by S. E. Law
“We’re not really the founders of Cherrywood because as you can guess, this farm has been around ever since California belonged to Mexico. It was once run by rancheros, and even back then, they grew cherries. But the United States barreled in, ownership changed several times, and the farm fell on hard times. Hank and I wanted to do the right thing, so we stepped away from our day jobs and swooped in to buy this place out of bankruptcy. The farm that you see now is ten years of hard work,” I say, gesturing to the cherry trees planted in neat rows to the left.
The crowd nods and lets out a gasp of awe because the sight is magnificent. The cherry trees are in full form, and heavy with fruit. Verdant greenery waves in the wind, the boughs literally bent over to near-breaking with ripe cherries. I grimace a bit.
“As you can see, we need help. A lot of it. We have full-time staff on the farm, but during the harvest, we hire temporary help to make sure that everything that needs to get done, gets done. That includes a number of different tasks, but the most important one is of course, the harvest itself. We need to pluck cherries when they hit their peak, and then prepare and package them for sale. That can’t be done without you,” I say meaningfully.
Hank chimes in then.
“But first, let’s get you guys settled. We have two dorms, a men’s and a women’s. There’s strict gender segregation for obvious reasons, but I think you’ll find the dorms clean and neat, if spartan. Follow me, and I’ll take you to your accommodations. Dinner will be at six tonight, in the main mess hall.”
“Welcome again,” I add, as the group begins to turn away, following Hank down a dusty dirt path which goes by the tractor shed. But as they slowly head to the dorms, lugging their backpacks and duffel bags, the curvy girl turns to look at me curiously. She doesn’t say anything, but something electric passes through the air between us. Then, I see her catch Hank’s eye and the same arc of energy shoots between them. She nods at both of us, and damn, but is that an extra wiggle to her walk now? Evidently Courtney Harlow has plans that don’t involve cherries at all, and I can’t wait to find out what they are.
29
Courtney
The dorms aren’t much to look at, but that’s okay. It’s like what Hank said: it’s clean and neat, but Spartan. Rows of beds are lined up against opposite walls, each one of them with a thin mattress and white sheets. A trunk lies at the foot of each bed, and there’s an accompanying lock and key so we can keep our belongings secure. We were warned not to bring more than a small bag because there isn’t anywhere to stash our stuff. Seems my duffel bag is just about right.
A door in the back of the women’s dorm leads to communal showers as well as lavatories and sinks. Clean white towels are neatly folded on each mattress, as well as an extra set of sheets. I begin unpacking my bag and carefully putting everything into the trunk.
“So what are you here for?” asks the woman on my left. She looks to be about forty-five and worn down by life. Her skin is the color of mahogany, and she’s got deep brackets around her eyes and mouth. Her graying brown hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and her faded blue eyes blink at me blearily.
“Well, I wanted to get away from urban life,” I say judiciously while carefully folding a set of lacy lingerie. “I was living in the big city, and wanted to feel sun on my face for a change.”
The woman pulls a face like she’s tasted something sour and snaps her gum.
“Well, you won’t need that here,” she says, nodding to my lacy lingerie. “This job is about manual labor, honey. They’re going to work your fingers to the bone until you fall into bed each night, dead tired. Hope you don’t snore!” she cackles, placing her stuff on the bed next to mine. She’s got one small tattered bag that looks soiled and ripped. “Name’s Rhea,” she says, sticking one hand out in greeting.
“Courtney,” I say, shaking her hand. Her palm is calloused and rough, and I can tell she notices that mine is soft and white from office life.
“A newbie!” she exclaims. “You’ve never done any manual labor, have you?”
“Well, not really,” I admit in an even tone. “But I’m ready for hard work. Eager for it, even.”
That sets Rhea off into guffaws of laughter.
“Girl, you have no idea what you’re getting into! You’re accustomed to soft beds, an office job, and staring at computers. You have no idea what it’s like to toil under the sun for twelve hours straight until your back aches and your fingers sting.”
