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He sighed and walked another lap back and forth in front of the steps where I sat.
If I had to guess, I’d say he was composing his thoughts. He was a man of action and few words. My own realizations still sinking in, I was more than willing to wait for him to speak.
“You’re not ruining Blue Star, you’re making it better.” He stopped pacing, hands on his lean hips. “It took me time to realize and appreciate that. Without a network of customers and supporters, private ranches like this won’t thrive. Shit, farming in the Midwest is all big conglomerates. I don’t want to see this place swallowed up by a company with shareholders and no soul or turned into a subdivision.” He exhaled and resettled his hat.
We looked at each other for a few charged seconds. Preservation vs promotion had been a wedge between us since the day I arrived at Blue Star. We’d finally gotten to the root of the problem.
The article about Martin Rivers was at the forefront of my mind when I spoke. “Sounds personal.”
“Huh, yeah. You googled me, didn’t you?” He lifted his hat and wiped his forehead.
“It’s the way of the world these days. I read a feature on Martin Rivers.”
“My father.” The lack of love or pride in his tone was a telling indictment. “The Rivers family had ranched our land since before Texas was a state. And he cashed in our legacy for track homes and a fast food empire. I’ll never forgive him.” Based on the brutal finality in the way he spoke, he wasn’t exaggerating.
It hadn’t been me Atley had a problem with, it was his father. Anyone who had wanted to change things at Blue Star would have come up against his disapproval. I looked back on all the times he could have messed things up for me and was thankful that Atley never did. At his core, he was a good man.
“So you’re not close then?” I winced as I asked the stupid question, but it was all I could think of to keep the conversation moving.
He laughed. It was an ugly, raw sound.
“We ignore each other. He thinks I’m a failure. I think he’s a sellout.”
“Ouch.”
“We’ve been oil and water since I was a kid. My mom’s second husband, Robert, was more of a role model and father to me than Martin Rivers ever wanted to be.”
My heart broke a little at hearing the suppressed anger in his tone. Under the gruff exterior, Atley showed the world was a little kid scarred by a thoughtless father. I wanted to hug him now and back then.
“Robert manages a big ranch like you, right?”
“Actually, he owns a spread bigger than Blue Star. It’s mostly cattle, and they don’t grow grapes. Montana is a different set of challenges than we have here.” His entire demeanor changed when he spoke about his mother and stepfather. They were his family, not the man featured in the magazine.
“Why aren’t you up there in Montana?”
“Way too cold for me.” He wrapped his arms around himself and faked a shiver. It was about 92 degrees today, so anytime a cold front wanted to blow through Texas, I’d welcome it with open arms.
“Wimp.” Time to lighten the mood.
He pressed a hand to his chest like I wounded him.
“You’ve not experienced cold until you’re wearing a skirt and a stiff breeze off Lake Michigan finds its way under your winter coat in January. That is colder than a witch’s tit cold.”
“A what now?” He nearly choked.
“I said it. I’m standing behind it.”
“Just don’t grab it. You might get hexed or something.” Whenever I thought I had Atley figured out, he’d toss out a zinger like that and make me reevaluate.
We were both laughing when the tent company guy approached with the final paperwork for us to sign and review. We put our Blue Star employee hats on and got to work reviewing everything to make sure we had nothing like the port-a-potty incident on the horizon.
The tent crew packed up and left us standing in the enormous building. They had arranged the rented tables and chairs per my diagram. All we needed were the grapes to be dumped in the metal troughs we were using as vats. And for the band to set up on the temporary stage.
I looked around, doing a slow turn. On Saturday, the tent would be filled with people laughing and stomping grapes. “It reminds me of the dancehall the first time I saw it.”
“Big and empty?”
“Potential waiting to be put to use.”
