Page 89 of Trick or Tease

“Damn fine work,” John said, nodding approvingly.

“My nephew drove down over last weekend just because he saw something about it online. Said it was the best corn maze he’d ever been through.”

I found myself oddly emotional. These people had dropped everything to help us, asking for nothing in return except maybe the same favor someday. It was the kind of community I’d forgotten existed.

“Thanks, everyone,” I called out. “We really appreciate the help.”

The cheers that went up from our little group sounded like we’d just won the Super Bowl instead of hanging a farm sign. The energy was infectious. I found myself grinning and clapping along with everyone else, caught up in the celebration.

Before I could even process that we were apparently having an impromptu party in my driveway, the rumble of another engine cut through the chatter. A massive four-wheeler came barreling down the road toward us, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The rider pulled up right next to our group and killed the engine. When the dust settled, a woman in her sixties hopped off. She was wearing faded jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt that had definitely seen better days, but her smile was bright enough to power the whole county.

“John Miller, you didn’t tell me you were throwing a party without me!” she called out, pulling what looked like a cooler from the back of her four-wheeler.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Marge.” John laughed, walking over to kiss his wife on the cheek. “The boys were just hanging their new sign.”

“Well, perfect timing then,” Marge said, popping open the cooler. “I was making sandwiches for John’s lunch anyway and figured I’d make a few extra. Good thing, since half the neighborhood’s here!”

She started pulling out wrapped sandwiches and passing them around like she was feeding her own family. The smell of homemade bread hit me. I wasn’t hungry but damn, I was not about to reject fresh bread.

“Here you go, honey,” she said, pressing a sandwich into my hands. “You must be Billy’s brother. I remember you when you were about yay high.” She held her hand at waist level. “Your mama used to bring you to the church potlucks. You always went straight for my chocolate cake.”

I was stunned. This woman had made extra food on the off chance that people might be hungry, then driven over on her four-wheeler to make sure everyone was fed. In Manhattan, I didn’t even know my next-door neighbors’ names, let alone their favorite desserts from thirty years ago.

“Thank you,” I managed. “This is incredibly kind of you.”

She waved me off. “Nonsense. That’s what neighbors do.”

I bit into the sandwich and had to suppress a groan of pleasure. The bread was definitely homemade, the ham was thick-cut and perfect, probably from a pig Billy had helped fatten up last year. It was better than anything I’d paid twenty dollars for in the city.

Around me, the other men were digging into their own sandwiches with the kind of appreciation that only came from people who understood the difference between store-bought and homemade. The conversation flowed easily as I stood and observed. They talked about the weather, whose corn was ready for harvest, whose kids were starting school where.

It hit me that this was what community actually looked like. Not the networking events I attended in Manhattan, where everyone was calculating what they could get from each other, but genuine care. These people had shown up because Billy asked, stayed because they wanted to celebrate with us, and now Marge was feeding everyone because that’s just what you did.

I found myself thinking about my apartment building in the city. Forty-three floors, probably three hundred units, and I could count on one hand the number of people I’d actually spoken to. If I needed help moving furniture or hanging something heavy, I hired someone. If I was hungry, I ordered delivery. If I was lonely, well, I worked longer hours.

“My hardware store’s already seeing more business from people stopping to ask directions to your place,” Mike said to Billy.

“That’s the idea,” Billy said, grinning. “Rising tide lifts all boats, right?”

“Smart thinking.” Tom nodded. “We could use more reasons for people to visit Greenleaf. Been too quiet around here for too long.”

I watched the easy camaraderie between these men and felt something I hadn’t experienced in years—belonging. Not the conditional belonging of the law firm, where my value was tied to my billable hours, but the simple acceptance of people who knew my family, remembered my childhood, and were willing to help just because I was Billy’s brother.

The guilt about the appraisal hit me again, sharper this time. These people were investing their time and energy in our success, and I was secretly working to potentially sell off what they were helping to build.

33

SABRINA

Istopped by Granny Mae’s house and delivered the potatoes Lucy’s family had put aside for her.

“What are you doing here?” Granny asked.

“Bringing you potatoes.”

“I thought you’d be up at the Hogan farm.”