“But what if I want more?” he asks so softly I can almost tell myself that I imagined it.
When he turns to face me, the naked longing in his expression makes it clear that I didn’t. “Um. More what, exactly?”
“Forget it.”
He shakes his head and reaches to start the engine, but I grab his wrist before he can. “I mean it. What do you mean by more? I’m not sure if I could have more orgasms in a day, but hey, I’m game to try if you are.”
“That’s not what I meant, and I think you know it.” Collapsing back into his seat, he looks at the roof. “It’s not like I’m an expert in the field of dating, but I don’t want to hide in the bedroom anymore. I’m sorry that I didn’t ask you first. That was probably shitty.”
“It was surprising, that’s for sure.”
“It’s not that I want my family or this town all in our business—which they will be now, just so you know. I just want, I don’t know… to know more about you. Your family, what you were like as a kid, that kind of thing.”
And there’s the rub. Swallowing past the avalanche of boulders now lodged in my throat, I push out the words, “What if you didn’t like what you found?”
He turns to face me, unruly brows furrowed. Even in the dim light of the poorly lit parking lot, I can read this expression: total surprise. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
Coughing out a bitter laugh, I scrub both hands over my face. “Oh, I think it’s possible, all right.”
He shifts, this time torquing his whole torso in my direction, and gently takes my left hand in his. “Try me.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I whisper, “I’m not ready. Is that okay?”
Kissing my palm, he says, “You’re not the only one with a past you don’t like, you know. So I get it. And I can wait.”
“Thank you.” Squeezing his hand, I blow out a shaky breath. “So what are we going to say when people ask? About us.”
He squeezes my hand, releases it, and starts the engine. “We’ll tell ’em to mind their own damn business.”
With Sam gone for two days and nights, it’s ridiculous how empty the twin bed feels, like we’ve spent years spooning every night rather than days. Unfortunately, it also gives me time to worry about what I’m doing here. I want him to want me; I want his friends and family to like me. But the more they like Diane McCarthy, the more I worry they’ll hate Didi Mayer.
The only good news is I’m extra productive in his absence, finishing up interviews with Ethel’s seed co-op and sticking to my content schedule.
Which gives me plenty of time at the end of the week to visit Kaaterskill Orchards, named in honor of my grandmother's Dutch ancestors, and the forest nearby. Now, sadly, it’s just called lot ZXT485.
It’s a beautiful late summer day, so I take the scenic route and punch in a playlist that reminds me of driving from Vassar to visit my grandparents for the weekend. Lowering the windows, winding down the country roads, my emotions are all over the place. Anxious and uncertain about my growing attachment to Sam, excited and fearful about what I’ll find when I get to the orchard. But also blissful because my body and my heart are shouting that I’m heading home.
None of the residences my parents own—not the penthouse Manhattan apartment, not the vacation homes in the Hamptons or Colorado—ever felt like home to me the way my grandparents’ farmhouse did.
It’s strange, though. I’ve begun to overlay memories of my grandmother’s kitchen with Ethel’s. The layouts are similar: bank of windows over the sink, brick wall behind the stove, big wooden table that serves as a work surface, walkthrough pantry that leads to the dining room.
But as I turn onto the county road that leads to the orchard, I realize that the smells are different. Instead of an occasional waft of cow manure floating over from the dairy, the sweet scent of apples fills my nostrils, growing more intense the closer I get. When I pull up the drive, the anticipation of being folded into my nana’s arms, of a hair ruffle from Pops is so strong I almost believe I’ll see them waiting for me on the porch.
Instead, though, a fancy sedan idles in the drive, its motor running wastefully. After I park, the woman waves to me before turning off her car, stepping out to greet me, and handing me a glossy brochure.
After introducing herself, she picks up our conversation from earlier in the week. “As I said, we have offers on the table, but the seller is accepting them through the beginning of next week. Are you with a developer or… ?”
I’m not sure if she finishes her sentence or not because I’m so shocked at the images on the shiny paper in my hands. Instead of rows of lovingly nurtured heirloom apple trees, I’m looking at rows of cookie-cutter townhouses.
CHAPTER 16SAM
After a two-day CCE sustainability mini-conference in Ithaca, I return to Fork Lick just in time for a Bedd Fellows Farm meeting. We’ve never had one before, as far as I know. I have no idea what things were like when my parents were alive, but ever since I can remember, Eugene Bedd made all the decisions and Ethan did what our grandfather told him to.
But tonight, Ethan has invited all the stakeholders—Gran and each of us siblings, including Jackson, who will be joining virtually—as well as Lia, who is still serving as our liaison with the lienholder. Diane is hanging out with Molly over at Alex’s place for the evening, which makes me a little grumpy because I already missed two nights with her this week and I’m moving out Sunday. Still, I am bursting with ideas from the conference, so the minute Jackson logs on and Ethan calls the meeting to order, I’m literally bouncing in my seat.
Lia presents the financials from the past two months of berry picking. Since much of the outlay for the new crops was covered by grants, the net income continues to cover our monthly payments. But we still need to find ways to pay back some of the principal. When Ethan starts talking about his plans after this year’s soybean harvest, I can’t keep my mouth shut any longer.
“I know Grandad hated the idea of a whole other round of planting, but the cycles of rain and drought we’ve had over the past decade, in addition to higher fuel, fertilizer and labor costs, mean that planting a legume cover crop is a no-brainer. Studies are showing that it not only infuses the soil with nitrogen but if you combine that with reduced tillage, you save on energy costs and improve the soil’s water-stable aggregates.”
Alex places a hand on my arm, and it’s only then that I notice Ethan’s face turning purple. Even though I haven’t even gotten into new ideas from the sustainability conference, I stop talking.
Ethan clears his throat, but instead of just returning to the prepared speech he’d been reading, he says, “It’s hard for me to concentrate when you interrupt me, Samuel.”
Carlos’ voice echoes in my head. 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.
Right. I’m an outsider, and I always have been. But instead of that making me mad, I try to accept it as a simple reality. Even though I’ve been sleeping on the farm for the past two weeks, I’m not the one walking the fields, planting the crops, or putting food on the table.
“I’m sorry, Ethan.”
Alex points at a piece of paper sitting on the table. “There’s actually a line item on the agenda for new proposals. So maybe hold your horses until then?”
It’s not easy, but I do it, clamping my jaw shut, breathing through my nose and listening. I tamp down the frustrations that my brothers have obviously welcomed ideas from their girlfriends and do my best to stay open to the details of the outcomes to date. When Colleen shares what she learned from her conversation with FarmNet, I don’t jump up and claim the idea as my own. When Ethan opens the floor for questions, I find that most of mine have been answered. Collectively, he and my sister and Lia and Gran are doing a damn good job of salvaging the farm.
Just when that they-don’t-need-me, outsider feeling raises its ugly head again, Gran turns to me. “I have something I’d like your input on, Samuel.”
