by Gaelen Foley
“Not even a window broken,” Gram said proudly when she was able to get a word in edgewise.
Just then, Harry returned. Bea studied him as he towered in the doorway—tall, dark, and handsome—still muddy and wet from the ditch they’d shared. He latched the screen door carefully behind him. What a mess they both were. His jeans were soaked through, caked with mud at the knees. He had no clean or dry ones to change into, either. All his belongings were trapped inside his car up in a tree—his clothes, his phone. Poor guy.
The door opened again, and Pap leaned his head in. “Come on, Honey-Bea.” He beckoned to her. “Time to investigate. Let’s get it over with.”
Bea took a deep breath and rose from her chair. Her grandmother gave her hand a squeeze, and she also remembered Reg’s words: Courage, sister.
She was not looking forward to this, but she had to find out how badly the fields had been torn up or flooded, then determine the extent of the damage to her greenhouse and the plants inside.
They went outside then headed on foot down the dirt path, through the fields. Harry, Lance, and the boys followed a wide distance behind. Bea thought she could hear the skater dudes peppering Harry with questions about his face-to-face meeting with the tornado and their cries of horror upon learning his car’s fate.
When Bea glanced back, the boys had circled him, excitedly detailing their own heroic deeds throughout the storm. Harry high-fived Lance at one point, making her smile despite her terror of what awaited her.
Fearless, by contrast, Pap stomped ahead. Bea’s world started spinning when she saw vast puddles several inches deep, turning her bean field into a rice paddy. The ground could probably absorb that within a couple days, she told herself, but that much water did not bode well for the roots.
With July half over, it was too late to replant. She pressed on with a deepening sense of unreality.
What she saw sickened her. It was a nightmare. Vegetables had been torn off their plants, ready or not for harvest, likewise the fruit, ripped off the trees in the orchard. It would have to be hand-gathered quickly before it all rotted on the ground.
Adding to the surreal feeling of it all, the boys kept finding random objects deposited here and there by the storm, littered about her fields. A broken microwave. A length of vinyl siding. A mailbox. One of those plastic lawn geese that some distant neighbor had dressed up in a Pirates jersey.
“What do we do if we find a dead body out here somewhere?” she heard Lance whisper to his friends.
“Dude.”
Nervous laughter escaped the boys.
“Like, what if it had no head?”
“Easy, guys,” Harry ordered in a low tone.
Bea was shaking. Because, for all she knew, they damn well could.
Then she felt the bile rise in the back of her throat when she saw the wind and hail damage in the cornfield. First the straight-line winds had flattened the stalks here and there like some sort of ugly, meaningless crop circle, but adding insult to injury, the hail had peppered the healthy green leaves left standing with little bullet holes.
It all looked so violent.
And, of course, the standing water from the rain that had been dumped on the farm sloshed about everywhere, attracting mosquitoes and God only knew what other pests soon to follow. It was a recipe for blight, root rot, all kinds of crop disease. In short, she was pretty sure the rest of the year’s harvest was a total loss.
She was already holding back tears by the time they walked toward the ruins of her greenhouse, and knew in the pit of her stomach that she was ruined.
Insurance would cover some of it, but if this wasn’t a sign from the heavens that her farm folly was never meant to be, she didn’t know what was. Because it sure looked like once again, Stephanie was right: she was cursed.
Pap had been silent, stoic the whole time. He marched right over the first heap of twisted metal at the greenhouse’s threshold, then turned around and held out a callused hand to help Bea in.
She followed, numb, then stood dizzily in place and looked around her. The roof and sidewalls had caved in on a quarter of the structure. Her beautiful cherry tomatoes under it were smashed into compost. The sight of them, red and bloodied to a pulp, made her think she might throw up. Translucent panels of corrugated sheeting were ripped off their poles. Dozens of immature pepper plants had been swept away, ripped, hacked apart, battered by the debris.
She gulped for air, thinking back on the ten thousand dollars she had spent to get the greenhouse set up. How she’d finally been making a dent in the balance she still owed on it, now that it had been helping her turn a profit.