I stare at her.
“But you do?”
Rhea merely hums a bit, looking mysterious. She upends her bag onto the mattress, and I see she’s got one plaid shirt, and one pair of jeans. Seems some people travel light.
“You’ll see,” she says mysteriously. “Life gets everyone. It always does.”
This doesn’t sound promising, and I’m not exactly happy to have made Rhea’s acquaintance. But it’s fine because there are more exciting things on my mind: Hank and Huck. The two men are every bit as handsome as their picture on Cherrywood’s webpage. They’re each about six four, with thick, raven hair and sparkling blue eyes. Both men have shoulders heavily muscled from work, as well as strong backs that could haul an ox. Powerful arms hang at their sides, and long legs with thick thighs and lean calves made my mouth water.
But it was more than that. These men aren’t just farmers, and I can feel it. They said they used to have tech jobs in San Francisco, and that they left them to start anew here on the farm. But I’m not sure if I believe that because how did they amass enough to buy a farm? Tech jobs tend to pay a lot, but they don’t pay that much. And doesn’t it take a while for an investment to pay off? Cherry trees don’t start bearing fruit until the third or fourth year of life, so there must be more than meets the eye.
Somehow, I get the feeling that Huck and Hank have their fingers in a lot of different pies. They’re not just simple cherry farmers; they’re out to change the world somehow. Sure, I understand the allure of the country because I was fed up with my own shitty situation at Praxel Puffin. But I was making nothing, and was bored and totally stagnant in my position.
By contrast, Huck and Hank aren’t that. They look like men of action whom people admire and respect. So what’s their story? As I get ready for dinner, my heart begins beating rapidly and I stare at my flushed face in the mirror of the bathroom. I can’t wait to find out more about my new bosses, and what I can do to get involved.
30
Courtney
I’m at dinner, but my heart sinks because we’re halfway through the meal and Hank and Huck haven’t shown up yet. I didn’t realize how excited I was to see them again, until the possibility of them not showing up occurred to me.
I look around the mess hall. It looks like a school cafeteria of sorts with long tables and benches, a scrubbed floor, and an industrial kitchen visible through an open window. Workers wearing white hats and aprons busily prepare food through the window, and I stare down at my tray. The food is good, at least. We had spaghetti and meatballs, and the sauce was tangy, just the way I like it. Plus, they served garlic bread warm from the oven, and steamed collard greens spiced with bacon bits.
Then again, I generally like food because I’m a bigger girl. I wear a size 14, and I’m proud of it. Plus, being bigger has never stopped me from getting a guy. What did Amy Schumer say? Oh right. She’s one hundred and sixty pounds, and she can “catch a dick.” I giggled when I heard her say that during an interview because the same is true for me. Guys seems to appreciate my lush assets, and I like sharing them with the right man too.
But where are Huck and Hank? This is our first night at the farm, so I’m surprised they’re not making an appearance. Rhea plunks her tray next to mine loudly on the table, and sits down. Oh no.
“Heya girlie,” she guffaws while digging into a heaping mound of mashed potatoes. Then she spits it out with an outraged look on her face. “What did they put in this? Mayonnaise?”
I take a tentative bite of m
y potatoes.
“No, it tastes fine to me,” I say judiciously. “Maybe a little heavy on the butter, but I usually like butter in my mashed potatoes.”
Rhea rolls her eyes as the girl on my left nods shyly.
“I like butter too,” she says. The new girl’s name is Abigail, and she’s just like Kara from my old job. Somehow, I attract young women who look up to me as a big sister of sorts. They tend to hang onto my every word, and sometimes I like it, but sometimes I don’t. Sometimes, I wish they’d develop a backbone of sorts, but I guess it’ll come with age.
Rhea snorts.
“They’re not using real butter. They’re using some fake artificial butter like VeganLove or I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter.”
Abigail looks confused.
“You mean that stuff that Fabio promotes? I thought that was margarine. Margarine is real, isn’t it?”
