Colleen: Why?
Me: Just curious
Colleen: Seriously?
Me: Do you have a picture or not
Colleen: Look at my Instagram. I posted a photo from a Vassar thing. It’s the two of us standing on either side of a cutout tree a month ago.
After swiping over to the app, I scroll through my sister’s feed. A breath whooshes out of me when I find her. The woman I’ve dreamt about for months, the player I’ve missed battling on Trivia Crush, is here.
In Fork Lick?
If I weren’t the one driving this afternoon, I could maybe figure out an excuse to stick around until Diane returns. But if I am going to work with Carlos, I can’t skip out on him in the middle of the workday. Maybe it’s for the best. She probably hates me. And if, by some miracle, she doesn’t, I’d probably just screw things up anyway.
“It was great to meet you, Mrs. Bedd, but we’ve got to get to an appointment,” Carlos is saying as he and my grandmother join me in the dining room.
Feeling like I’ve been caught doing something naughty, I shove my phone in my pocket.
“At least come to Sunday dinner when you get back in town, sweetheart.” Her tone has softened, and my grandmother’s warm hand grips my forearm as she gives me a brief peck on the cheek. “Even if you’re not going to stay here. Your sister and brothers would love to see you.”
“Um, I have to check my schedule, but I might be able to get back this weekend.”
“Come if you can, honey. And you’re welcome too, Carlos. Anytime.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I might just take you up on that.” He inhales deeply and tips his head toward the stove. “Something tells me you’re a wonderful cook.”
“I get by,” Gran says, her cheeks pinking up. “Say hi to Baabara on your way out.”
On the front porch, after I call Gomer, Carlos asks, “Is Barbra your sister?”
“Baabara is my grandmother’s pet sheep,” I say, emphasizing the bleat in her name and pointing to the monstrosity of a shed as we pass it. “And that is her palace.”
“Oh. Impressive.” Hard to say if he’s too shocked by the turreted sheep cote or what, but Carlos doesn’t say anything else until we’re back in the truck, where he just gives me the address of his first afternoon appointment. After I’ve punched it into my phone and we’re on the way, he clears his throat. “You got a little testy with your grandmother there, son.”
“I know,” I admit, half my brain stuck on that photo of Diane. “It’s just so frustrating. They never, ever listen to me. Not when my grandfather was alive, and not now.”
“Hm. That does sound frustrating.” He shuffles through his bag, pulls out a file folder, and studies its contents.
“So, what? You’re not going to tell me what I should’ve done instead?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Isn’t that the point? Of me”—I swoop a hand in the air between us—“coming to work with you?”
He closes the file and looks out the window, but I doubt he’s really seeing the rolling hills lined with crops passing by. After an uncomfortably long silence, he says, “If you weren’t talking to your family, would you have said things any differently?”
“I’d keep my tone more level, but I’d still make the same suggestions—the ones I’ve brought up time and time again. Consider diversifying. Hops would be an excellent choice, especially with the grant support that’s on offer and the new laws limiting New York brewers to working with state-grown crops. But what do they do? Plant strawberries because my brother’s girlfriend—who is a banker, not a soil scientist—thinks it’s a good idea.”
“It sounds like you may have skipped an important first step.”
“I tested the soil and water a long time ago. I know that—”
“Not that step,” he says. “Did you ever ask your family about their goals for the farm?”
“Not in so many words. But it’s my farm too.”
“Are you the one putting in the work?”
“Not exactly, but it’s obvious what they—we—should do. It’s basic stuff… if the goal is to hang onto the farm, that is.”
Carlos nods as I continue to vent my frustrations with the choices my grandfather and now Ethan have made for the farm, as well as the many suggestions I’ve made for changes, all of which have been ignored. When I finally run out of steam, he’s silent for so long I wonder if I’m going to get fired or something. Finally, he clears his throat. “I can tell you’re a quick thinker. I imagine that your brain cycles through all the potential solutions to a problem, perhaps faster than you’re aware of. But as an outsider, you can never know all the variables. Even on your own family farm, if you’re not there on a day-to-day basis.”
“Sure, but I still—”
Carlos holds up a hand to stop me before I can get going again. “I’m going to suggest that you make an effort to slow your own brain down. Ask what the client’s goals are. Listen before you speak. Take it all in. Go back to the office, come up with all the ways we can help them meet their goals, then present those to the client so they see all the possibilities and what investments they’ll have to make. Then, you let them come to their own conclusions.”
He pauses, and when I glance over, he raises his hands in the air and then lets them drop onto his thighs with a slap. “It’s the only way I know how to get buy-in.”
He lets me sit with this speech until we’ve pulled into the driveway of the farm we’re visiting and I’ve turned off the engine. Then he holds out a folder labeled with the farm’s name in block print. “If you like, you can start here.”
I open the folder, but the words swim on the page. I can’t seem to get past wanting to see Diane again. I mean, she might not even remember me. She probably won’t want to talk to me. But I still want to try. I never got a second chance with my grandfather. I’m not going to waste this one.
“Sounds like a plan,” I say to Carlos, closing the folder. But before I join him outside the truck, I tap out a text to my sister.
Me: Tell Gran I’ll be at Sunday dinner
Colleen: Yay! And I really hope you’re moving back. I miss you.