Because of the greenhouse, she could’ve extended pepper and tomato sales well into the fall, even while she sowed the late-season, cold-hardy crops. Grown something, anything, over the winter that she could sell. Even Christmas poinsettias. Now, that much-needed income obviously wouldn’t be forthcoming.
Heartache, desperation, helplessness ripped through her as her total ruin sank in. She stood there shaking.
Harry’s cutting words of last night had been all too true. Despite all her positive thinking, she knew full well that her organic operation had long been teetering on the edge of viability. And now, with the greenhouse destroyed and many of her plants ruined, she saw there was no point.
She felt Pap pat her on the back. “I seen worse, Honey-Bea,” he assured her. “I seen worse.”
His version of comfort, she thought, straightening her back, trying to hold it together until she could break down in private.
Pap was right. He had seen worse in his decades of farming, plenty of times, and weathered many storms. But she wasn’t Pap.
She was the screw-up of the family, and she knew it. The college dropout.
She could never be as strong as he was. Few people were. More to the point, he was old now.
To keep putting him through this every damn year until he died would just be cruel. He deserved to be free of this immeasurable burden at last, and for her part, Bea despaired.
She just stood there shaking her head, spiraling mentally in a twister of overwhelm. Only one thing was clear. I’m done. Done fighting. No more. To hell with this, she thought. All the uncertainty, the long hours, stressing over every last dime. The bug bites, the blisters on her hands.
It was over.
A smart woman knew when to cut her losses and walk away with whatever shred of dignity remained. Maybe they’d taught her that at finishing school; she couldn’t remember. Maybe Mom had been right all along. Maybe she should’ve chosen an easier life. Who did she think she was to withstand this existence?
Farming was known to be one of the toughest jobs on earth, and she hadn’t even been able to hack staying in college. No, she was weak—that was the truth—and the only thing she seemed able to do with any consistency was fail.
But at least…at least she could admit it now, and stop being selfish. Bring this ridiculous pipe dream to an end.
It was time to let it go.
Then at least her grandparents could still make out like bandits and go rolling off into the sunset in their yearned-for RV.
“Harry?” she said, sounding oddly steady as she hooked her thumbs into the pockets of her cutoffs and stared down at the spilled soil and puddles of rain beneath her muddy boots.
“Yeah, Bea?” he asked softly from a few feet behind her, his deep voice resonant with concern. She could feel him staring at her, but she didn’t look up. Couldn’t bear to meet his gaze.
“Go ahead and call your boss. Tell him we’re ready to sell.”
“Oh, Bea,” Harry whispered.
She ignored him, turning to her grandfather, her mouth trembling with the effort to keep a stiff upper lip. “I’m sorry, Pap. I’m sorry I wasted your time.” Her voice grew strangled. “I tried. But a person has to admit when they’re beat.”
He searched her face, unreadable behind his dark glasses.
“Bea, don’t do this,” Harry said, bu
t she couldn’t make eye contact with him, with any of them.
“Call him,” she said in a hollow tone. “You win after all. You might as well get your dream, cuz I’m giving up on mine.” With that, she drew off her work gloves and walked away, sloshing through the ankle-deep puddles.
“Come on, Bea.” He stepped toward her with a pained look, but she held up her hand to ward him off, no longer able to speak.
Instead, she walked past him. Somehow, she kept her spine straight, her shoulders squared, her chin high. With her pride already in tatters, she refused to break down in front of everybody.
But tears blurred her eyes as she went blindly into the barn. It was only once she’d slid the door shut behind her that her resolve crumpled.
Then she lost it completely.
CHAPTER 12
Harry couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. His heart had nearly broken right along with hers as he’d watched Bea’s dream die before his very eyes. But seeing her, of all people, walk away in total defeat after she’d come so far, he was not ready to accept this. “Bea, wait.”
“I don’t think she wants any company right now,” Ed warned when Harry started after her.
