“That is tempting,” I say, going over my upcoming schedule in my head and wondering if I can make some adjustments so I can stay longer.
“You really should get a look at what Ethel’s got going on in the basement,” Lia says. “With the innovations she’s come up with–”
“Ethan perfected them,” Ethel cuts in.
“It was a collaboration,” Ethan concedes.
“Anyway,” Lia says, with a quick kiss on the cheek to Ethan, making the burly farmer blush. “The amount and variety of food she’s able to grow in a single season is truly astounding. And that’s all due to what she’s got going on down there.”
Raising my brows, I look over at Ethel.
“This basement sounds like a must-see.”
She waves a hand in the air. “I’d planned to take you down there after lunch, don’t worry.”
“Plus we’ve got a slew of local vendors coming tomorrow to sell their wares to the folks that come to pick strawberries,” Molly says. “There’s a woman who sells honey, a potter, a guy who makes organic pet treats… it’s a fun variety.”
“Any of those baby goats coming?” I ask. “That’d get me there, for sure.”
“Nooo…” Molly taps the tip of her nose with a finger. “But I like how you think.”
“Where are you staying?” Colleen asks. “You don’t live nearby, do you?”
“I’m a bit of a rolling stone at the moment, going wherever the next interview takes me. Sometimes I camp out of my car, sometimes I find a hotel.”
“You won’t find a hotel in Fork Lick,” Lia says. “You’d have to get to Climax for that.”
My expression must reveal my confusion because Colleen laughs. “Climax is the nearest real town. Not, you know, that kind of climax.”
“R-right. Of course,” I stammer, almost knocking over my water glass as I reach for a drink, hoping to cool my heated cheeks. “I think I saw it on the map.”
Before I can ask if they have any recommendations, Molly peppers me with questions about my camping experiences and tells me all about her tricked-out van.
“Vanlife is definitely outside of my channel’s purview, but I’d love a tour.”
“You’re welcome to stay here,” Ethel says. “We’ve got plenty of room.”
I meet Ethel’s gaze. “Oh, thank you, but I don’t want to impose.”
“The attic bedroom is empty,” she says. “We’d love to have you.”
Secretly happy to get to spend more time with this fun-loving family, I gratefully accept the invitation. “What about your other two grandsons? I’m guessing they don’t live at home since you’ve got so many available bedrooms.”
“The youngest, Jackson, is some kind of music genius,” Ethel says, her eyes shining with pride. “He’s in a rock band. He’s on the Spotify and everything.”
“Wait.” I grab Colleen’s wrist. “Jackson Bedd is your brother? How did I not know this?”
Colleen scoffs. “First of all, he wasn’t ‘Jackson Bedd Superstar’ when we were in college. He was just my annoying little brother.”
Deciding it’s best to not dwell on the celebrity, even though an interview with him would be amazing, I ask, “And the other one?”
“That’s my twin, Sam,” Colleen says.
Sam. I can’t stop the memories that flash through my mind. Through my entire body. The best night of my life followed by the worst morning. When I fell for the enemy. When I realize everyone is staring at me, I muster the manners drilled into me. “What does Sam do?”
“He’s an extension agent. He’s been working in the western part of the state, so he hasn’t been around much.”
So it can’t be the same guy. My Sam was a suit working for the enemy. He couldn’t be a member of this family, anyway. One, it would be too crazy of a coincidence. Two, they’re much too nice. Three, his last name is Lansdowne.
Funny thing is, I’m not sure whether I should be relieved, or disappointed.
After lunch, once the kitchen’s spick and span, I follow Ethel down to the basement. The stairwell is horror-film creepy, but once we turn the corner and she flicks on the lights, I feel like I’m in a whole other movie: The Martian.
Hopefully, minus the human poop fertilizer.
“Wow,” is all I can say, half expecting to see Matt Damon peek out from behind one of the racks. Wishing I had my camera, I whip out my phone instead. Without setting up a lighting or anything, I start filming. “Tell me about what all you’ve got going on down here, Ethel.”
“Let’s start at the end, shall we?”
She flicks on another light, and I follow her past shelves tricked out with grow lights to the other side of the basement where, like Vanna White in a stained apron and sturdy shoes, she gestures at row upon row of jars stuffed with fruits and vegetables in every color of the rainbow.
“This is going to make people go nuts. Jars in kitchen pantries are all the rage these days.”
“What goes around comes around, I guess. I’ve had some of these jars for twenty or thirty years. Get ’em in bulk at the Feed n’ Seed or the Price Chopper if I need to restock—which, come to think of it, I’ll have to do soon since we’re selling more than trading this summer.”
She pulls a tiny little spiral notebook and stub of a pencil from her apron pocket and makes a note. Next, she shows me her pickling and canning set up: a cooktop and sink, a freestanding stainless-steel counter piled with cutting boards, utensils and pots hanging overhead. “We use every bit of what we grow. If I’m not canning it, I freeze it. If we can’t eat it, we compost it.” She points to a freezer and a garbage can in turn.
