Her smile is strained as she trades the carrots for celery, and as I rinse the stalks, I remember who needs money: my brother Ethan and our family farm.

“This is kind of awkward,” I begin, “because you work for the bank and all, but you’re a friend too, so…”

When I trail off, she places a hand on my forearm and squeezes it lightly. “You can trust me, Sam. Your family is important to me.”

I blow out a breath. “I’ve just wondered, were the loans Grandad took out legit? I mean, was the lender predatory in any way?”

She tips her head to the side and looks out the window over the sink—not like she’s focusing on the crop rows fanning out over the land that’s been in our family for more than a century, but like she’s looking at spreadsheets in her head. “I really don’t think so. The timing doesn’t line up with that era. All the loans were approved for equipment purchases and other farm expenses. I’m sure each refinance made sense at the time. Your grandfather just had a streak of bad luck.”

We’re quiet for a few minutes, back to slicing and dicing, but when she sniffs, I ask, “You okay?”

“Just, you know, onions.” She waves a hand in front of her face. “But I did remember one thing that was a little unusual. One year, he took out a loan with a line item marked ‘Personal.’ I think it was about fifty grand. I haven’t been able to figure out what it was for.”

A chill runs down my spine, and I fumble the potatoes. Turning off the water, I take a deep breath. “Do you remember when that was?”

“Pretty sure it was six years ago. Does that amount or time frame ring a bell?”

“No, not really,” I lie, swallowing down the urge to confess the truth. “Probably, you know, none of my business.”

If only that were the case.

Grandad may have made some bad decisions; he may have treated me like I was a pain in the ass and more trouble than he’d planned on in this lifetime. But it sounds like he also dug himself deeper into debt to put me through school.

And then it all comes back—his words shouted in anger the Saturday after Thanksgiving last year, right after I quit my job and found a new one I could be proud of.

Right before he died.

“You’re the smartest kid in this family, but you have no sense. Why’d you have to leave Congento?”

“Because it felt like selling my soul to the devil, Grandad. I hated it there.”

“Your family made sacrifices to put you through the best school in the country.”

“And I’m using that education. The Cooperative Extension helps small family farms. Like this one.”

“Help? All you ever do is propose outlandish ideas that cost money I don’t have. Not sure how that’s helpful.”

“If you weren’t so damn stubborn, you’d see that change is inevitable. And if you paid attention, you’d have known that Congento was killing me.”

All I want right now is to be comforted. To run to my grandmother, the way I did when I got bullied as a middle-schooler, and ask her if Grandad hated me.

But she has her own grief to deal with.

I need to figure out a way to erase that debt. And I need to present those ideas in a way that doesn’t set my brother’s hair on fire. I can’t make the same mistake with Ethan that I made with my grandfather.

I don’t know what I was thinking, imagining a future with Diane. I can’t even manage a relationship with my own family. Luckily for her, she got out before I had a chance to try.

CHAPTER 8DIANE

Even though it was uncomfortable as hell to sit through, I was impressed at the family dinner last month when Colleen’s brothers got it all out on the table, so to speak. So unlike my stiff upper lip family, where you’d never know what anyone is feeling. If they’re feeling anything. Sometimes, I’m not sure.

Still, it took some convincing for Ethel to get me to return to Fork Lick. It’s not like I was planning to stay forever, but it was clear she was disappointed when I left so abruptly. I get the feeling she didn’t stand up for herself before she was widowed, but for the past few weeks, Ethel Bedd didn’t let up with the phone messages and texts until I agreed to return.

I’ll admit that the videos I posted after my visit here seem to have hit a chord. Every single one I put up is getting hundreds of thousands of likes and comments, even without a shirtless farmer.

Well… there was that one shot I got at the dairy of two shirtless farmers, Alex and one of his guys, tossing bales down from the hay loft. And I may have put it in slo-mo, but that’s because it was the only way the viewer could see the way wisps of hay and dust caught the light.

Every other video focused on seeds, whether it was interviews with the other members of Ethel’s co-op or drone shots of row upon row of heirloom varieties thriving in this upstate New York microclimate, nestled between the Catskills and the Hudson River. I even got the time lapse feature to work for once and made a cool video of a row of bright green sprouts emerging from dark brown soil.

It smelled like cow poop, but my viewers will never have to know.

Anyway, Ethel assures me that Ethan and Alex have made up and that tonight’s Sunday dinner will be a peaceful one. The minute we wrap a quick shoot where Ethel demonstrates the best ways to harvest herbs, we’ll be heading upstairs where said herbs will get mixed in with heirloom green beans, cherry tomatoes, boiled potatoes, and a neighbor’s chicken to make a hearty salad that already has my mouth watering. Even better, dessert is a berry crumble topped with ice cream made from Udderly Creamy milk–Ethel is helping them expand their product offerings, and we’re testing out cheeses and milks.

“I think I’ve got what I need,” I tell her, checking the footage briefly on my camera.

“As do I,” Ethel says, holding up a metal bowl piled with fragrant herbs.

Promising her that I’ll be in shortly to help out in the kitchen, I take the steps from the basement that lead directly outside to stow equipment in my car. The first time I stayed here, Ethel had ordered me to enter the house through the side door without knocking, “like family.”

The phrase warmed my heart and sliced it open in equal measure. If only I were a member of this family. Or any family that wasn’t my own.

I’ve learned my lesson, though. Best not to get too close to my subjects. This time, I found a VRBO to rent while I interview the rest of the folks in Fork Lick and, as she has requested, give Ethel pointers on shooting her own videos.

The sun has dipped behind the hills, meaning dark’s falling quickly as I lock my Subaru. My belly grumbles as I take the porch steps, making me wonder if I’m good enough at shooting food to add cooking and recipes to my video lineup. People need inspiration to grow their own food, right? Need to know what to do with it? As I round the corner of the house, a scrabbling sound yanks me out of my head seconds before a furry beast barrels into me.

I let out a super embarrassing girly squeal before I register that it’s just a very friendly, very large dog. German shepherd, maybe. Whatever he is, he seems very excited to see me because he can’t stop wiggling. Stroking over his soft fur, I try to calm him down.

“Who are you, buddy?” I ask, but that just makes him whine and wiggle more. Before I know it, I’m on my ass and he’s licking my face.

I’m trying to figure out if the dog has a collar and tag, when a man barks, “Gomer! Off!”

There’s something about that voice, something that sends a shiver of excitement down my spine, but I can’t quite⁠—

“Oh my god,” he says. I’ve heard those exact words gritted out in passion in that voice. Just the thought of it has my nipples perking up and aiming themselves in his direction.

Words pour out of his mouth as he pulls the dog off me—apologies, reassurance that he's friendly, that he never acts like this—but I’m too stunned to react.

Happy memories of the night I spent with this man vie with enraged ones from the following morning when I learned what kind of person he really is. Not to mention the way his testimony ramped up my own residual guilt.

Now, I’m mostly confused at what I see in the dim light. There isn’t a suit in sight. The knees of his Carhartt work pants are streaked with mud. A faded t-shirt strains across a chest that’s more defined than I remember. Rolled up sleeves reveal corded forearms, now tanned instead of pale. His hair is longer too, curling at his collar and flopping over his brow, more Henry Cavill in Night Hunter than Superman.

But the ice blue eyes and full lower lips are the same.

“My grandmother made me tie him up out here,” he says. “So he’s probably extra squirmy. But he wouldn’t intentionally hurt a fly.”

“Ethel is your grandmother?”