Too damn bad, he thought, scowling with frustration. “Sir, I’m not going to stand here and watch her just give up. She’s in no shape to make a decision about this right now, so let’s just press pause here before we do anything rash, okay? Guys.” He turned to the boys, clicking into management mode from habit, despite the muddy jeans. “I want you to check and see if the Palmers’ landline is working yet. You need to call your parents and let them know you’re safe. Then you’d better get on home. But if you can, come back tomorrow morning to help with cleanup. Bring heavy-duty work gloves, all of you, shovels, and any spare buckets you can find.”
Lance and the other boys nodded.
“Sir, you should eat.” The old farmer raised an eyebrow when Harry turned to him next. “It’s way past lunchtime. I believe Mrs. Palmer was putting some sandwiches together before we came out here. Maybe you could show the boys where the phone is so they can call their folks?”
“Huh,” Palmer grunted, sounding mystified at Harry suddenly taking control of the situation, but he didn’t protest. “You heard the man, fellas. Let’s go. You can take a sandwich for the road.”
The teens and the old man headed for the farmhouse.
Satisfied, Harry pivoted and marched toward the barn. He knocked twice on the big, wide door to let her know he was coming, but braced himself for a heartbeat before barging in.
After the way he had messed things up with her last night—with the woman, not the deal—Harry saw that if any good could come of this, it might just give him a chance to redeem himself. Show her with actions, not silver-tongued words, that he was not the bastard she probably still believed. The kind of arrogant jerk who slept with women on a bed of lies.
He didn’t want to win if Bea had to lose. He realized that meant he was officially switching sides. Forget Curt’s plans for his silly resort, Harry decided. He’d find some other way to appease his boss.
Right here and now, it was time to put his willpower and know-how to work, setting things right for Bea.
Then maybe she’d see he wasn’t such a bad guy, and the two of them could start again with no hidden motives or secret agendas.
With that, he hauled the door open and stepped inside. At once, a thick wave of earthy smells enveloped him: sawdust and hay, animals and grain. They mingled with the scents of rain and mud from outside.
As his eyes adjusted to the relative dimness inside the barn, Harry looked around at the various pens and stalls built into the ground floor, and the hayloft above him, with a ladder leading up to it. There, he spotted a striped barn cat peeking down at him over the edge of the loft, but it darted out of sight the moment he looked up.
Dust particles swirled in a golden sliver of sunlight angling in through the old, rugged planks of the vaulted roof. A pitchfork leaned against a weathered post near a horse’s halter hanging on a hook.
A chubby dapple-gray horse poked its head out of its stall, as if to see who had come. It looked at him, lifted its muzzle, and stretched its neck, vibrating its lips. Harry’s eyebrows rose, but the horse quickly concluded somehow that he hadn’t brought it any treats and withdrew back into its stall.
The chomp-chomp sound of lazy equine munching joined the soft cacophony throughout the barn—bahhing and anxious clucking, along with a few worried quacks.
And, of course, there were the sobs.
With a tug at his heartstrings, Harry followed the sound, slowly walking deeper into the barn, rounding the corner of a shoulder-high wooden wall beside him. He found Bea kneeling in the straw among her animals, holding a placid brown hen in her arms like a teddy bear—and crying her heart out.
His own sank, seeing that. He drifted over and crouched down beside her without a word, searching her face, tenderly noting her swollen eyes, her runny nose, her cheeks flushed with weeping.
The stubborn thing refused to look at him. He could sense her chagrin that he was seeing her cry, and her defenses bristled. “I’m not letting you give up.”
“W-why not?” she said. “Don’t you wanna be the CEO?”
“Not like this. Nope.”
“What, so you’re reneging on your million-dollar offer now?” she cried, finally glancing up, her eyes two dark puddles of tears.
“No, no, of course I’m not going to leave you in the lurch. But I don’t think this is what you really want. And I know you’re not in any shape to make a decision of this magnitude right now.” He crouched down slowly beside her. “Give me some time to work on this before you throw in the towel, okay?”
