by Sarina Bowen
He laughs. Of course he does. “Jesus Christ, Chass. These are amazing. We are going to rake in the cash.”
Still chewing, he gives me a caramel-scented kiss on the cheek. But it’s so quick that it’s over before I even realize it’s happening. “Come into the kitchen, okay? Griffin has got to taste this.” He leans down to give Jacquie a friendly pat. “Be good, today. I mean it." Then he gives her a kiss on her floppy ear.
And now I’m jealous of a goat.
He unclips Jacquie so she can run away and hang out with Jill. “Coffee?” he asks me. “There’s still a half an hour before the hordes arrive.” October is a crazy month at the Shipleys. Because who wouldn’t want to spend the afternoon in a sunny orchard with Dylan?
Nobody, that’s who.
I follow him toward the farmhouse.
Breakfast time at the Shipley farm can be a little like standing in a gale-force wind. Everybody talks at once. This morning, they’re all talking about our caramels.
“You need a name for this,” Grandpa Shipley says, banging his coffee mug down on the giant table. “Gimme another one so I can think of the right name.”
“May ate the last one,” Dylan grumbles.
“Someone had to,” she says. “Do you have a list of stores yet? I think the Onion River Co-op should sell these.”
“And the gourmet shop in South Royalton,” Ruth Shipley puts in. “Who needs more coffee?”
“You gotta have a name,” Grandpa insists. “It has to be catchy. How about Scapegoat’s Candies?”
“Hmm,” I say slowly. “I’ll think about it.” Scapegoat is a fun word, but it’s negative.
“I Goat You, Babe,” Griffin suggests.
“Good one,” his wife says, high-fiving him from the chair beside his. “You could put ‘organic and troll free’ on the label.”
“I like ‘troll free,’” I admit.
“Oh, fine!” Grandpa storms. “You like Audrey’s suggestions. What about my needs? Will there be more flavors? The salt is nice, but I’m a chocolate man.”
“Chocolate gets fussy,” Audrey argues. She’s a trained chef, so she should know. “That would add a lot of time to the production.”
“Not to mention expense,” I say under my breath. “We have to figure out packaging. There are start-up costs besides the sugar.”
“I’ll invest,” Griffin says easily. “How much could packaging cost? Are we talking tins or boxes?”
“Tins,” Dylan says at the exact moment that I say “boxes.”
We look at each other with matching apologetic expressions. “Chastity and I haven’t done the homework on this,” he says. “I didn’t believe her when she said we could make a salable product.”
“It’s entirely salable,” Audrey says. “All the shops where Leah sells cheese should be willing to stock caramels, too.”
This is a an important calculation that I’ve already made. Our families sell food for a living. You can walk into any gourmet shop in New England and find either the Shipleys’ ciders or the Abrahams’ cheeses. Hopefully, Dylan and I can hitch our wagon to their successes.
“This sounds like work, though,” Griffin points out. “I hope this doesn’t end like Dylan’s other ideas. Remember when he told us he was going to make maple soda to sell at the farmers’ market?”
“I was nine,” Dylan sputters. “And that required refrigeration.”
Griffin shrugs. “Just saying. This isn’t your first big idea.”
Dylan gives his older brother a grumpy look and then pulls out his phone. “Where do I look for tins or boxes?” he asks. “The other question is—do we wrap up the pieces in a square of waxed paper? Or are they nestled in individual cups?”
“Cups,” Audrey says firmly. “That’s more upmarket. And you have to charge a lot, okay? Whatever you think the right price is, add twenty-five percent.”
“No—add fifty,” Griffin says.
“You need a cute logo,” Dylan’s sister May insists. “You can’t have a great product without a great logo. Dylan—draw a goat.”
“I will,” he says. “Give a guy a minute. What is the internet search term for those little paper cups that candies sit in?”
“Candy cups,” Audrey says, taking his phone. “Here, let me look.”
