your Aunt Sarah.”
“Aunt Sarah?” The mythical Aunt Sarah? Megan’s grandfather had been the middle child in a family of three kids. She vaguely remembered her father and Bibi speaking of an Aunt Sarah, her grandfather’s younger sister, but only in those hushed tones used to discuss terminal illness and sexual predators. Indeed, any inquiries on Megan’s part had been met with a rapid change in topic.
Neil repeated, “Sarah Birch.”
When Megan still looked blankly at him, he sighed and said, “Oh, never mind. You must have known about the offer, right?” When she shook her head at that too, he stared, disbelieving, and said, “The point is, Simon was not happy when you came back to town.”
“So he’s taking it out on my businesses?”
The Dorfmans shrugged simultaneously.
“That’s his way,” Dave said. “It’s why most everyone hates him.”
Clover nodded. “He even has a rough relationship with his own mother.”
“Ridiculous,” Megan uttered. “Simon wanted Washington Acres for himself—or for the Historical Society—so now he’s denying the permits?” She felt the walls of the café closing in on her, the creeping, crawling sense of unease now fully realized. She needed some air.
“What are you going to do?” Clover asked.
“Why not delay the opening?” Dave said. “Postpone it a month or two. That will give us time to get the work finished.”
&
nbsp; “All those vegetables will go to waste,” Clover snapped. “Megan? What’s our next move?”
“I’m not sure.” Megan stood. She grabbed her raincoat off the rack. “But it will be something more drastic than letter-writing. It’s about time someone challenged Simon Duvall.”
Despite her brave words, Megan was feeling pretty heartsick. She’d left Chicago and a financially lucrative—if not emotionally satisfying—legal practice to come back to Pennsylvania. She hadn’t lived in Winsome for the last fourteen years, since she went away to college, but the town never lost its call. It was where she met Mick, the love of her life, killed three years ago in Afghanistan. And now if Simon Duvall had his way, her vision of what the Birch properties could be, properties that had been in her family for over seventy-five years, would be dashed. She wished Mick was here. Together, they’d figure out what to do.
Megan sat in the truck for a few minutes, nursing her hurt. She plugged in her iPod, searched for Bruce Springsteen, and took off. Winsome was surrounded by back country roads, roads with a high speed limit and no one around to notice her blaring music or screeching transmission.
She drove north, past the town center, past Washington Acres, and headed toward the Episcopalian church that sat high on the hill. Windows down, face soaked with tears, she flew past the elementary school, the town mill yard, and the only synagogue for miles around and still kept going, Mick’s death stinging like a million tiny knife wounds. But he’d loved Springsteen, and with “Thunder Road” on and the wind mussing her hair, she almost felt him beside her.
Almost.
At the next intersection, she made a right and then a quick left, still climbing toward the church. Once there, she made her way down the other side of the hill to the gravesites.
She parked the truck, scrambled out, and made her way to Mick’s grave, hidden away under an oak tree on the edge of the graveyard. The American flag waving next to it made it easy to spot.