I sigh, breaking into the conversation.
“Of course it’s real. Everything is real, but the health movement likes to get so technical sometimes. I’d even say that they over-exaggerate their claims occasionally.”
Rhea nods wisely.
“Oh yeah. All that PETA stuff is bullshit.”
I hold my hand up.
“No, not all of it. But people get carried away, which is pretty understandable. For example, did you know that some hardcore vegans don’t wear wool because they believe that sheep don’t need to be shorn?”
Abigail looks confused.
“Of course they need to be shorn,” she says stoutly. “I had a pet sheep that I showed for 4-H when I was a kid. Dolly had to be shorn at least once a year because otherwise she’d grow into a puffball.”
“Yeah exactly,” I nod. “Domesticated sheep need to be shorn regularly because they’ve been bred for wool production. If you don’t shear these guys, they turn into giant furballs, and it’s dangerous to their health because they can hardly walk, see or pee. It literally puts their lives at risk.”
Abby squints her eyes.
“Who would think that it’s wrong to shear sheep?”
I shrug.
“Well, sometimes vegans get carried away. There’s nothing wrong with their decisions, but I think the bases of some of their decisions are exaggerated, like this sheep thing.”
Rhea butts in then.
“Yeah, but you guys are city girls. 4-H isn’t anything, and it doesn’t count. I was raised on a farm, and the sheep get cut while they’re being shorn. It’s a brutal process.”
I nod.
“That’s true, but the shearers are paid less if the sheep are injured. And professional shearers know what they’re doing. They’re able to subdue the sheep and shear an entire sheep within minutes. You’re right. Some sheep do get injured, but mistakes are made in any industry, and it could happen to anyone. It’s an accident.”
Rhea shrugs.
“I’m just saying, I’ve seen some unhappy looking sheep.”
I sigh.
“Well, sheep don’t get it. They don’t understand that being shorn is a part of life, and you can’t really explain it to them either. They’re sheep, after all.”
Rhea’s about to snap something in retort, but suddenly, there’s a tap on my shoulder. It’s the man who was introduced to us as the foreman of Cherrywood, Bill Thompson. He’s heavyset and graying with a shock of iron-colored hair.
“Bosses want to see you,” he grunts before jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “In their office.”
Rhea immediately cackles, opening her maw to show stained brown teeth.
“You’re in trouble already? We haven’t even been here twenty-four hours! Ooooooh.”
I merely shoot her a tight smile and nod at Abigail.
“I’ll see you guys later okay?” I say, picking up my tray and dumping my leftovers into the trash. I hate to waste food, but then again, Hank and Huck have summoned me, and I’m excited to see my two gorgeous bosses again. There’s a mystery about these men that I’m dying to figure out, and this is my opportunity.
“See you back at the dorms,” says Abigail with a shy smile. “I hope everything goes okay.”
Rhea merely grunts and swallows another huge spoonful of mashed potatoes.
“Hardly,” she cackles again. “Someone’s in big trouble!”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. How could I be in trouble when I only just got to Cherrywood? But I smile wanly and march off with my shoulders set straight. Hank and Huck have something up their sleeve, and it’s time to find out what it is.
31
Hank
We hear rapping down the hallway, and I step out of our lab to motion to Courtney. Sure enough, she’s in front of our office, looking confused.
“Over here,” I gesture. “This way.”
She perks up, her sizable chest bobbling slightly.
“Oh okay. Sorry, I thought Bill told me to find you in your office.”
I nod.
“He did, but we’ve decided to move the meeting into our lab.”
Courtney strolls down the hall and steps into the lab. Her eyes grow wide as she marvels at the space. It’s not something you find in most farms, that’s for sure. We remodeled the main building of the farm so that it has all of the regular things: a reception room, a dining hall, bathrooms, even a billiards room. But we also blew out the back and constructed a lab for ourselves. It’s gleaming white with polished cement floors. The space is illuminated with fluorescent lighting and filled with robotics. The shiny steel structures make it look like we’re NASA, but even better. We’re not going to the literal moon; we’re taking people to Heaven, but in a different way.
