by Gin Jones
Mabel hurried over to grab Pixie and drag her away before she could draw blood with another swipe. “I’m sorry. She’s not good with people.” Which was a bit of an exaggeration. Pixie tended to noisily announce the arrival of visitors, but then she usually retreated to a windowsill to observe what happened next, content with having raised the alarm and not feeling the need to inflict bodily harm on anyone. She hadn’t bothered Danny the day he’d come out to get the listing signed, even though he’d sat in the exact same spot at the table then.
Pixie squirmed, but Mabel held on tight. She finally had a buyer to carry out her aunt’s vision for the land, and she wasn’t going to lose the sale because of a cranky cat who might think she was going to be abandoned when the property changed hands. The barn cats would stay with the farm, and Mabel would make sure the new owner looked after them, but she was bringing Pixie with her to Maine.
Pixie yowled from her position squashed against Mabel’s chest. “I’d better put the cat in the other room so we won’t be interrupted. I’ll be right back.”
“Of course,” Porter said.
Mabel quickly secured Pixie in the home office in the front of the farmhouse. The cat liked that space, although, as a matter of principle, she never appreciated being forced into a room that wasn’t of her choosing. She was certain to make her displeasure known while she was in there, probably by knocking everything off Aunt Peggy’s desk, but there wasn’t time to cat-proof right now. Having to pick things up later was a small price to pay for not being interrupted during the all-important negotiations to sell the farm.
When she returned, Danny was staring at a row of tiny droplets of blood welling up on his finger. Mabel detoured to get a paper towel and handed it to him to sop up the blood.
He dabbed at his finger. “So, the price is agreed upon,” he said as if nothing untoward had happened. “What about a closing date?”
“The sooner the better,” Mabel said.
“That works for me,” Porter said. “I can’t wait to get my hands in the dirt. Let’s say the end of next week. Or earlier if the lawyers can do their part before then.”
“Anything else we need to address?” Danny asked.
Mabel still wasn’t entirely awake and prepared to study the intricacies of a real estate contract. To buy some time, she said, “I’m parched. Would anyone else like a glass of iced tea? I make it myself.”
“No thanks,” they said in unison. Danny added, “But go ahead if you need something.”
“I do.” Mabel opened the refrigerator door to grab the pitcher. She still hadn’t had any caffeine this morning, and she needed something to wake her up after too little sleep. She couldn’t go back to bed after they left, not when she was expecting Rory to show up as promised to help prepare for the fall planting. Of course, if the property changed hands next week, Mabel wouldn’t be responsible for the planting, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep everything on schedule, just in case.
Danny waited until she’d returned to the table with her drink before saying, “Have either of you thought of anything else you need to include?”
Porter shook his head. “I just want to make my dream of farming come true at last.”
“I just thought of one thing,” Mabel said. “There are some feral cats in the barn that my aunt rescued and I’ve been caring for. I need to know that they’ll be fed and vetted, going forward.”
“Of course. I like cats.” Porter chuckled and glanced toward the hallway where Mabel had taken Pixie. “Even the ones who don’t like me. And they’re a great selling point for customers visiting the property, I bet.”
“I don’t know about that.” Mabel hadn’t ever thought of the cats as an attraction. She never wanted to attract visitors, and as far as she knew, of all the people who used to visit her aunt, only one had been particularly interested in the cats. “They do keep the barn free of vermin though.” Unfortunately, the cats continued to disappoint her by not being as good about dealing with the noisy birds as they were with mice, but most people seemed to think that was a good thing.
“Ah, working animals.” Porter nodded. “Every farm should have them.”
That reminded her of something she’d read in her aunt’s journals about diversifying her streams of income as the key to small farm sustainability. “Are you planning to bring in more animals? My aunt was thinking about adding a flock of chickens.”
“No, I’m more about the crops,” Porter said. “The garlic, of course. And other things.”
