Carl was at the table, crying. Brad sat next to him, stroking the boy’s head and saying consoling things, although you can imagine how terrible he must have felt about Foxy running off.
Sally carried Marie on one hip as she talked into the old-fashioned landline phone. This phone was a real antique, with a long, curly cord that tethered the handset to a receiver mounted on the wall. Sally could walk only as far as the cord could stretch before having to change directions.
“Yes, the dog’s microchipped,” she was saying, “but we’ve just moved, and our new address isn’t on file. It’s Eleven Prune Street. Her tags have my cell phone number on them and the signal here is terrible, so I want to give you our new landline number, too, in case she turns up. Yes, I’m calling from the landline now.”
Sally listened and wrote things down on a pad. Marie sucked on her fist and looked around until she saw the animals at the window above the sink. Her wide baby eyes grew wider still.
“Will you look at that,” Foxy remarked. “They took the leash off me and put one on Sally. Poor thing. I wonder what she did wrong?”
Marie stared and burst out laughing.
“Hi, Marie!” Foxy wagged her tail and grinned. “Marie’s the baby,” she explained to the rabbits.
A baby-people! Alice and Thistle looked hard.
“She’s not ugly at all,” Alice said, amazed.
“She’s all right,” Thistle agreed. “But she’s not ready to leave the nest yet, that’s for sure.”
Foxy’s tail waggled faster. “Marie’s fun. She can understand pretty much everything we say.”
“The others can’t?” Alice asked, even more impressed.
“No, they’re too old. Hey, Marie! Tell them to open the door. I’m bringing some friends over.” To the rabbits, she said, “Do you like carrots?”
“Sure, probably,” Thistle said. They’d never tried them, of course.
Alice was tempted to ask if they might have radishes instead, but she didn’t want to be rude. This adventure was already far beyond her expectations. Imagine two cottontails being received as guests among farmers, with a friendly dog as their host!
Foxy’s breath was already fogging the window from the outside. “I don’t think Sally’s had time to go shopping yet, but she always has carrot sticks somewhere. Marie, tell them to put out some crudités. Now, follow me, dear bunnies!”
The rabbits did as they were told.
* * *
The baby clapped. “Doggo!” she said. “Bun bun! Veggie!”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you, the baby’s yelling.” Sally propped the phone on her shoulder. “Can you take her, Brad? I’m still on the phone with Animal Control.”
Brad held out his arms. “Sure. How about a nap, punkin?”
Marie hurled her sippy cup to the floor. It rolled right up against the kitchen door.
“Doggo, doggo, doggo!” she screeched, long and loud.
Carl jumped to his feet. “Dad, look! It’s Foxy!” The dog’s shadow was visible through the curtained storm door. Still sniffing back tears, Carl ran to open it. There sat Foxy on the mat, her spiraled tail flopping back and forth like an overjoyed doughnut.
Carl threw his arms around the dog and pressed his face against her fur. “Foxy, I thought you ran away!”
“Carlsbad, my boy, I fear you’ve overreacted,” the dog replied, though all Carl heard was a series of sharp, happy barks. “Why throw a stick if you don’t want me to chase it? I’m only canine, after all. Anyway, I’m back. And I’ve brought some friends over for you to meet. Get this: They’re bunnies!”
“Bun bun!” yelled Marie. “Veggie!”
But Carl had already dragged Foxy inside by the collar and shut the door. He squeezed the dog so hard she yelped. “Did you have fun, girl? Did you? I’ll get you a biscuit, wait.”
“See, champ? I told you she’d come back,” Brad said, sinking into a chair. He looked like he needed a nap himself.
“Bun bun!” Marie kicked, and squirmed in her father’s lap. “Bun bun! Veggie!”
“False alarm, yes, I guess it was! I do appreciate your help.” Sally hung up the phone and took Marie back from Brad. “Bun bun? That’s a new word, sweet girl. I wonder what it means. You want veggies, really? After all that applesauce? All right, if you say so…”
Carl returned with the dog biscuit and offered it to Foxy. “Here, girl! Here’s a treat for you. Don’t you want it?”
Foxy didn’t seem to hear him. She quivered with alertness, her whole being fixed on something outside, in the backyard. A growl started in the back of her throat and rolled into a fierce, protective bark.
“Grrrrrr, woof!” she said.
A second later there was a knock at the kitchen door.
