by Sosie Frost
Working with him. Sleeping with him. Warring with him.
Falling for him.
“Yes,” I said.
“And how is Triumph Farm faring?” Desmond leaned closer. “No crops have been planted for five years or more now. Most of the land is overgrown. And I heard those boys don’t want to take care of the property anymore.”
“Julian Payne is serious about rebuilding the farm.”
“But…how serious can one man be?” Desmond asked. “There’s a tremendous amount of work to be done—plus the money issues, the loans, the inexperience…”
“He’s committed,” I said. Damn it. Was my voice too sharp? Did they think I was being defensive?
I smoothed my blouse if only to ensure my tummy was still flat under the material.
“In fact…” I continued. “His variance application is on my desk right now, just waiting for next month’s Zoning Hearing Board meeting. With farm animals in need of shelter, his request should be approved.”
“Oh.” Mayor Desmond shared a skin-crawling glance with Dad. “Good news for Julian Payne, I suppose…but is that good news for the town?”
“Well…” I picked my words like I styled my hair—meticulously and with a hint of frustration. Too bad I didn’t have any detangler for this mess. “Triumph Farm is a Butterpond institution. I’m told it’s existed for generations.”
Dad sighed. “And Barlow’s grocery store has been in business a long time—but that doesn’t mean a Whole Foods wouldn’t better service the community.”
“What are you talking about?”
Mayor Desmond handed me a file and waited while I surveyed the plans tucked inside. Houses. Lots of them. Three hundred or more built out in five phases.
All subdivided through the Payne family farm.
Desmond choked on hushed excitement. “Imagine five, ten years from now. Three hundred new families move into the community. Three hundred working families, all contributing to a newly passed earned-income tax. Hundreds of thousands of dollars. Imagine what an influx of money like that could do for a community. The equipment it could buy. The roads it can repair. The people it could hire.” Desmond held my gaze. “And it begins with the Payne farm.”
Something told me this wasn’t such a hypothetical plan anymore. “This would fundamentally change the composition of this town. I don’t even think there’s an allowance for it in the Comprehensive Plan. Butterpond was always meant to be rural and agricultural.”
“Times change.” Dad dismissed an entire two hundred years of Butterpond history with a shrug. “We’re not talking reinvention but revitalization. More money. More people. Bringing life to this tiny town.”
“There’s plenty of life here,” I said. “Take a ride out to the fairgrounds. See it for yourself.”
Desmond sighed. “I’ve lived here my entire life, Micah. Believe me when I say no one loves Butterpond more than me. But times are tough. You’ve seen the budgets. It’s getting harder and harder to deliver modern services to our people. We must learn to adapt.”
Adapt. Sure. I glanced at Dad. “And buying the Payne’s farm is your grand scheme?”
He lied through his teeth. “No scheme. Just a fair price for good land that will open many doors for the community.”
And line his pockets with fat stacks of cash. “Julian Payne will never sell. He’s obsessed with the farm. And once he gets his barn—”
“If…” Mayor Desmond silenced me with a single, heart-breaking word. “If he gets his barn.”
I’d come to work that morning believing the most dangerous part of my day would be stomaching a walking taco from the fair. This was far more troubling.
“His application fulfills all the criteria for approval,” I said. “It’s out of my hands.”
My father offered Desmond a placating smile.
The mayor agreed, his voice lowering. “Micah, maybe you could check over that application again. I bet there’s something you’ve missed—something that would make approval impossible. Why don’t you head back to your office and give it another look? Make sure the barn is the best choice for that property.”
Dad agreed. “Sweetheart, the mayor is right. You’re thorough, but there might be something you’ve missed. Something that might yet allow Butterpond to have a good, prosperous future.”
The pregnancy stole most of my patience and left none of my tact or common sense. “Let me get this straight…you want me to deny Julian Payne’s application so he’s forced to sell his land?”
“Oh, no one is forcing him to do anything,” Desmond said.