“There’s a lavender bed too,” Mabel said. “I don’t know if you’ve seen it. And we mix winter squash in with the garlic so we have two harvests from each field. There’s room for another field to be cultivated, but my aunt hadn’t decided what to put there before she died.”
“I’m still considering my options for what to plant,” Porter said. “I only found out about the property being available a few days ago. I’ve been looking forever, so I can’t wait to get this done.”
“Well,” Danny said. “I think we’ve got a deal.”
“It needs to be in writing first,” Mabel said. “And my lawyer needs to review it.”
Danny closed his portfolio. “The same one who handled your aunt’s estate? Quon Liang? I can have it delivered to him later this morning.”
“No.” The local lawyer was doing a fine job on Aunt Peggy’s estate, but small-town probate work was, from what she’d been told, largely a simple matter of shuffling paperwork and waiting for notice periods to run out. For something as major as the sale of her aunt’s farm, Mabel would only trust her lawyer back in Maine. She’d come to depend on his advice, not just on legal matters, but also more general decisions, especially after the grandparents who’d raised her had died. He would tell her if he thought it was a bad deal, even if the contract itself was legally sound. She had to be sure she wasn’t letting her emotions—especially her desire to sell the farm as quickly as possible, preferably before the next year’s garlic crop had to be planted—affect her judgment.
Mabel continued, “I’d like to have someone else review the big picture first. Then the local attorney can go over the finer points of state law.”
Porter frowned. “How long will that take? I really want to close on this deal right away.”
“It won’t take long for my attorney to review it. I’ve known him for years,” Mabel said. “I want to get the sale done quickly too. Otherwise, there’s a lot of work for me to do on the farm in the next few weeks.”
“Don’t worry about the farm maintenance,” Porter said. “I’ll take care of everything as soon as the contract is signed.”
“I have to warn you that there’s a big project coming up right away,” Mabel said. “Next year’s garlic crop needs to be planted by the end of the month.”
“Still not a problem,” Porter said. “As soon as we close, I’ll be spending all my time here.”
“As long as you understand that you’re up against a deadline by Mother Nature, which isn’t the sort of thing you can get an extension on. I learned that the hard way this summer.”
“Trust me, I know all about farms,” Porter said, standing. He held his hand out for a farewell shake. “So we’ve got a deal?”
“Assuming my lawyer approves.” Mabel took his hand and then shook Danny’s too. She couldn’t help noticing again how soft Porter’s skin was. Even Danny had a few rough spots on his palm and fingers, perhaps from lugging the town’s old archive books around, since studying the town’s history was his real passion in life. Politics and real estate only paid the bills.
The men left, and Mabel released Pixie from the office. A dozen pencils, a sticky-note pad and the contents of the paper-clip holder were scattered around the floor, clear evidence of Pixie’s displeasure. Probably from being confined in a room she hadn’t chosen, but Mabel couldn’t help thinking the cat also disapproved of the proposed deal
with Porter.
Pixie didn’t have a say in the deal, any more than Mabel’s friends did, although they would probably find some reason to declare Porter an inadequate successor to Aunt Peggy. Mabel, however, was relieved to finally have a bona fide buyer, someone who would carry on her aunt’s legacy at Stinkin’ Stuff Farm. She couldn’t wait to return to the quiet isolation of her home in Maine, sharing it with only Pixie. No more noisy birds to disrupt her sleep, no more early mornings dragging herself out of bed after only four hours’ sleep, and no more constant stream of visitors to annoy both Pixie and herself.
Still, Mabel was left with the nagging worry that Porter didn’t know what he was getting into. When Aunt Peggy had pursued her dream of farming, she’d gone about it in an efficient, organized, and well-researched way. Despite Porter’s casual assurance that he knew all about farming, Mabel had to wonder if it was unfounded confidence gained perhaps from reading an idyllic story about living as one with nature. Probably without inconvenient weather patterns, crop thieves, or noisy birds. If Porter was as unprepared as she herself had been, the farm would fail, destroying Aunt Peggy’s legacy in the process. Mabel couldn’t let that happen.
