I shout about the changing of the seasons a little louder, all too aware of my abysmal singing voice.I’m gonna kill Lily after this.
As I get to the chorus, my anxiety rises with the music. I am horrible at hitting the high notes. Just as I sing the final words before the titular phrase kicks in, I hear a strong low voice from the back of the crowd join in. A voice I’ve heard humming pop songs next to me in the mornings, asking Dad if he needs any help, telling Mom she looks beautiful in her sun hat. I would know that voice anywhere. I’m too overwhelmed to be anything but thankful for the show of support. Nick sings the chorus so loudly he inspires a swell in the crowd, so almost everyone is singing now. I start to belt too. I lift my gaze up, seeing him in the back, his eyes pinned on me, his mouth open in song. My knees feel weak. Thankfully the crowd continues to sing for the rest of the song, so no one can tell how much Nick took my breath away.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Nick
Lesson learned. Big time. Donot,under any circumstances, use a very nice girl to piss someone else off. Do not take said girl to town karaoke only because you know the girl you actually want to see is there. Don’t sing so loudly when the girl you like is up for karaoke that the girl you’re with gives you a confused look and says, ‘Are you obsessed with this song or something?’
Amie won’t stop texting me. Which is a problem for two reasons. The first being, I am not interested in Amie. The second being, she is painfully nice and I have no reason to not be interested in her apart from the fact that she isn’t Eloise. After Anna visiting the farm didn’t elicit any sort of emotion from Eloise at all, I figured whatever we had was gone. I agreed to meet Amie for a beer, but before I knew it I had seen Eloise’s Instagram story and Amie had been thrilled at the prospect of going to karaoke and .?.?. well .?.?. that’s where we ended up.
At least the guilt I’m feeling over Amie is overshadowing the guilt I feel for reaching out to Scott’s Orchards. A text from her startles me from my train of thought, which was barreling towards imaginary scenarios of Eloise finding out about my trying to sell the Parkers’ farm to a conglomerate.
An email pings in as I’m drafting a response to Amie about how glad I am to have a newfriendin town. It’s Scott’s Orchards, confirming the meeting we set up for next week. It took a lot of convincing for them to give me the time of day. To them, we’re a small fish in a big pond. It’s up to me to prove to them that the Parkers are worth the investment.
But the meeting comes at a good time, a little more than halfway through my stay here, and next week gives me plenty of time to give the Parkers a heads up. Lord knows Betsy will be stressed and want to get a new outfit. Joe will protest, claiming he can’t take any time off work. Then he’ll get to the real reason, the reason I’m here in the first place. Betsy and Joe don’t want to sell. But once they see the how much Scott’s Orchards made last season, they’ll be changing their tune.
I’m packing the farmers’ market supplies into the truck with Betsy when a rusty red pickup pulls into the drive behind the Parkers’ blue one, effectively boxing us in. A young man hops out with a huge grin. It’s a little after seven in the morning and we’re rushing to get ready to go. The spots at the market are doled out on a first come, first served basis, and you have to time your arrival right when the coordinator arrives to make sure you get a visible lot. I think I’ve arrived on the perfect time after the last two weeks of trial and error. The Anderson farm got the better spot twice after the Fall Festival, something Eloise wouldn’t stop smirking at me about. Not that it mattered, we still had longer lines. But I want the best spot and the longest line today and I am determined to get it. I’ve been eyeing the middle lot facing the street for weeks.
This is our last farmers’ market before our meeting with Scott’s Orchards. I’ve designed my whole pitch around how much this will diversify their current offering. They are in need of a rebrand, nobody likes a conglomerate anymore, and they could make the Parkers the new face of their brand. A ‘cultural revitalization’ is what I’m calling it. A way to bring their consumers back to the things that make farming special—nutrients and people. Strong farmers’ market sales will boost our pitch, giving Scott’s Orchards yet another reason to invest in the farm. If things go according to plan, Betsy and Joe would still live here and manage it, but they would get an influx of cash to keep them afloat and a larger company to fall back on in case things go wrong. In return, Scott’s Orchards gets a cultural revitalization. A win-win.
But in order for me to get the win, we have to do well at the farmer’s market. I do not have time for any distractions.
I eye the young man in the driveway warily. ‘We’re kind of busy,’ I say.
‘Thanks for getting that outside for me,’ he says at the same time, clearly not hearing me. He nods at the tent. ‘That makes this a whole lot easier. Two hundred, right?’ He starts to peel off bills from his wallet.
‘What?’ I ask. I glance at Betsy, but she looks just as confused.
‘Two hundred,’ he repeats, looking at me then back at Betsy. ‘Which one of you is Nick?’
‘Me,’ I offer, ‘but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The Craigslist ad!’ he says brightly. ‘I’m coming to buy the tent. It says first come first se—’ He stops talking as a large van pulls in right behind him, spraying up dust and gravel. ‘Oh hell naw,’ he says, looking at us, ‘I was here first.’
‘I’ll give two-fifty!’ hollers a woman as she climbs out of her van and jogs towards us. ‘I really need it.’
‘Wait a minute,’ I say, throwing my hands up, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
A third car pulls in behind the van.
‘The Craigslist ad,’ the strangers in the driveway say in unison. The woman takes out her phone and extends it towards me. Sure enough, there’s a photo of our farmers’ market tent. It’s clearly been taken in the dark, with flash. I think back to the time a couple weeks ago when I swore I saw flashlights in the back barn and Mrs. Parker told me she thought it was fireflies.
‘We’re not selling,’ I explain. ‘I’m so sorry. There’s been a mistake.’
The woman looks absolutely crestfallen and the man just looks pissed. When the third person gets out of his car, the first man turns around and yells, ‘Trevor, I knew I’d see you here. Scram!’ And much to my surprise and relief, Trevor does, in fact, scram.
‘I’ll handle this, Betsy. Can you finish getting ready to go?’ Betsy nods, scurrying into the house. I check the time. We were already cutting it close and now we’ll be late.
‘Look,’ I say to the folks waiting in the driveway. ‘I am so sorry, but we’re also in a hurry. We aren’t selling, so you can go.’
The woman rolls her eyes at me and mutters under her breath, ‘Fucking internet,’ before reversing her car down the drive. The man, however, lingers. ‘Look,’ he says, leaning against his car door, ‘I’ll give you three hundred.’
‘We’re really not selling,’ I plead, ‘and you really need to go.’
‘Three-fifty.’
‘This isn’t a negotiation!’ I shout. Betsy is back outside now, waiting for me.
