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I wondered how many people thought along the lines of Jake—with accusation that I’d abandoned Pop and the farm—and decided it was more than I was comfortable with.
It wasn’t long before I snuck out the back and wandered into the little patch of woods behind the houses, heels hooked on my fingers and spring grass between my toes. I found the old rope swing and sat there swaying, staring at the spot beneath my feet that had once been bald from use, now as thick as the rest. And I thought.
I thought about nothing and I thought about everything, caught in that state of static, wondering how I could feel so much and still be empty. Flickering memories fluttered in my mind, peppered with questions about my future and the future of the farm. But the threads were impossible to grasp. I stood at a nexus with innumerable paths stretching out before me. I could go one of so many directions, but I didn’t have a single hesitation about which way I wanted to go.
What I didn’t know was how far I’d make it. Not very, if Jake had anything to do with it.
With another sigh, I ran my hands over my crown, the water sluicing down the tail of my hair and to the old claw-foot tub with a slap. For three days, I’d been unable to think about anything except Pop and what we were going to do without him. But today when I woke, I knew it was time.
Can’t gain any ground if you’re flat on your back, Livi, Pop would have said.
So with a resigned sort of peace, I’d hauled myself up and taken my first shower since the funeral.
It was well past time for that one.
While I washed my hair and over-conditioned it on behalf of my curls, my mind wandered to the farm and the quandary I faced. It’d been in mild decline when I moved to New York, but at some point in the last few years, the drop-off had been dangerously steep. I didn’t know why yet, and I wouldn’t until I met with Ed, the accountant. Fluctuations in the price of milk maybe, thinning livestock, upkeep of the farm. Farmers were rarely rich folk, and farms did not run cheap. Even the slightest economic shift could have a serious impact on us.
What I did know was that we needed money. And to get money, we needed more business.
That I could do.
Once I was clean, I dried off, scrunching my hair in an old T-shirt—again on behalf of my curls. A blob of curl cream was the extent of my styling, a bonus of farm life. No blowouts, no eyeliner. There was no point in spending an hour straightening the mess that was my hair if it was going to get hay or mud or who knew what else in it. And the heifers didn’t care if I had mascara on, so why should I?
A few minutes later, I trotted down the stairs in a pair of jeans and a white V-neck in search of my boots. But on a cursory scan of my dump zones for such things, I found nothing.
“Kit?” I called, hinging at the waist to look under the coffee table. “Have you seen my boots?”
“Those pristine pink things?” she asked. “Out on the porch.”
I gave her a look. “They’re gonna get spiders in them.”
She waved a hand. “You’ll live. I cleaned the mud off them.”
“How come? They’re just going to get all mucked up again.”
“Well, I know that, but they’re so shiny and new, and I wanted them to stay that way,” she rambled, her cheeks flushing and a dish towel twisted in her hands. “Plus, you know how I am. I can’t stop doing things or …”
“I know.” We shared a long look. “I want to hug you, but I’m afraid we’ll both cry.”
At that, she laughed, tears already shining in her eyes. “Then you’d better get out of here quick.”
So with a smile and a stinging nose, I headed off in the direction of the porch.
My boots sat proudly right next to the front door. They were so cheerful against the white siding and the whitewashed planks of the wraparound porch that I had to take a picture. Phone in hand, I walked down the steps to get the boots closer to eyeline, kneeling on one of the lower steps to line up the shot. An idea struck.
The flower garden.
With a spreading smile, I flitted toward Grandma’s garden, which now was just an overgrown patch of anything and everything with a path cut through it. Every season, Pop would go out there with a variety of seeds he’d mixed up and spread them across the patch inside the white picket fence. Another sprinkling—this time of manure—and in a few weeks, with a bit of rain, the garden would teem, spilling out of its confines in abundance.
