Hasty

by Julia Kent

  “His choice wasn't logical!”

  “It's not a chess game, Hastings. It's an emotional landscape. That's how relationships work. Nothing is really about logic when it comes to feelings.”

  “You are so wrong!”

  “Let me guess–you've already created a seventeen-point list of all the reasons why.”

  “With sub-headings and color-coded categories.” I smile a little.

  “Ian was probably stung. Shut down to avoid being hurt further.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Guy offers to take you to Australia? Wants to live with you there and you say no? Offers to fix it for you so you can go, and even then, you turn him down? Yes, hurt. I'd be hurt. Plus, the whole billionaire thing.”

  “I don't like Ian for his money!”

  “Never said you did.”

  “Then what's the 'billionaire thing'?”

  “Billionaires aren't used to being rejected. Bet it hurts more than for us average schlumps.”

  “You're not average!”

  “Thanks for arguing on the schlump part.”

  We're exiting the highway, turning onto state routes that will wind along the growing hills that eventually lead up to the White Mountains.

  “So he shut down and closed off, told me 'it's not you, it's me,' because–”

  Eric's eyes pop. “He said that?”

  “Mmm hmm.”

  “That changes everything.”

  “Why?”

  “Because guys never admit that. Ever. If he's saying that, it's totally you.”

  “Hey!”

  But Eric's smiling, teasing me. “What were his last words to you?”

  “'It's me.'”

  “Huh. Then he's hiding something.”

  “Hiding something?”

  “Yeah. A guy like Ian is smart, and he’s powerful. He says what he means, right? He’s direct.”

  “Which means he's nothing like my ex.”

  “I never did understand Burke.”

  “Why do people say things like that now? You were at my wedding, Eric. You could have spoken up then! People are crawling out of the woodwork now to tell me how much they didn't like Burke.”

  “If we'd said something back then, you would have sharpened your claws and shredded us. No one could ever talk you out of anything, Hastings. You figure out what you want and build a world that reinforces every decision.”

  “I don't understand what you mean.”

  “You create a filter. Anything that doesn't line up with your decisions is irrelevant.”

  “You're dangerously close to saying I 'create my own reality.' That's the kind of bullshit Burke peddled.”

  “You lived with the guy for years. Maybe some of him rubbed off on you.”

  “Of course it did. Just like you're gay, but you married a woman and built a family with her.”

  “Right. I created a reality that I desperately needed to be true.”

  “That doesn't mean you didn't love her.”

  He grips the steering wheel like he's holding back emotion with his hands. “Of course I loved Annabelle. And you loved Burke. But you let whatever you wanted from your life with him blind you a bit. You didn't want to see that other people didn't like him. Didn't like him for you. Wanted you to find someone better.”

  Old Me would have yelled at him.

  Who am I kidding? Old Me wouldn't have come within ten cheese wheels of this conversation.

  Bzzzz

  “That's yours,” he says, coming to a stop at a four-way, where a red covered bridge makes me wonder if we accidentally crossed the border into Vermont.

  I look at the notification. Another email.

  About my cheese.

  “Will's mother has a serious hard-on for my manchego.”

  Eric shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “That is not a good mixed metaphor.”

  “She's sending all these different potential customers my way. A high-end inn in Maine. The Castle Celtic catering services. Her friend with a wine shop.”

  “You're well connected on your own, Hastings. Go for it.”

  “Go for what?”

  “Make the cheese.”

  “I am! That's why we're visiting Susan.”

  “You're a businesswoman. Make a business plan. Treat this the way you'd treat any other project. Instead of working for someone else, though, you're the investment.”

  “Me? I can't make a living doing this.”

  “Sure you can! Plenty of people do.”

  “Like who? How? Anderhill doesn't have a big enough market for sheep's milk cheese.”

  “You're thinking too small.”

  “I'm being pragmatic.”

  “Web sales. You can ship. Makes your business global. Institutional and restaurant sales, too.”