Dad agreed. “We’re just making plans for all scenarios.”
But, without his barn, Julian had only one option—sell the land. Between the renovation, the looming property taxes, and the pressure from his siblings, he wouldn’t have a choice.
I played with fire, dangerously close to torching my own career. “What happens if I approve his application?”
Mayor Desmond frowned. “Micah, I’m not the only one excited by these new prospects. I represent everyone. The council. The manager. We’re all hoping you’ll be on board for this exciting new change. And, given your experience in more of the commercially-oriented communities, you would be a perfect fit to help led Butterpond into this new era. But, if you don’t share the vision…”
They’d find someone who did.
Dad patted my hand. “Think on it, Micah. No rash decisions.”
Only decisions that would cost me my job.
Only decisions that would ruin everything I’d created with Julian.
Desmond stood, shaking hands with my father.
“I know she’ll put Butterpond first,” Dad said. “Onwards and upwards. Can’t be stuck in the past forever.”
The past wasn’t the problem. It was the future.
I needed this job.
I wasn’t fool enough to believe any fling would last with Julian, and I was too much of a realist to even consider a relationship with the father of my baby. I’d witnessed firsthand the resentment and ugliness that spawned from a marriage based only on a pregnancy. My child would never be caught in the middle of bad decisions and artificial happiness.
Except I’d already promised Julian the barn. Legally, he’d fulfilled every requirement. But approving the application would jeopardize my child’s future.
Falling for Julian would cost me my job.
But what would happen if I kept denying my feelings?
Chapter Thirteen
Julian
When Micah asked me to make a pie, I figured she meant cream. I was good at those.
The frantic request was not a booty call, and it had been placed at an ungodly hour of five AM. Good for farming. Shitty for baking.
By ten AM, I was elbow deep in a puddle of frozen blueberries, YouTubing my way to becoming Martha Stewart.
And it wasn’t going well.
Cassi wandered into the kitchen, staring in horror at the mess of butter, flour, rolling pins, and stains of frozen fruit. Good thing I had dough in the food processor or she might’ve stuffed me between the damn blades.
My sister wiped a line of flour off the cabinets before smacking her hand on her hip. She wagged her dark finger, now dusted in white.
“What in the hell are you doing, Julian Payne?”
Fuck if I knew. I ignored her as best I could. “Baking.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s too early to grill.”
Cassi threatened me with the coffee pot, but she scrunched her nose at the grounds tucked inside.
“Are these from this morning?” she asked.
I had half an hour to make and bake a pie. I didn’t give a damn about the coffee pot. “I don’t know.”
She poked the grounds. “They’re wet.”
“I made coffee.”
“With old grounds?”
I only had frozen butter for the dough. The pin wouldn’t roll over the chunks, but I could whack it hard and mallet the
iced-butter flat.
“It was early, Cas,” I said. “I managed a pot of coffee. Who cares if it was old.”
She gagged. “We need to get you a woman.”
Had one. She was more trouble than she was worth.
Cassi scooped the grounds into an overflowing garbage can, sticky with canned fruit. After a step into a pile of what was once blackberries, she groaned.
“You’re destroying the kitchen!”
No shit. “I have four pies to make in two hours. It’s gonna get messy.”
This only baited more questions. “But…why…Jesus, Jules. I take care of Rem’s nieces all day. Tell me why a three-year-old makes less of a mess than you?”
“I’ll clean up.”
“Where have I heard that before?” Cassi frowned and tossed a wayward pie plate into the sink. “Don’t even try to pretend, Jules. I am the only reason we have clean dishes in the kitchen, no garbage in the halls, and all the dirty laundry in the basement. Now you’ve got butter on the ceiling.”
“I’m in a rush.”
“And I nanny two children all day, not to mention the biggest baby of them all crashed out in the living room.”
Marius shouted from the couch. “I don’t need your help.”
Not the time to piss with Cassi. “So help me God, Marius, you take one step without your cane, and I’ll take your other leg.”