“Oh! A drawing. Will you really do that?” I ask Dylan. He’s so artistic. No wonder Dylan can’t figure out what to do with his life. If I were good at everything, I’d have trouble, too.
“Sure. Consider it done,” he says.
“I could use another pancake,” Grandpa grumbles. “If nobody is giving me another caramel.”
“Candy cups!” Audrey squeals. “You can buy them for a hundred and thirteen dollars,” she says. “Ask me how many?”
“How many?” someone says.
“Twenty-five thousand.” She laughs. “That ought to do it. And now you don’t have to sit around for hours twisting caramels into their wrappers.”
“What does ribbon cost?” I ask. “That might look festive.”
“Maybe,” Dylan says. “But not if it means the boxes don’t stack well on top of each other.”
“Oh, heck, I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
He gives me a quick smile. “This family has been selling food for four generations. Figuring this shit out is literally in our blood. What are we calling these, anyway? Grandpa is right. We do need a name.”
“I’ll get the whiteboard,” May says, exiting the dining room with a spring in her step.
“Next you’ll need to make up a promo batch,” Audrey points out. “You’ll want finished packages of caramels to show the retailers. They need to taste the product and see the packaging.”
“But they need to figure out their pricing, first,” Griff argues. “That’s hard because there’s so many choices. Should you do eight to a box? Or sixteen? Or a whole pound? I don’t know where the price point should be.”
“You need market research,” May adds, setting the whiteboard on the sideboard.
“What if…” Audrey breaks off, deep in thought. “If it were my project, I’d take a few caramels down to Bud at the Country Store in Weston. He likes to talk about product development, and he has a thriving mail-order business.”
“Would he be there on a Sunday?” Dylan asks. “We could go tomorrow.”
My heart gives a happy kick.
“I’ll email him,” Audrey offers. “Let’s see.”
“That’s a good plan,” Griffin says. “You can’t make caramels next Friday, anyway. We have the bonfire. And the cemetery service.”
“Oh,” Dylan says. And then he looks at his hands.
I’d forgotten about this, too. Every year the Shipleys gather to remember August Shipley’s passing. This will be the sixth time. They visit the cemetery and then hold a bonfire in his memory.
“Dylan,” Ruth says gently. “Please bring your fiddle home on Friday. I want to hear you play ‘St. Anne’s Reel.’”
He says nothing, his expression shuttered. All he does is lean over to pluck a piece of bacon off May’s plate, then shove it in his mouth.
That’s when Zach walks into the dining room. “Morning, guys!”
We all look up, and various greetings are called out. Everyone loves Zach. He’s always in a good mood and always ready to work. This is the man I thought I killed by kissing him in the back of a car five years ago. But here he is, healthy as an ox, married to a smart, wonderful woman who loves him.
I’m so happy for him. But I’ll always feel a little twinge of guilt when I see his face.
“Need breakfast?” Ruth asks him.
“Thanks, but I’m good. Who’s taking the first shift with the horse wagon? Should I go down the road and get the team from Isaac?”
“Would you?” I say, rising from the table. “Then I’ll drive first shift.” Tourists love to be escorted around the property on a wagon pulled by Isaac’s two workhorses.
“No problem!” he says cheerfully. “It will o
nly cost you one of those caramels everyone is raving about.”
“I’ll cut some more of them this afternoon and bring you some.”
“Dibs on the rest!” Grandpa shouts. “Age before beauty.”
Then everyone starts talking at once. Except for Dylan, who picks up his coffee mug and gives me a smile.
And I feel meltier than a batch of caramel at two hundred forty-eight degrees.
Ten
Dylan
At the Country Store, I don’t know why I expected to do any of the talking. Although I think of Chastity as shy, she frequently surprises me.
Like now, for instance.
“What if we did a small box and a larger box?” she asks as Bud tastes another caramel. “And maybe each candy should be smaller than these.”
“Yes to all that,” he agrees. “They’re pretty decadent, so you could go down to a square shape. Like so.” He holds up his fingers.
