“I know that. But I’d rather sell it so Beck can keep his farm intact,” I explain calmly. “As an investment, it’s a good option. Beck is expanding. He’s about to be the only producer of sweet potato vodka in this part of the state. The farm will be profitable.”
Mom and Dad look at each other, wearing matching frowns. It’s true what they say about long-married couples starting to look alike over the years.
My Dad whips his gaze back to me. “Was this his idea? Is he putting you up to this?”
I snort. “Beck doesn’t even know. I haven’t told him yet.”
Dad side-eyes me. “So this is just a thought you’re kicking around. Nothing more than that.” It’s not a question. I can see he’s already eager to dismiss my plans.
I shake my head. “Nope. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.”
Okay, this is a bit of an overstatement. It actually hasn’t been that long. The idea sprouted like a little seed in the back of my mind after Beck and I started talking again last week when I learned that he hadn’t found a good option to save his farm. But my plans really took root yesterday when I saw him looking so tired and a little defeated.
I can’t stand it. Time is running out for my favorite person in the world, and even if we don’t last as a couple—a prospect I really don’t like imagining—I want him to have this.
And I have it in my power to help him.
Yes, I know my parents have established a trust to help support me. But if they are expecting me to finish my business degree—and for the first time in my life, that actually is something I expect of myself too—then, as a businesswoman, I should have a say in how those investments are managed.
Mom scoffs. “But where will you live? That property is supposed to be your housing. Indefinitely. So you could—” She stops herself before saying move out, but of course that’s what she was going to say.
It doesn’t hurt my feelings. I’m ready to move out.
“Don’t worry. I’m still moving out.” And the way she jolts tells me I might have said it a bit too loudly. I take a breath and explain. “Even though Beck doesn’t know about my intentions yet, I’ve shared them with his dad. Their third bedroom is officially mine.”
Technically, this is true. If Plan A doesn’t pan out and I can’t use some of my trust to help buy out the farm, then Plan B is to sell my townhouse to do just that. And Pop made it clear that I am welcome to live with them and I don’t have to share with Beck if I’d rather have my own space.
Of course I want to share with Beck, and that third bedroom would make an excellent sewing studio and launchpad for Hattie’s Attic.
If I have to sell my townhouse.
Mom and Dad exchange shocked looks.
I don’t mention that I shared the plan not only with Pop but with Griffin and Kennedy—this morning—who are also on board.
And it was Griffin’s idea that Olivier Family Farms go from four owners to five. Which is perfect since my contribution, whether in the form of my trust or my townhouse would only be about $250K.
That leaves one hundred thousand to go, but Griffin reassured me that Beck’s line of credit could cover half of that. The other half? Griffin’s husband Kennedy will be investing in the family business too.
I like that.
I like the words “investing” and the words “family business” and the word “too.”
The suggestion that we are family. That I am a part of their collective.
Even if Beck has no inkling of this plan. Yet.
When Dad looks back at me, he’s frowning. “Are you sure that’s wise? The two of you have only been dating a short time. He…” Dad crosses his arms over his chest before shrugging. “He may not love the idea of you moving in.”
I roll my eyes. “Obviously, I’m going to tell Beck before anything is official. And I’m not asking him to marry me.”
Though the idea has enough appeal to have me fighting a smile.
I get that we’re new. I understand odds and statistics.
But I also know what I feel.
That image of Beck washing a little girl’s hair? I’m all about it.