“What’s the point?” Her lips trembled. Her voice was a pained whisper. “I’m cursed, Harry. It’s obvious. I ruin everything I touch.”
“Bull. Those were just angry words someone said to you a long time ago. It’s not true.”
“What do you know?” she mumbled, turning away. “Just leave me alone.”
He frowned. “Beatrice Palmer, I am not going to stand here and let you give up. Not you, of all people.”
“But you were right, Harry,” she said. “Last night in the car, and at the pub, what you said. Who am I kidding? I’m in totally over my head. I have no idea what I’m doing. Even Mother Nature is against me.”
“Don’t be silly, sweetheart. That’s just fear talking. Bea, you’ve just been through a natural disaster and you’re probably in shock. You need to give yourself at least twenty-four hours until you decide what to do. Hell, anyone would be entitled to a meltdown after that. But you don’t just give up on your dream.”
“Why not? This dream sucks,” she muttered.
“Because”—he pointed to the plump bird in her arms—“that is a chicken, Beatrice Palmer. You, on the other hand, are not. So have yourself a good cry and let it out. But after that, I’m gonna tell what you’re gonna do.”
She eyed him skeptically, tears staining her cheeks.
“You’re gonna climb back onto your feet, you’re gonna dust yourself off, and get your ass back to work. And this time, I’m going to help you.”
She studied him. “I don’t understand you,” she forced out. “Why aren’t you taking advantage of the situation? I thought that’s what guys like you do.”
“Well,” he drawled with an intimate smile, “we soulless corporate henchmen can surprise you now and then. Which reminds me. Can I borrow your truck for a few hours? I’m gonna head back into town and see if there’s anything I can do to help.” He had a bit more than that up his sleeve, but Bea nodded with an indifferent shrug.
“Sure. I left the keys in the ignition,” she said wearily. “Knock yourself out.”
# # #
The next morning, the constant sense of whirling in her dark tornado dreams stopped abruptly, and Bea awoke to the soft, solid stillness of her bed beneath her.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and,
for a long moment, gazed up at the cream-colored ceiling. It was peaceful in her bedroom. Sunlight filtered through the blowing chintz curtains. Atop the dresser, her notebook and pen sat near a bouquet of wildflowers in a blue glass vase.
Bits of art she’d collected over the years adorned the walls: the Matisse Dance (I), Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, a still life of gorgeous fruits by Cezanne. Little original watercolors and sketches she had bought from street artists in Paris, and the quaint Victorian-era ad placards she’d picked up from an antiques dealer in London’s Camden Market. These souvenirs of her college travels were only remnants of a former existence, but they still comforted her like old friends.
It was about then that the smell of bacon and eggs wafted up to her from the direction of the distant kitchen, but it was the prospect of coffee that roused her up onto her elbows. She looked around, saw the clock, and drew in her breath.
Nine thirty? It was unthinkable for a farmer to sleep in so late at the height of the growing season. But then she remembered: ex-farmer.
And it all came flooding back. Yesterday darkened her mind like a bad dream. The walk-through of her farm that had resembled a war zone. The ruins of her greenhouse and her hopes.
Her decision to sell…
Just then, she heard voices outside, and the noisy engine of a truck arriving. With a curious frown, she climbed out of bed and padded over to her bedroom window, barefoot, still wearing her knee-length nightgown.
Her jaw dropped at what she saw.
There were dozens of people outside. All her friends were out there, hard at work, with a bunch of folks from town. The fields buzzed with activity. The driveway of the farm looked like a parking lot, lined with cars. There was Jules’s Volkswagen Beetle, and Finn’s van with the kayak strapped on top. He and Carlos and the rest of his guys from the adventure center were in the bean field, having way too much fun at such a tedious task, by the look of it.
Jack and Zander were hauling big broken pieces of her greenhouse away and tossing them into the back of the marine’s giant red pickup. As her stunned gaze wandered across the battered property, Bea spotted Chloe and Jules in the orchard, directing a crew of women from town in picking up the fallen fruit.