  “The return on investment and time isn't there.”

  “You know how much Hesserman's Dairy makes off web sales?” He names a figure.

  I drop my (thankfully closed) thermos of coffee. “That much?”

  He nods.

  “But you’re a dairy… you can’t sell milk and ice cream online..?”

  “No, but we sell maple syrup, and honey, and we can even ship some of the perishable stuff, like bacon. Your product has the same profit margin. Artisanal is the new black.”

  “Oooooh. I like that. Can I steal it for a tagline?”

  “Too late. Lori uses it on our website.”

  “Your daughter? Isn't she eleven?”

  “Almost twelve. She's our webmaster. Says farming is great and all, but code is the twenty-first-century cash crop.”

  “Smart kid.”

  “Nah. She just hates mucking stalls.”

  The roads get progressively narrower, last winter’s frost heaves breaking up the tar. Finally, we come to a farmstand, one big enough to be fully enclosed with ten parking spaces in front. On the other side of it, Eric turns onto a gravel road, the ascent up a mountain pass making my ears pop. Finally, we turn a corner, and an enormous farm appears, as if it had been cloaked by an invisibility spell and magically revealed to us.

  A big farmhouse with three wings, newer additions, is at the peak of the hill, flanked on the right by an enormous red barn, and on the left by another, smaller metal building that has farm equipment in front of it.

  Susan is sitting on the front porch at a small wicker table, a pitcher of lemonade and a pile of poop on a plate next to her.

  Wait. It can’t be.

  “Remember Dung Donuts?” she asks when Eric and I have ascended the stairs, Susan rising slightly in her chair and dropping back. Never big on hugs, she was always a quiet doer, a woman who followed the rhythm and flow of a skilled task, pivoting as needed to make sure the outcome was optimal.

  And she wasn't afraid to get dirty.

  “I forgot until now! I wondered why you had a plate of poop,” I say, taking one when she offers the plate. The scent of chocolate, cinnamon, and maple overwhelms me.

  Eric looks at us like we're loons.

  “You never went to farm camp, did you?” I ask.

  He snorts. “My entire life was farm camp, Hastings.”

  “Susan,” I explain around a mouthful of yummy dung, “made sheep-poop donuts. Have one.”

  A hairy eyeball is my only acknowledgment from him.

  Susan laughs. “It's just a goofy thing I did for the kids.”

  Within five minutes, Eric's eaten three dung donuts, we're well into our lemonade, and laughter fills the porch.

  “When I found out you were an MBA-toting, financial industry person, Hastings, I was shocked. You always struck me as a farm girl born into an insurance agent's family.”

  I look at my manicure and hold up my hands. “I think I'm a hybrid.” I show her my boots.

  “Let's put those to good use,” she says. “We don't make cheese here, but we make sheep, and sheep make milk, and that's close enough.” As she stands, Susan winces. It's clear her bones are getting old.

  But wi
thin ten strides, she's walking faster than me, Eric between us as I bring up the rear. The scent of dung hits me hard as we enter the huge barn, some sheep behind a small gate, the buzzing sound of clippers nearby.

  I groan. “I think I still have lanolin in places from twenty years ago.”

  Susan's laughter is contagious as she props one foot up on a gate slat and leans toward the animals. “You sucked at shearing.”

  “Hey!”

  “We can't all be gifted at every single thing we try,” she says sagely, making Eric bite his lower lip.

  “Do you know how painful those words are to someone like me?” I ask her.

  “Truth often hurts,” she comments.

  Through the other door of the barn and down a small slope, Susan leads us to a pasture where hundreds of sheep graze.

  “No worries about having enough milk,” I say, eyeing the greenery, wondering if someday, maybe, I could own a place like this.

  Someday.

  After I get my passport and my dignity back.

  And a whole lot more capital.

  Two goats spar on top of a tractor with a crooked seat. I start laughing at myself. Who knew I'd reach a point like this, wishing for a farm of my own?

