Warm Front

by Patricia McLinn

  Chris had never talked about that aspect of Hooper Farm. The one time she clearly remembered him and Everett touching on it had ended with Chris shouting, “You’re living in the past, old man.”

  She’d steered well away from the topic after that.

  As they bundled up for the outdoors, Anne said to Jennifer, “You definitely know more about the styles and history around here than I do.”

  “I find it all so fascinating. And you truly can’t find buildings like this anymore.”

  “Most people won’t put up with them,” Anne said.

  Darcie and Jennifer chuckled. Vanessa did not, possibly recognizing that Anne had been serious.

  After a side stop for them to put the bags of oatmeal in the truck — large for Vanessa, plus small bags for Jennifer, Darcie, and Mrs. R — they headed across the yard toward the barn.

  The sky was piling in, gray and voluminous. Snow clouds, backed by a lusty wind, seemed to push the sun out of the way.

  It made even the dubious warmth of the barn very welcome. When they’d had more animals, that had helped hold some warmth here. But lamenting their absence was as much living in the past as Chris had said.

  “Here’s the barn,” she said, pulling back one door, and revealing the combine corpses she’d been trying to Dr. Frankenstein into an operable machine. She’d welcome a monster-looking result with open arms if the thing would just work.

  “Oh, my, look at this space.” Jennifer’s voice caught as she looked around, then up to the ceiling, sucking in a breath when Anne flipped on a few lights against the shadows.

  A new round of questions started that Anne didn’t have many answers to.

  Ask her the average yield per acre by field and she could spout off stats. Invite her opinion on till or no-till and she could go all day. Request a rundown of Hooper Farm’s finances and she’d probably say it was none of your damned business, but she’d know the answer.

  This stuff she didn’t know.

  Jennifer’s interest was genuine. Heck, she was downright smitten with the place.

  But she was the only one.

  Anne caught Vanessa and Darcie looking over the machinery with faint frowns. Other than that, they seemed distracted.

  Possibly also cold.

  The benefit of being in the barn’s shelter had worn off and the cold penetrated every bit of exposed skin.

  “Let’s go back to the house and I’ll get you more coffee and tea so you all can defrost before the trip back to town,” Anne said.

  “Sorry, we don’t have time. I need to get back soon,” Vanessa said.

  Jennifer, instantly contrite, said, “I’m sorry I’ve kept everyone out here so long. But no need to ply us with hot drinks. The truck’s heater is a beast.”

  “Why don’t you and Vanessa go start it while I help Anne with the doors,” Darcie said.

  Anne was tempted to point out she handled these barn doors by herself many times a day, but Vanessa and Jennifer were already agreeing and heading out.

  “You go ahead and get warm, too, Darcie. I’ll be right there.”

  Not only did the other woman not follow those instructions, but she stopped, faced Anne, and said, “There’s something in Quince’s past.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Anne scrambled for the words to tell her she hadn’t meant the question that way — she’d been startled into that “what,” not asking for further information on something that wasn’t any of her—

  But Darcie was already going on. “At least… I do know he isn’t close to his family — no, that’s an understatement. He has some half-siblings he stays in touch with a little, but not with his parents. At all.”

  Anne had started toward the doors, but at that she looked around. “They’re not… They’re still living?” He’d said so little, she’d assumed they were dead.

  “Oh, yes. His father’s some big muckety-muck.”

  She recalled his tone when she’d called him Peter Quincy III, the same name as the father he didn’t stay in touch with.

  I far prefer Quince.

  “And his mother’s off somewhere — I don’t know — I guess doing what used to be called jet-setting,” Darcie said. “Anyway, they’re divorced. Have been since Quince was a kid.”

  “That’s rough.” Her own family wasn’t geographically close, but there was love, support, and interest there, despite the distance.

  “Yeah, but that’s not all. There’s something else. Something… deeper. And that, I truly don’t know anything about. Zeke’s made some references, dropped hints, but he’s never… I have a sense of something.”

  “If Zeke’s trying to tell you something—?”

  Darcie chuckled. “Oh, he’s not trying to tell me. If anything, he’s trying not to tell me. He’s doing his very best to keep Quince’s confidence, and mostly he does. But sometimes he slips, usually not even realizing it. Bits here and there. Enough to convince me there’s something … major.”

  They were outside now and Anne slid the door closed. Without help.

  “Speak of the devil,” Darcie murmured.

  Anne turned her head and saw Quince’s car pulling in. In a second he was out, greeting Vanessa and Jennifer.

  Darcie kept talking. “Even if I did know the details of whatever it is in his past, I wouldn’t tell you. I wouldn’t betray Quince’s trust in Zeke or his in me.”

  “I understand. Because I feel the same way about honoring Quince’s — anyone’s — privacy.”

  Darcie showed no sign of feeling the prick of that pointed remark.

  “That, of course, doesn’t mean you can’t do your own detective work,” she continued. “Ask a few leading questions here and there. It would do him a lot of good to quit storing up whatever it is he’s got locked away.”