“Now what?” Brad hauled himself up from his chair. “Carl, hold the dog, please.”
A woman stood outside, beaming. She had a swirl of bright red hair piled on her head like the top of a soft serve ice cream cone, and she wore a skirt and blouse like you’d wear to an office. Her shoes were knee-high rubber boots that were spattered with mud.
Cradled in her arms was an enormous fruit basket wrapped in clear cellophane, with a sizeable bow of red ribbon tied at the top.
“Good morning! Are you Mr. Harvey?” she said brightly.
“I’m Brad Harvey, yes.” Brad kept his hand on the doorknob. “Can I help you?”
She hoisted the basket to one side and tilted her head to the other, to talk past the bow. “So nice to meet you! I’m Ruth Shirley, of Ruth Shirley Realty. Maybe you’ve seen my billboard? On Route Two-Twelve, when you get off the Thruway? Well, on behalf of the community and everyone at Ruth Shirley Realty, I just wanted to deliver a little welcome wagon present to you and your family. We’re all so glad to have you as a neighbor!”
She stood there smiling, her head tipped to the side, until Brad finally took the basket from her and let her in. “Well, thanks, that’s awfully nice,” he said, putting the basket on the kitchen table. Carl examined it at once. It was packed with fresh fruit, cheese, nuts, jams, even chocolate. He pitied the fruit, since he knew what was going to happen to it. The rest looked pretty tasty.
Sally slid Marie into her bouncy seat and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “How lovely! Please, Ms. Shirley, come in. I’m Sally Harvey. Would you like coffee? I was just about to make some.”
“I’d love some coffee, how’d you guess? I’ll just take off my wellies, if you don’t mind. I hate to track mud into a clean kitchen.” Still on the doormat, Ruth Shirley started pulling off her boots. “You can call me Ruth Shirley. Everyone does, friends and strangers alike. Comes from having a billboard with your name on it, I guess.”
“I bet it does,” said Sally. “And what about you—Mr. Shirley, I presume?”
Behind Ruth Shirley was a man. He wore a white button-down shirt with a suit jacket but no tie, and shiny dark shoes. He carried an overcoat folded over one arm. To Carl’s deep fascination, his head was completely bald and smooth as an egg.
Ruth Shirley prattled as she struggled with her boots. “Oh, this isn’t Mr. Shirley! Phil, my husband, he’s at work. He sells farm equipment, all kinds. I bet you’ll be hearing from him soon, if I know Phil Shirley! This gentleman is Tom Rowes. He’s a well-known figure locally. Tom serves on the school board and sponsors our Little League and the Elks Club and, well, I can’t tell you all the good things he does for our community. He couldn’t wait one more day to meet the new owners of Prune Street Farm, so of course I invited him to join me on the old Ruth Shirley Realty welcome wagon! Tom’s a big fan of this farm, aren’t you, Tom?”
Tom Rowes was already inside, looking around. He hadn’t bothered to take off his shoes. “What Ruth means is, I want to buy it from you. Is this a good time to talk?”
“You’ve got quite a sense of humor, Mr. Rowes,” Brad said, after a moment. “How do you take your coffee?”
“I’m not joking. I’ve had my eye on this property for a long ti
me.” Mr. Rowes tossed his overcoat over the back of a kitchen chair like it was all his already. “I’ll pay you double what you paid for it. Cash deal. My lawyer will get the paperwork started Monday. Congratulations, folks! You just won the lottery.”
“I don’t understand,” Sally said, cool but polite. “The house was empty for two years before we bought it. Why didn’t you make an offer when it was on the market?”
“I did. Several times. That thick-headed old fool—”
“He means the former owner, Mr. Crenshaw,” Ruth Shirley explained, hopping on one foot as she yanked off the second boot. “Such a character! He used to be a real fixture in our little town.”
“Old Man Crenshaw! Stubborn as a stone wall,” Mr. Rowes said. “But I’m sure you found that out for yourselves.”
“We never spoke to Mr. Crenshaw directly.” Sally pronounced the mister with extra care. “His daughter in Florida handled everything to do with the sale.”
“He’s down there now, too, I hear,” Mr. Rowes said. “I bet he’s thrilled. Who wouldn’t be? Sunshine, golf, no income tax, and all the early-bird specials an old man can eat. Out of curiosity: Did Crenshaw’s daughter ever ask you if you were farmers?”