  A year ago, I wanted a penthouse condo in the Marina district of San Francisco.

  My, how times have changed.

  “I have plenty for you, Hastings. But what’re you gonna do with it?”

  “I'm starting to get demand for my manchego. My mom and Eric think I should turn my hobby into a business.”

  “Do you think that?”

  “I don't think the market's there.”

  “That's not the question I asked.” Her hard stare is judgmental but also revealing. I feel like I’m prying open a closed door inside myself.

  “Should I turn my hobby into a business? I think it's cloyingly Millennial of me.”

  Hard stare.

  “Um, I, uh–I don't know,” I clarify.

  “Why don't you know?”

  “Because it seems... foolish.”

  “Do you produce an inferior product?”

  “What? No! Of course not.”

  “And would you line your manchego up against the finest cheeses in the world?”

  “Well, maybe not yet, but someday. Someday soon. Hell, yes!”

  “Then get out of your own way.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You don't have any reason you can't open a cheese business other than yourself, Hastings. This is about you. This isn't about the market, the customers–they’re out there. It's not them, it's–”

  “Me. It's me.”

  “The Cortlands are renting out their old farmstand,” Eric says suddenly, a gleam in his eye. “Bet you could get it for cheap. The estate is tied up in some legal mess, and they're desperate for some cash. I've heard their hands are tied about commercial use for the space, but artisanal cheese won't have huge foot traffic.”

  “Then why would I want to do it? The more foot traffic, the better.”

  “You want some, sure. But web sales, Hastings. That'll be where you build your business.”

  “Do both,” Susan urges. “Help your community, feed your soul, and provide an outstanding product to a global audience. Do what makes you feel good. ”

  Ian makes me feel good.

  But I can't do him.

  “I don't have the capital I need to get started. I'm still being investigated. I can't even leave the country because the Feds have my passport.”

  “What capital do you need?” Susan asks, eyebrow up.

  “Oh, no. No, no, no. No way do I want your money.”

  “Who said anything about money?” Susan waves in the direction of the land behind her. “I'm talking about milk. I have plenty of milk. You use old-fashioned methods, so the equipment is cheap. You won't be able to scale up for a while.”

  “And I'm sure Edina Cortland will cut you a rent deal. It's not like the big leagues here, Hastings. You could get this up and running for a few grand.”

  “I have a job. I don't have time for this.”

  “Your job means you must have some money coming in, right? Plenty of small businesses do it on a shoestring budget.”

  “Five months ago, I was negotiating nine-figure deals. Now I can't even swing three-figure rent.”

  “But maybe you can.” Susan frowns at Eric. “What about your old sugar house?”

  “Huh?”

  “The old one, from when your dad and I were kids.”

  “We put a fence up around it twenty years ago. Dad uses it for cold storage now.”

  “It has electric, right? And water?”

  “Sure. The guys use it to wash off after really heavy work days.”

  Susan's eyes cut over to me. “Does it have a place for parking?”

  “It did. Hasn't been maintained. Needs a new layer of stone.”

  “Why not rent it to Hastings?”

  “What?” Eric and I blurt out together.

  “Dairy farm. Foot traffic. People accustomed to buying local. Add something new. Give Hesserman's some buzz.”

  “It’s the size of a large garden shed, with an attached bathroom. You can't run a retail shop out of there.”

  “A non-farm one, no. But you're already zoned for limited retail, if Anderhill is anything like most small towns in Mass...” Susan argues, voice fading out to make a point.

  “True,” he says, eyes narrowing as he looks at me. “Let me ask Dad.”

  “You're both crazy,” I inform them.

  “Sure,” Susan replies. “But that doesn't mean it's a bad idea.”

  And then she winks.

  Bzzz

  “It's me,” I tell them, looking at my phone, shocked to find a text from Ian.

  My heart soars.

  Just landed in Hawaii. Missing you already. Sorry for leaving like that. About to board for Oz. Would love a video call after I kick jetlag.