  With the door now closed, Anne faced the other woman straight on. “I’m his landlady. Not his— Nothing else.”

  “You could be. If you want to be,” Darcie added with dangerous softness.

  *

  Darcie and Anne came up as Jennifer began to wind down from telling him about the historical and architectural wonders of Hooper Farm.

  Anne looked as if she’d been backed into a corner.

  Darcie looked bland.

  Not a good combo. He greeted them both, then said, “So you all came out to explore the history of the farm?”

  “No, we came out to get more of Anne’s oatmeal,” Vanessa said.

  “What do you mean, Anne’s oatmeal?”

  “She makes it.”

  “When she cooks it you mean?”

  “No — well, yes, she must do that, too. But before that, she grows it, and harvests it, and separates the chaff from the oats.”

  He looked at Anne. “That’s homegrown oatmeal?”

  “Yup.” Jennifer said.

  “Huh.”

  “I see that brain of yours going,” Jennifer said. “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing special.” He tipped his head to the road. “Isn’t that Everett coming in now? Say, Darcie, what time do you want people over Saturday night?”

  She lifted one eyebrow, letting him know she hadn’t missed the change of subject.

  “After the game ends. So you have to attend the game to know,” she said pointedly. Her tone changed when she turned and said, “Anne, we’d love to have you and Everett join us for food and conversation after the high school basketball game.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but—”

  “Think about it. And now we really should get Vanessa back to town.”

  As the women got in the truck, Quince found himself beside Vanessa, who said in a low tone, “You don’t always change the subject to help other people. Sometimes you are trying to help yourself.”

  But possibly not low enough, because he was pretty sure Anne heard it.

  *

  “Have a nice afternoon?” Quince asked her, once they and Everett were inside.

&n
bsp; “Yes. Now I’ve got to catch up on work.” She went directly to the desk, waking the computer.

  “What are you working on this time?”

  Had she caught an undercurrent to his tone?

  Must be her imagination.

  “Looking at ordering seed.”

  She’d done most of the order in December, but had held back some of the tiny budget, hoping to fill in with late-breaking deals.

  With the right seed, a good — better yet, a great — growing season, and a lot of luck, it could be a first step toward getting back on track.

  Without those elements, this might be the last seed-buying she did.

  As if his thoughts had gone in the same general direction, Everett said, “Don’t pounce on the cheapest just because they’re cheapest.”

  She’d have to be six-ways from stupid to do that. She clamped her tongue between her teeth.

  Quince, however, said easily, “Anne doesn’t seem the kind to overlook quality or to jump to a bad decision.”

  Everett looked surprised.

  “I suppose not,” he conceded.

  By way of praise, it wasn’t much. But it was better than she’d gotten from him before. She suspected the surprise was mostly that Quince had levered the words out of him. As the surprise wore off he’d probably try to take it back.

  Well, she wouldn’t let him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Apparently the seed-buying didn’t go well, because Anne was edgy as the afternoon waned.

  It got worse when Everett started grumbling about if they were ever going to have supper, that some people lolled around having tea all afternoon so maybe they weren’t hungry, but honest working men were.

  She glared at him, but said nothing, working on the computer a few more minutes before closing up.

  Something clearly was wrong when she took a container out of the fridge that he’d seen defrosting in there. Spaghetti sauce, he’d thought. When she put it into a saucepan, her face drew tight, and she muttered something about runny as water.

  She put butter in another pan and started the heat, then pulled out a flour canister and a measuring cup. She also had a pot full of water going.

  Her hands moved around like a pianist playing at double-time. Then she started stirring the contents of that second pan in triple-time.

  “Can I help?” Quince asked.

  “No.”

  Figuring that applied only to activity around the stove, he began setting the table, staying well out of her way.

  After a few minutes, she pulled the second pan off the heat and put its contents in a bowl on the counter.

  She pulled out salad makings and alternated between that and the pan with the sauce and the pot with the water.

  She tested the temperature of what was in the bowl, did more with the salad, put pasta in the tall pot, then added what was in the bowl to the saucepan, all in record time.

  “You sure I can’t help?”

  “I said no. And why are you grinning?”

  Ah. He’d thought she wasn’t aware of him. “Enjoying the dance you’re doing.”

  “It’s no dance. And nothing to enjoy.”

  Everett tutted. “My daddy always said never corner something you know is meaner than you are.”

  She turned on her great uncle-in-law. “If you’re saying I’m meaner than you, you better remember that and quit riding me about things.”

  He snorted. “Didn’t say you’re meaner than me. But you’re meaner than him, and he shouldn’t be trying to corner you with questions day and night, night and day.”

  She opened her mouth, clearly thought better of whatever she’d been about to say, shot Quince a suspicious glare, as if she knew he was fighting laughter, then settled in with a narrow-eyed stare reinforced with one hand on her hip, while the other kept stirring.

  “That part’s true. You have been badgering me with questions and you better stop it, because I am meaner than you.”