My pie was lopsided. Didn’t matter. “Cas, you know how I’m supposed to lettuce the top of this pie?”
“You mean lattice?” Cassi poked the dough. “Jules, this isn’t even going to bake. Why are you destroying my kitchen like this?”
The backdoor opened. Heavy boots stomped hard against the wood. Cakes supposedly fell if someone made a loud noise. What happened to pies? Did it matter? I glanced at the mess bubbling in the oven. The top had collapsed when the sides overflowed. Apples dripped onto the heating element below. Wouldn’t be the first fire I’d started today.
My brothers joined the chaos. Quint, Varius, and Tidus approached the kitchen, perplexed by the ripped open bags of flour, discarded fruit, and heaps of butter blocking their path to our only form of conflict resolution—the beer in the fridge.
I threatened Tidus with a rolling pin as he reached two fingers towards the only pie that had survived the oven. “You ruin that crust, and the pie’s going up your ass.”
Tidus surrendered, arms in the air. “What? No foreplay?”
“Any of you know how to bake?” I glanced at Quint. “Mom teach you anything?”
My youngest brother laughed. “You kidding? Mom did all she could to keep the sugar out of my mouth when I was a kid. She thought I’d coma standing near an ice cream parlor.”
I kicked the diabetic out of the kitchen.
“Varius,” I said. “What about you?”
Varius had a bad habit of observing and listening. He surveyed the kitchen, recognized my frustration, and probably realized I was sleeping with the woman frantically ordering the pies. At least he had the class to keep his mouth shut and his judgement to himself.
“The church ladies always baked for me at the parish events. I do know this crust is burnt though.”
“How?”
“I can smell it, Chef,” he said.
Great. I eyed the pie tin. “But can you see it?”
Cassi stared only at the coffee maker as it dripped liquid energy into the pot. “Doesn’t matter if you can see it, Jules. You gotta eat it.”
“Not these pies,” I said. “They only have to look good.”
“Why?”
Christ only knew. “I got a call this morning from Micah.”
Tidus grabbed a spoon and helped himself to a can of half-empty pumpkin. “Is that the zoning brat?”
“She’s not…” I paused. He wasn’t wrong. “Yeah, that’s her. The fair opens this afternoon. Right after the opening ceremonies are the pie events—first Best Pie In The County, then the pie-eating contest.”
“Food…or something more fun?” Tidus asked. Cassi slapped his shoulder.
“There’s nothing that fun at the fair,” I said. “And now there are no pies to judge for the contest.”
My sister frowned. “What happened?”
“The goats happened.” I didn’t have time to explain or enough filling for the blueberry pie. I chucked what I had into the pan, slammed it into the oven, and cranked the heat. “The goats ate the pies.”
Varius laughed. “How the hell did the goats eat the pies?”
“Technically…my goat at the pies.”
Tidus found his way to the fridge and managed to crack open a beer before the sobriety hit him too hard. “Wait…you have a goat?”
“We have a goat. His name is Clyde.”
“Shit.” Tidus’s eyes widened. “I heard something the other night. Thought it was a dying raccoon or something.”
“No.” Cassi crossed her arms. “That was Clyde—eating the left front tire off my car.”
“Three legs and all stomach,” Varius said. “Why is he at the fair?”
“He’s competing.”
“For what?”
Cassi smirked. “The three-legged race.”
Just the sort of joke that would spiral Micah into tears.
I sighed. “Micah said to have him compete so the Zoning Hearing Board sees that we have an animal waiting for the barn. It’ll get us approved easier or something.”
I neglected to mention that Micah had also wept for a solid hour because the little shit was missing a leg, and the only way I could console her was to enter the bastard into the goat show to improve his self-esteem. Whatever. Got me laid.
“Problem is, Clyde ate most of the entries,” I said. “We can’t tell the bakers, so, I’m making pies to replace the ones we lost.”
Finally, my siblings agreed on something.
“That is never going to work,” Cassi said.