Chapter 3
After the men left, Mabel poured herself another glass of iced tea and filled a bowl with the granola she’d become addicted to since moving to West Slocum. It was made locally and sold at the farmers’ market where Mabel sold her garlic. She was going to have to see about getting her fix shipped to her in the future.
She left her breakfast on the kitchen table temporarily while she fetched her aunt’s journal from the bedroom, so she could read it while she waited for Rory.
On the way down the stairs, she noticed that a few pages were loose. She’d already known it was deteriorating over time. In places, the ink of her aunt’s otherwise clear handwriting had faded where drinks or food had been spilled on the page. It might be a good idea to scan the whole journal before anything else could happen to her beloved aunt’s words.
Mabel hadn’t brought her scanner with her from Maine when she’d come to deal with her aunt’s estate. Normally, she’d have asked her attorney, Jeff, to have someone pack it up from her house in Maine, and send it to her, but she still hadn’t heard back from him after her text asking him about possible criminal charges for the midnight mulch-gathering expedition. He must have been busy with some more serious crisis or he’d have responded by now. If so, the scanner was too minor a matter to bother him with. It would probably be cheaper to buy a new one anyway, with less risk of it being damaged en route. She could stop by the local electronics store later in the day to pick one up.
The thought caused her to pause at the bottom of the stairs. Before she’d come to West Slocum, if she’d needed something like a scanner, she’d have gone straight to an online vendor and bought it there without a second thought. Now, as a local vendor herself, she’d come to appreciate the benefits of buying from her neighbors whenever possible. Would she go back to her old ways once she returned to Maine? It might not be as easy to leave West Slocum behind—mentally as well as physically—as she’d expected.
Mabel settled at the head of the kitchen table to study her aunt’s words while eating her breakfast and occasionally making notes about possible ways to improve the farm’s profitability. She didn’t need to implement them herself if the sale to Porter went through, but she could pass the ideas on to the buyer in the hope of increasing the odds of her aunt’s legacy surviving over the long term.
Mabel got lost in her reading, so it was almost two hours later before she looked up from her empty granola bowl to wonder where Rory was. Mabel had been expecting her to arrive with a lecture about the importance of lining up an alternate source of mulch to cover the soon-to-be-planted garlic for next year’s harvest, and a plan for doing just that. Maybe there was another neighborhood with chemical-free lawns. Or, given the circumstances, maybe Rory would concede that the mulch could be purchased. Mabel was certain she’d seen it advertised for sale somewhere. What she didn’t know, and needed to ask Rory about, was whether there was something special about the midnight-raid type of mulch that had contributed to her aunt’s being able to say she grew the best garlic on the East Coast.
Mabel carried her empty bowl over to the sink. Rory had probably slept in this morning after what was for her an extremely late night out. Rory was an actual morning person, something totally inconceivable to Mabel, although she didn’t hold it against her friend. Not for long anyway. Just some sleepy grumbling under her breath whenever Rory was all perky while rousting Mabel out of bed at dawn for some CSA activity or another.
She was rinsing out her bowl when the back door opened behind her. She turned to see her next-door neighbor, Emily Colter. She looked like a trophy wife—young and blonde and thin, with a model’s pronounced cheekbones—who’d been caught without her fancy wardrobe and make-up, although Mabel had never seen her all dressed up. Emily always wore essentially the same outfit she had on today—a long-sleeved t-shirt under white painters’ overalls with the name of her goat farm, Capricornucopia, embroidered across the bib. A chunk of the fabric had been ripped away near her hip, presumably by one of the goats she raised for their milk. She made and marketed artisanal cheeses, including a garlic-flavored version in collaboration with Stinkin’ Stuff Farm.
Emily also kept a few chickens and brought Mabel fresh eggs once or twice a week. She had a wire basket with her today and went straight to the harvest-gold refrigerator.