“She didn’t have to ask,” Brad replied. “That’s why we bought this place. To farm it. We told her that straightaway.”
“Wait, how come I missed all this?” Carl was still holding Foxy. Now he let go of the dog’s collar and hopped in front of his dad, waving his arms. “Where was I when all this was happening? Why did you keep it a secret?”
“Sit down, champ. We’ll talk about it later.” Brad used his powerful dad gaze to get Carl quiet and in a chair, then turned back to Mr. Rowes. “Sorry, I’m not sure I heard you right. You say you’d offer double…?”
“Double. Times two. In cash. And I know exactly what you paid for this place, to the penny. It’s a matter of public record. This is the easiest money you’ll ever make in your life.” Mr. Rowes paused. “Can I get a woo-hoo, at least? This is fantastic news, in case you were wondering.”
Carl’s parents exchanged a look, but neither said a word, as rabbits aren’t the only creatures who can freeze up from sheer surprise.
Mr. Rowes seemed to take their silence as negotiation. “All right, I’ll sweeten the deal. I’ll pay twice what you paid, plus I’ll cover the cost of moving you to a new place. Ruth here is the hardest-working real estate agent in the county. She’ll find you the home of your dreams, not a creaky fixer-upper like this old wreck, and you’ll have money in the bank left over.”
“Why, Tom, aren’t you kind to say so.” In her stocking feet at last, Ruth Shirley stepped daintily inside. “What a charming, old-fashioned kitchen! And look at that cute baby!”
Marie burped with feeling. Ruth Shirley smiled even more brightly. “Brad, Sally: Tom’s offer is totally legitimate, I assure you. And I’ve got some lovely properties available; wait until you see.” She reached into her purse. “Here’s my card. That’s my number right there, at Ruth Shirley Realty. We’re open seven days.”
“Why, thank you, Ms. Shirley—Ruth Shirley, I mean.” Sally took the card between two fingers. “We’ll be sure to give you a call, if we’re interested.”
Mr. Rowes laughed. “Come on, now. Do you really need to think about it?”
Brad held up a hand. “It’s a generous offer, Mr. Rowes. Just give us time to talk it over.”
“Are you nuts?” Carl said, leaping to his feet. “The answer is nope! Nope, nope, nope!”
“Decisive young man you’ve got there.” Mr. Rowes reached into his pocket. “Here, Brad, take my card, too. I’ll write my lawyer’s number on the back. We’ll sort it all out on Monday.”
“No, you won’t!” Carl didn’t mean to sound angry, but it sure came out that way. It’d been a tough morning, what with waking up early in a strange room, the prunes on his oatmeal, Foxy running away. It’d been a tough couple of days, too, a tough couple of weeks, even months, if you counted back to the day his parents had told him they’d sold the apartment, the only home he’d ever known—sold! gone forever!—and he should start thinking about which of his possessions he wanted to keep and which he wanted to get rid of. What kind of a nutty question was that?
All of Carl’s feelings about moving, packing up his stuff, leaving his friends and his school and his neighborhood far behind—all of it tumbled out right there and then, in front of Ruth Shirley and Mr. Rowes, whose shiny head caught the light like a cue ball. “You won’t talk it over and you won’t sort it out on Monday,” he wailed, his face hot. “We’re staying right here.”
Marie’s face crumpled like she was going to start wailing, too. Sally swooped in to rescue her from the bouncy seat while saying, “Carl, don’t yell—”
“But we just got here!” he yelled, turning to his dad. “There’s birds and stuff. Mom hasn’t even unpacked her stupid dehydrator yet! Sorry I said stupid,” he added, not sounding sorry at all.
Foxy barked, a low woof of warning. Brad spoke in a low voice, too. “Champ, why don’t you go to your room for a few minutes and settle down?”
There was nothing Carl would have liked better than settling down, but he was worked up beyond his own control. If he were a rabbit, he’d have bolted a hundred yards by now. “You said this was our new home. Eleven Prune Street. You said I would like it and I would make new friends. So how am I supposed to make friends if I don’t even get to meet them?” He looked wildly from one parent to the other. “It’s not like I can go back to my old friends. Because somebody else already lives in our real home, in Brooklyn, right? We can’t go back there even if we wanted to.”