“Or thinner?” Chastity counters. “They’d be easier to cut neatly.”
“Sure. And if you put eight of them in a small box and then twenty-four in the large…” He sighs. “They’re irresistible, young lady.” I’m pretty sure he means both Chastity and the caramels. “This is a great product for the holidays. Your label should have red on it somewhere. It’s a subtle hint, but people respond.”
“Good tip,” she says. “What retail price would you put on eight of these? If they were a little smaller.”
“Let’s weigh a couple and think about it,” he says.
I know when I’m not needed, so I just stand back and let it all happen.
“You make ’em yourself, right?” Bud asks as he places four caramels on the scale where they weigh out cheeses.
“We do!” Chastity says. “In a state-licensed commercial kitchen, of course. From organic Vermont goat’s milk and organic sugar. We’ll do a fifty percent wholesale discount, or maybe fifty-five percent for larger orders. What do you think about five dollars for the small box?”
“That price is a little low, honey,” he says. “Might wanna mark ’em up after you charm a few more geezers like me. I think you should say eight bucks.”
“Yikes, really?” Chastity is all smiles.
“Really. This is a premium product, and it’s just the kind of thing people expect to find in small shops like mine.”
I chime in for the first time. “My brother would say eight. He leans into the luxury market, too.”
“That’s right,” Bud agrees. “Griffin works his tuchus off for those ciders. And he prices them accordingly. Now is not the time for imposter’s syndrome.”
“I don’t even know what that is,” Chastity says.
He laughs. “Doesn’t matter. Go make some more beautiful candy. When will I hear from you to place my order?”
“Two weeks?” I suggest. “We’ll need to start delivering caramels by the second week of November. We don’t want to miss the holiday buyers.”
“Good deal, kids.” He hands me a business card. “Nice doing business with a cute couple like you. I was young once.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, declining to correct him. No sense in arguing with our new customer. I glance at Chastity right as her face flushes pink. “Have a great day.”
“You too, son. Can’t wait to order a few dozen boxes.”
Chastity looks so happy she might explode. And we zip right out of that store before he can change his mind. I hold the door for Chastity, who practically dances out into the parking lot. Before we reach the truck, I hug-tackle her, scooping her up.
She squeaks as I whirl her around. “Dylan!”
“What? I’m excited.” If my goats become an asset instead of a liability, that’s awesome.
I set Chastity down on her feet again, and she turns to face me, chest heaving, eyes bright. I have the terrible urge to kiss her. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Maybe I’ve had too much coffee, or maybe it’s a whole weekend of celibacy. But she looks so fresh and pretty in the yellow autumn light. She’s looking up at me with wide eyes.
Does she feel it too? Is temporary insanity contagious?
I take a quick step backward. “Great work in there.”
“Thanks,” she says turning to open the door of my truck.
I hop in on the other side and crank the engine. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that nice old man liked chatting with you. I think it helped.”
“Well.” She sniffs. “Good to know. And if any of these shops are run by women, you can flex for them when you hand over the box. Maybe leave a couple of buttons open on your flannel shirt.”
I let out a startled bark of laughter. “Okay. Whatever it takes. You’re a shark, Chastity.”
“No kidding. I’m not the nice girl everyone thinks I am.”
“You’re very nice. What’s wrong with nice?” I’m pretty nice myself.
She doesn’t answer the question. “I only have two weeks to source all the packaging and come up with an order form. We still need a name and a design.”
“I’ll start sketching cute little goats.” Honestly, I feel gleeful about this. “Do we need any extra equipment to scale up? Bigger pans?”
“No, just time.”
Ah, the most precious resource. “I’ll plan accordingly.”
It’s a hundred miles from Weston back to Moo U in Burlington, and the drive takes two and a half hours, because the roads in Vermont don’t always go where you need them to.
Chastity reads her econ textbook in the passenger’s seat. I’m glad one of us can make good use of the time.