“What is this?” gasps Courtney, her brown eyes wide. She looks beautiful with curly chestnut hair, a pouty mouth, and a sweater that hugs her ample curves. Her ass is encased in tight jeans, which highlight their swell and roll.
Huck strides over, and he’s even wearing a lab coat, like a mad scientist.
“Hank and I like to tinker,” he says by way of explanation. “We mentioned that we used to work tech jobs in San Francisco right? Hank and I are engineers at heart, even if we’re also farmers now.”
Courtney looks stunned.
“But I thought you gave all that up when you purchased Cherrywood. You were downsizing and trying to find a simpler way of life.”
I chuckle deep in my throat.
“Yeah, sort of. We gave up high stress jobs in San Francisco because we weren’t interested in working for others anymore. Besides, being a techie in Silicon Valley isn’t all that. We still had a boss, and we couldn’t choose our own projects. Plus, some of the projects were just flat out boring. I spent an entire year once debugging a piece of software. By the time that was done, I was ready to pull out my hair. That is, if it ever got truly debugged, which I doubt. It’s one of the most frustrating aspects of programming. Sometimes, you can’t find bugs until a piece of software is actually being used.”
Courtney nods, still marveling at the sight before her. There are lab tables set up with expensive equipment, and even a few beakers filled with odd-colored liquids.
“But is this for the farm?” she asks with confusion. “Are you developing new fertilizers, or new strains of cherry trees? Is that your goal?”
Huck shrugs his shoulders.
“Not really. I mean, we do dabble in that sometimes because you can’t trust industrial fertilizer these days. But no, we decided to open up a lab of our own to explore our interests. We like to tinker,” he says by way of explanation, “and this is our ultimate fantasy: to be able to tinker with the best equipment at our fingertips, with the freedom to do whatever we like.”
“Yeah,” I add with a smile. “We’re our own bosses now.”
Courtney nods again, and then bites her plushly pink lip.
“That does sound good,” she says. “I’ve never had a job where I didn’t have a boss.”
I grin.
“It’s an amazing experience because there’s no
one to tell you what to do. You follow your own interests and intuition, and see where it takes you. Your imagination is the limit. But enough about that for now. Take a seat,” I say, gesturing to a lab stool nearby. “How are you enjoying your time here?”
Courtney balances her ample form on the small wooden seat, and my friend and I both admire her lush figure. The tiny circle of the lab stool only emphasizes how big her bottom is, and we can also see her chunky thighs and sculpted calves. I love curvy girls who work out because they’re sizable, yet also toned and delicious. It’s a heady mix.
She smiles at us tentatively.
“I like it at Cherrywood so far,” she says. “We’ve only been here for a few hours, but the accommodations seem fine, and the food in the mess hall is good. My compliments to the chef.”
Huck nods.
“We make an effort. We’ve found that keeping our workers happy is important because a happy employee produces more. We have acres of cherries to pick, so having our workers well-rested, well-fed, and energized is important to us.”
Courtney nods.
“Yes, but why have you hired all these people? Don’t you use harvesters and other machines to pick cherries?”
My friend and I share a look.
“We can, and we’ve tried that in the past, but harvesters don’t work well for fresh produce. For processed cherries, it’s fine because cherries picked by machines usually lose their stems. But for fresh cherries, consumers like to see the stem attached, and unfortunately, that can only be done when a cherry is picked by hand.”
Understanding dawns in Courtney’s eyes, and she folds her hands demurely in her lap.
“Oh I see. So we’re picking cherries for grocery stores, right?”
I nod.
“Exactly. We’re going to pick them by hand, and then pack them by hand too. Unfortunately, mechanization hasn’t gotten to the point where we can do all this using machines, but Huck and I are working on it. We’re mad scientists after all. This is our thing.”