  Smiling, I reply: Glad to hear you're safe. Video call tomorrow? At business meeting now.

  Why are you in the office on a Sunday? he quickly answers.

  Different business. Not yours.

  You're job hunting? Whatever they're offering, I'll double it to keep you.

  “Susan,” I call out. “How many gallons a week can you produce?”

  “A few hundred,” she answers. “Why?”

  Can you produce a few hundred gallons a week of warm, white fluid? I throw back at him.

  I'm pretty sure I will while we're apart, he types back.

  “Geez, Hastings, you're blushing. That must be Ian.” Eric's teasing makes me smile even more.

  “It is.”

  “Well?” Susan asks. “Are we in business? I'll front you the milk, you pay me as you can, and Eric'll see if he can get the sugar house for you.”

  “I am good at massaging zoning and planning boards to get business regulations in alignment,” I murmur, thinking it through.

  “What'd she say?” Susan asks Eric.

  “She's good at sucking up,” he translates.

  She snorts. “About all that MBA is good for.”

  I'm still working for you, I inform Ian. But I'm exploring my options.

  I wish I'd explored you more, he replies. Then I get a heart.

  And a peach. And a...

  Hot dog?

  You are terrible at emoji sexting.

  But I'm great at it in person. I can double-thumb like you wouldn't believe.

  Try to sleep on the plane. Get the jet lag out of your system, I answer, turning my phone off entirely, the Power button my only shield to keep me from embarrassing myself any further.

  “Let's do it,” I say, Eric and Susan erupting into applause. “What do I have to lose? My reputation? My money? My dignity?”

  And then I laugh into the wind, so loud that the sheep baaaaaaa back, like they're happy for me.

  17

  Three months later

  * * *

  “We have a problem,”
Mallory says, near tears.

  “What's that?”

  “The bunnies are blocking the refrigerator vent.”

  “Could you repeat that?” I ask, sure I've heard her wrong.

  “The bunnies are blocking the refrigerator vent.”

  “Bunnies?”

  “Yes. A mama must have given birth to a bunch, and her little warren is a hole right where the HVAC guy needs to dig to make sure the fridge air system has plenty of room.”

  “So?”

  “We can't hurt the bunnies!”

  “I don't want to hurt the bunnies, but every day I'm not open yet is another day in the red!”

  “Susan's fronting you the sheep's milk. You already had most of the equipment for processing. Eric's dad cut you a sweet deal on rent. How in the red are you?”

  “Two-days-behind-schedule in the red.”

  “So the only red is on your color-coded Excel spreadsheet?”

  “It still counts!”

  “Hastings, you haven't even picked a grand opening date. And you have three more months to go before the cheeses are completely ready. You can't open with a few pounds of eight-month-aged manchego and hundreds of three-month cheeses. You need the time. Literally.”

  “But that doesn't mean I can't optimize, and following a damn schedule is part of that.”

  “Bunnies don't know how Excel spreadsheets and schedules work.”

  “Then you tell them. You seem to be able to speak to the animals. Maybe whistle a bit and they'll do some housework for us? You've got the red hair. You'd make a good Ariel or Merida.”

  “Ha ha. And besides, Fiona's the one who talks to animals. Not me.”

  “But do they talk back to her?”

  “Only when Perky brings out the ouzo.”

  Eric taps lightly on the main door, frowning. “You've got a bunny problem.”

  “I know!” Mal says, hands going up in the air.

  “Gotta re-route the vent pipe.”

  “What? That'll cost more money!” I argue.

  “You have no choice. No one wants to buy cheese from a bunny killer,” Mal says emphatically.

  “I'm not saying I want to kill them!” Her comment bugs me more than it should. “Can't we relocate them?”

  “To where? A nice condo in Back Bay?”

  “Mal, just glove up and pick them up and move them,” I insist.

  Eric snorts. “You know nothing about bunnies.”