It isn’t easy being Chastity. She’s trying to tackle college with only a GED. Everyone wants her to make it—especially Leah and Isaac. They never got a chance to go to college.
It’s a lot of pressure. I’m familiar with pressure, and I’m not a fan.
This morning when Griffin and I were milking cows together, he told me a long story about why the price of winter feed keeps going up. I nodded and said “uh-huh” in all the right places, because I already know these details.
But I worry that Griffin is trying to lay the groundwork for shutting down the dairy. He already sold off our other herd when the lease on the land got too expensive. These days we only farm on our own land. But Griffin might be sick of cows. He’s probably already done the math on how many more apple trees he could plant if we didn’t need to graze cows.
I always thought I’d grow up to be a farmer like my dad and then my brother. I never even questioned it. But now I wonder if there’s room for me in this scenario.
And he won’t stop asking me to pick a major. If I pick something that requires me to go to graduate school, I think he’d put my cows on the block the next day.
But all this deep thinking is depressing me, so I turn up the radio and ponder another question—which restaurant should I take Kaitlyn to later? I shouldn’t spend money on fancy dinners, but I deserve a little splurge once in a while. And it will keep the girlfriend happy.
My phone rings just as we reach the outskirts of Burlington. “Could you put that on speaker?” I ask Chastity.
“Sure.” She grabs the phone out of the cupholder and answers the call.
“Hey man,” Rickie says as I slow down for a traffic light. “Good weekend?”
“Totally.”
“Got a minute?”
“What do you need?”
There’s a beat of silence, and then Rickie says, “I saw Kaitlyn last night.”
“Yeah?” That’s nothing unusual. They travel in the same circles. I take my foot off the brake and follow the traffic through the light. “And?”
“I saw her liplocked to a lacrosse player.”
Chastity takes a quick breath. But it honestly takes a moment for me to realize what he’s saying. “Wait, what? She was with another guy?”
“Sad, but true,” he confirms.
“Where was this?”
“A party. I was in the basement of the multicultural house, smoking a bowl.”
Of course he was.
“And there she is, sitting on this guy’s lap. No shame.”
I feel sudden pressure in the center of my chest. I’d been wondering why I didn’t get any calls or texts from her last night. And mine went unanswered. “What then? Do I even want to hear this part?”
“She left with him.”
My heart starts to hammer. It’s actually pretty hard to get me angry, but I swear my blood is already simmering. She was in my bed on Thursday night. And in someone else’s by Saturday?
“Are you sure it was her?” Maybe Rickie was so baked he got it wrong.
His silence says, Really, dude?
“But didn’t she see you sitting there?” I ask. I mean—it’s one thing to cheat, but it’s another to do that in front of your boyfriend’s roommate.
“Didn’t look like she was in the mood to be subtle.”
My heart drops. “What the hell? I was gone for a weekend.”
“Which she hates,” he points out.
“You think that makes it okay?” My voice gets all high and weird, and anger squeezes my chest.
“Did I say that?” His voice is as calm as ever. Rickie never gets riled up about anything. It’s part of his charm, and it makes us easy roommates. “Sorry to drop this on you. But I didn’t know where you were headed today, and I thought you needed to know.”
“Thanks,” I grunt. “I’ll be home in twenty minutes, anyway.”
“I’ll put the teapot on.” Rickie ends the call.
“Dylan,” Chastity says. “Turn here?”
“Fuck.” I almost missed the turn toward her dorm, because I’m so stuck inside my head. I put on the blinker and change lanes so quickly that the guy behind me lays on the horn.
Chastity flinches. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” I thunder. “Never better. This is why I don’t date, though. What is the fucking point?”
She clears her throat. “Why are you dating her, anyway?”
I snort. “You probably don’t want to hear the answer to that question.”
“You’re right,” she murmurs. “I probably don’t.”
All the happy, optimistic thoughts I’d been feeling today are just gone. Fucking Kaitlyn. Making me look like an idiot just because she got a little bored when I left town.