His words put a strange, about-to-cry look on Sally’s face, which was so awful it just made Carl want to get madder so he didn’t catch the sad feeling himself. “Anyway, you promised Mr. Crenshaw we’d live here and be farmers.” He pointed at Mr. Rowes. “The bald guy said so himself. Mr. Crenshaw didn’t want him to have it. He wanted us to have it.”
Carl stopped. He was out of breath and all the grown-ups were staring at him. The red-haired lady had a fake smile on her face. The bald guy looked almost amused.
Brad stepped behind Carl and put his hands firmly on the boy’s heaving shoulders. “Mr. Rowes, I apologize for my son’s outburst. He’s been through a big change, as we all have, and tempers are short.” He glanced at Sally. “But he raises a good question. Why wouldn’t Mr. Crenshaw sell this property to you?”
Mr. Rowes shrugged. “It’s no secret. Your boy’s right. Crenshaw didn’t want me to have it because I’m not a farmer and don’t intend to become one. And I already have a house. A much nicer house than this one, frankly. I only want the land.”
“You mean, you’d tear the house down?” Like the flick of a switch it was Brad’s old voice talking, the cool, clipped work voice that he used to use on the phone, in the days before the golden parachute arrived.
“Well, I’d have to tear it down, Brad, so I could build something of real value.”
“And what exactly would that be?”
“That’s a strategic, market-driven decision, best kept between me and my business partners.” Mr. Rowes tugged at the cuffs of his shirtsleeves until they were perfectly even. “It’ll be something useful, I assure you. And profitable.”
“Do you mean, some kind of shopping mall?” Sally asked, dumbfounded. “A multiplex? A mini storage facility?”
He smiled. “Those are all good ideas, Sally. You ought to go into real estate! You’ve got the knack.”
The look that passed between Carl’s parents was quick as the flash of a cottontail’s rump.
“Your offer is very generous, Mr. Rowes,” Sally sounded polite, but firm. “However—”
“We don’t need any time to think about it,” Brad finished. “Case closed. The answer is no.”
“The answer is nope!” Carl crowed in joy. “Nope, nope, nope!”
“Nope, thank you,” Sally corrected him.
�
��Naaa!” yelled Marie. “Naaa, naaa!”
“Woof!” said Foxy.
Mr. Rowes stood there and rubbed his smooth head. He beckoned Brad to step closer and slung an arm around his shoulders, as if they were buddies. “Let me ask you a question, Brad. Have you ever farmed before?”
“Can’t say I have, Tom.” Brad threw the name back in the same chummy tone. “We’ve got a lot to learn. That’s the fun of it.”
“Spoken like a man who’s worked indoors all his life. Look, no hard feelings. I’ve met other folks like you—folks from the city—who fall in love with the idea. Buy a farm, plant a garden, pull a few weeds, and call it a day.” He dropped his arm and faced Brad. “Trust me. You have no idea how much work it takes to make a small farm break even, never mind turn a profit. I’m giving you a friendly warning: This place is a money pit. You’re gonna rue the day.”
“What’s a money pit?” Carl asked. “What’s rue the day?”
“I’ll tell you later,” his mom said, her voice tight.
Mr. Rowes folded his arms against his puffed-out chest. With his shiny bald head and crossed arms, he looked like the man on the ammonia bottles. “I’ll tell you right now what it means. A money pit is a money-losing proposition, and rue the day means your folks are gonna kick themselves when harvesttime comes and they’re broke and exhausted and wishing they’d said yes to me right here, right now.” He turned to Brad and Sally. “If you even make it to harvest time, that is. I wouldn’t be surprised if you bail out long before then.”
Ruth Shirley was at the door, frantically pulling her rubber boots back on. “Oh my gosh, I’ve lost track of the time! We have another appointment, Tom, I totally forgot! So sorry we can’t stay for coffee, Sally! We’ll have to do it—ugh!—another day.”
Mr. Rowes kept his eyes on Brad and Sally. “My offer stands, but I can’t promise for how long. I need to find a property that suits my business plan. I like this one. I like it enough that I was willing to wait out the old man and deal with someone more reasonable. I assumed whoever bought this place would jump at my offer. But if you won’t seize this golden, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I’ll look elsewhere. Sooner or later I’ll find what I need. Could be tomorrow, next week, next month.” He shrugged. “Until then, if you change your mind, call me.”
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