Didn’t have to tell me. Micah was the one flipping shit and demanding pastries. “Mrs. Cruthers wins every year, without fail. Mrs. Mills comes in second. And Mr. Antolini curses the judges for the yellow ribbon. All we gotta do it throw is the pies on a table, make sure people stay far away during the ribbon ceremony, and pitch the imposters before the contestants see.”
Tidus stole a bite from the cooling pie though he swore as he swallowed. “Holy fuck, dude. Did you put any sugar in this?”
“Probably not.” The dough rolled a bit easier now. I sprinkled it with what I thought was flour—turned out to be baking soda—and hoped that wouldn’t cause a problem. “Like I said, it just has to look right.”
Tidus rinsed his mouth with a swig of beer. “Why are you doing all this?”
The steady thunk of a cane heralded Marius’s arrival. He limped into the kitchen without a grimace though we all knew how badly the leg must have hurt.
“Because this zoning lady has Jules by the balls,” Marius said. “And if he does what she asks, she’ll play real nice with them.”
“I bake a couple pies, we get a barn.” I rubbed the flour from my face and accidentally replaced it with butter. “You guys got your schedules?”
Cassi nodded. “I’m in the concession stand tomorrow and Friday.”
“Suck-up.” Tidus nudged her.
She stuck out her tongue. “I’m doing my part.”
I was also paying her fifty bucks. I pointed to Tidus. “You still driving in the derby?”
He wasn’t happy about it. “Like I have a choice.”
“You crashed Dad’s truck twice. Think you’d be used to it.”
“Yeah, but I try to repair them now.”
“Think of all the business for your shop after the derby.”
“Right.”
I didn’t expect Marius to volunteer. “You want in?”
“Lost a leg for the country,” he said. “I think that excuses me from working the lemonade stand.”
Cassi shrugged at me. “Quint’s still hoping if he hangs around the carnies, they’ll kidnap hi
m. He’ll be helping with the rides.”
Last but not least. I had one Hail Mary request, but I didn’t expect miracles from Varius anymore.
“They’re still looking for someone to do the benediction,” I said.
Cassi and Tidus quieted, sharing a concerned glance. Marius snorted.
Varius ignored them. “I’m sure Pastor Miley will do a great job.”
“No one likes Pastor Miley.” Cassi softened her voice. “They want you back.”
Varius double-checked his phone before heading to his room in the basement. “I signed up for the concession stand—Wednesday and Thursday. I’ll see you there.”
More than I’d thought my brother would do. At least it got Varius out of his room. Better for him to be out in public and mingling with the townsfolk than the alternative. I let him go.
“What about Rem?” I asked Cassi.
She smirked. “Oh, I get it. You like Rem now that you can abuse him for manual labor.”
Rem and I had made our peace, but he was still the bastard sleeping with my little sister. “I’ll like him as much as any guy you date.”
“We’re not just dating.” She dared me to protest. “He’s the one. Get used to it.”
Marius grumbled. “Shit.”
“God help us,” Tidus agreed.
“He’s your best friend.” Cassi poked Tidus. “And it’s your fault he’s gotta work the set-up because the town doesn’t trust him with the money.”
“Yeah, but that trouble was always his idea.”
“Doesn’t matter what happened in the past,” I said. “All we gotta do is survive the fair, and we’ll get the barn. Then we can forget the whole thing.”
Tidus didn’t believe me. He chugged most of the beer before he garnered the courage to get in my face. “No we. You. You get the barn.”
I shrugged. “It’s for the family.”
“Is it?”
Tidus eyed Marius. “How much of your money are you putting up for the barn?”
Marius laughed. “I got my leg blown off for that cash. Think I’m pissing it away on some barn?”
“Good thing I didn’t ask you.” I slammed the crust on top of the pie. It was about half an inch too thick and would never bake through, but if I cracked enough eggs over the top and doused it in sugar, it’d brown enough. “Forget the money. I’ll handle the money.”