“You haven’t been eating your eggs.” Emily was almost the same age as Mabel, but she mothered everyone. “Is there a problem with them? Or have you been forgetting to eat again?”
“No, I’ve just been busy and getting takeout instead of cooking,” Mabel said. “But you can skip today’s egg delivery, and I’ll let you know when I’ve finished the ones I have. It’ll be soon, I promise.”
“All right. I can use the extra eggs to make a pound cake for the Friends of the Library meeting later this week.” Emily set her wire basket on the counter and helped herself to a glass of iced tea from the pitcher in the refrigerator.
Mabel might not be much of a cook, but she could make the perfect pitcher of iced tea. Of course, her skill was mostly in choosing high-quality leaves. It was one of the few things she still ordered online without feeling guilty about not buying locally. There weren’t any tea farmers in the CSA, and none of the shops in town carried the variety she preferred. There were plenty of coffee options in town—at the diner, the coffee shop, and even the organic grocery store—but no one in West Slocum seemed to care about tea as much as she did.
Emily added an ice cube and a spoonful of honey to her drink before plopping herself at the kitchen table across from where Aunt Peggy’s journal was still open. She pointed at it. “What have you been working on? Maybe I can help. I need something to do to distract myself from my husband’s latest business trip. Ed’s going to be gone another ten days, and it’s making me restless.”
“Running a goat farm isn’t keeping you busy enough?”
Emily shrugged. “There’s always something that needs doing on the farm, but nothing’s all that critical right now. I got tired of moping about how much he’s been gone lately, so I thought I’d come see what the mayor was doing here this morning. I saw his car turn into your driveway earlier.”
“He was here as a broker, not the mayor. He’s found someone who wants to buy Stinkin’ Stuff Farm. His name is Thomas Porter, and he wants to close next week.”
“Next week?” Emily frowned. “What’s the rush?”
“He said he’s been dreaming of a place like this for years, and he’s anxious to get started,” Mabel said. “I’d rather not have to plant next year’s crop, so the sooner the sale happens, the better as far as I’m concerned.”
“I don’t know,” Emily said, swirling the ice in her glass. “Buying a farm shouldn’t be something you do
on a whim. And it takes more than a week or two to get financing. If he doesn’t know that, he’s not ready to own a farm.”
“He’s paying cash.”
At that, Emily’s frown deepened and her eyebrows lowered. “The biggest obstacle for most aspiring farmers is coming up with the money to buy the land. Where’d he get all that cash?”
“He didn’t say, and it’s none of my business,” Mabel said. “Aunt Peggy bought this place with her savings. I think this guy’s doing the same thing. He’s about the same age she was when she changed careers. He looks like some sort of businessman who made enough to retire on and is ready for a change.”
“Have you checked him out to make sure he’s who he says he is?”
“My attorney will do that,” Mabel said.
“I still don’t like it.”
“You’re just being emotional about it, because we’ve become friends,” Mabel said. “I’ll miss you and Rory too, but I don’t belong here. I’m not a farmer.”
“I don’t think your buyer is either,” Emily said. “It just doesn’t feel right, between the ready cash and the rush to close. He probably wants to develop the land into condos, and it will disturb my goats, and they’ll stop producing milk, and I won’t be able to keep them, and I promised each one of them that they’d have an absolutely wonderful life with me. Can you imagine the karma I’d experience for letting them down?”
Mabel didn’t believe in karma, but she did understand that breaking a promise to the goats would upset her friend. “I’d never sell to a developer. You know that.”
“Not intentionally,” Emily said, “but you know you’re not the best at reading other people. That makes you vulnerable to lies.”
She had a point, but Mabel’s attorney would protect her. “I appreciate your concern. I’ll definitely get Porter checked out before I sign anything.”
After a deep drink from her tea, Emily said, “If he is a developer, Charlie Durbin might know him. You should ask him.”