  She had a dash of flour across the ridge of her cheek, another dab on her nose, and a smear of something that might have been butter in a lock of her hair.

  He wanted to laugh.

  Even more, he wanted her to laugh.

  He really wanted her to laugh.

  Damn, it was getting to feel like he needed her to laugh.

  If so, that need clearly wasn’t going to be answered any time soon.

  “She sure is meaner,” Everett corroborated. “Especially this time of year.”

  She turned back to the stove, adjusting the heat under the tall pot.

  “Why especially this time of year?” Quince asked, partly to keep the older man talking, partly because it would keep her riled, partly to distract his own thoughts about Anne.

  “I’ll tell you why. Because there isn’t much real farming to do this time of year.”

  Her head snapped around again, though her hands kept going.

  “No, hardly anything at all,” she said with full sarcasm, “because after straining every resource to haul the end of last year’s crop to market, it’s not real farming to start marketing next year’s crop, to analyze yield results and use that to adjust seed and crop plans, to try to line up credit—” She pulled in a sharp breath then spoke quickly. “—and of course trying to fix everything that broke last year. Hardly anything to do at all.”

  Everett didn’t back down. “Like I said, not much real farming. It’s mostly that computer and Internet and email nonsense.”

  Before that provocation could cause Anne to fire back, Quince stepped in. “But you’ve got stuff growing now, right? Wheat — I hear a lot of farmers plant wheat in the fall, then it goes dormant for the winter, but has a head-start growing in the spring.”

  Anne slanted a look at him that had him wanting to pat his shoulders to be sure he hadn’t grown two heads.

  “You heard, huh?” she muttered.

  Everett said, “Most years we do, not this year.”

  “Why not this year?”

  “Because we were harvesting right up to Thanksgiving.”

  Quince felt as if he were listening to a foreign language. He understood the words, but they did not convey to him the nuance they clearly conveyed to the other two. For them those words appeared to pack a wallop of emotion.

  “Uh-huh,” he said, out-neutralizing Switzerland. “That’s interesting.”

  Everett snort. “Interesting? I’ll tell you what it is — it’s late. Real late. Damned near criminal late.”

  “I can’t do anything about the weather,” Anne snapped.

  “Never said you could. Said November was late for harvesting.”

  She swung around. “Like you never said doing anything other than conventional tilling was idiotic.”

  “What I said was only an idiot wouldn’t see his new method was a disaster waiting to happen — equipment won’t get through that thick residue and—”

  “It would if the equipment wasn’t from half a century ago. Modern planters—”

  “—you get a slow spring and you’re planting in August. And disease — it’ll grab hold and never let go with this no-till. Not to mention—”

  Anne extended the spoon in her hand like a sword. “I never said no-till, and you know it, Everett Hooper. Conservation tillage, that’s what I’m trying. You just hate any change, so you stop listening.”

  “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. If Chris hadn’t started messing around with—”

  “But he did. It is broke — and there might not be any fixing that.”

  For a beat, they all froze.

  Then Anne jerked back around to the stove.

  Everett looked down at the table.

  In minutes, she served plates of steaming spaghetti with salads on the side.

  Except for Quince’s fill-in conversation, dinner was silent. And even he wasn’t interested in what he was saying.

  Anne left the table first, carrying her not-yet-empty plate to the sink. She began to clean up.

  Everett
moved only after he’d cleaned his plate. He left the kitchen, went to the front parlor, and closed that door after him.

  Quince heaved a sigh. So much for putting his skills to work to tactfully draw them out on the state of the farm.

  He’d picked up a fair amount despite not speaking the language. Enough, he decided as he took his and Everett’s plates to the sink, that he might benefit from a farm-speak translator.

  But first it was time for some plain talk with Everett Hooper.

  *

  “You know she’s not going to make a mistake like buying the cheapest seed, so why say it?” he said to the older man.

  “What I know and what I don’t know are no concern of—”

  “So why say it?” His repeated question cut through the bluster. “You insulted her.”

  “Insulted?” Everett sounded incensed, but also surprised.

  “Insulted and disrespected all the work she does here.”

  “I did not—”

  “She’s holding together this place you love single-handed. You better appreciate her more.”

  “Appreciate? Seems to me you’re appreciatin’ her enough for two men.”

  Quince had pushed too far, and now he was caught in his own words. “That’s none of your business.”

  “It is if you go taking her away.”

  “She’d never leave this place.”

  Damn.

  As soon as he said the words, he knew he should have said something else. I’m not trying to take her away. Or even back to It’s none of your business. Anything that didn’t sound as if he were wishing she would.

  “I’m watching my program,” Everett said. “Go away.”

  It seemed like the best course of action at the moment.

  *

  She was hearing voices.

  First, she could have sworn she heard Everett and Quince from the front parlor. Though why Quince would have bearded the dragon in his den she had no idea.

  And now, lying in bed when she should be snatching every second of sleep possible, the voices were in her head. In her memory.

  There’s something in Quince’s past.

  She didn’t care.

  It was in the past. If it existed at all. And who knew if it really did.