Page 18 of After We Fall (After We Fall 2)
“And her own trust fund.” I laughed a little. “I don’t mind doing things for a good cause, and I like their cause. Plus it’s not only for them, it’s for the community and the economy and the common good! Did you know there’s such a thing as food insecurity?”
“What the hell is that? Tomatoes with trust issues?”
“Lack of access to adequate, nutritious, affordable food. And it’s not only in urban areas, it’s in rural areas too. People who live surrounded by farms might never eat what’s grown and harvested right in their backyard! We export what we grow and import what we eat. It’s crazy!”
She laughed. “You’re starting to sound a little crazy.”
“Sorry. I got sidetracked today by poverty statistics when I was researching sustainable agriculture and food justice.”
“Food justice?”
“The right of communities to grow, sell, and eat healthy food. It’s a huge movement I had no idea existed, but now I’m really inspired. I want to get involved.”
“Gah. You’re such a softie. Let me know when you’re home.”
“I will. Night.” I ended the call, and punched the address of the cottage into Google Maps. While jabbering away to Jaime, I’d kept walking when I should have turned, and missed my street by about three blocks. I backtracked, found my way home, and texted her that I made it.
Fifteen minutes later, I turned off the lights and got in bed, curling up on one side. As soon as I shut my eyes, Jack Valentini popped into my head and stubbornly refused to leave. How predictable of him.
I flopped onto my back. He was so aggravating. Was he going to shoot down every idea I had? I wondered if he’d always been so crotchety. Did he ever laugh? Had he been different before his wife’s death? Before the Army? Was it any one thing that made him so different than his brothers, or was it everything?
On a whim, I turned the lamp on again and got up to grab my laptop. I brought it back to the bed and sat cross-legged in front of it, trying not to feel creepy as I Googled Stephanie Valentini.
The first search didn’t turn up anything enlightening, so I added Michigan and drunk driving death to the search words, feeling even worse about what I was doing. But it worked. Eventually I found a local news article about the accident, and I clicked on the link.
Two photos appeared at the top of the page, and I covered my mouth with one hand. On the left was a close-up of a pretty, dark-haired woman with huge brown eyes and dimples. On the right was a wedding picture of Jack and Steph, and it stunned me to see him smiling and happy, breathtakingly handsome.
The headline was chilling: Man with 2 previous drunk driving convictions kills local woman in hit and run. The details were sickening. She’d worked a shift waitressing at a bar just up the highway, and her car had conked out on the ride home. Her cell phone was dead, so she’d been walking the half-mile toward the farm when a drunk driver with previous convictions and an open container of alcohol in the car struck her. He drove away but drove into a ditch not two miles down the road. Another driver saw the accident, and called 911. Steph had been airlifted to the hospital but died several hours later of her injuries. The driver had been taken to jail and held on a $1 million bond.
I read the article once more and stared at the wedding photo for a long time. Finally, I closed the computer, plugged it back in to the charger, and slipped beneath the covers again.
No wonder, I thought. No wonder he was the way he was. That kind of loss, plus the loss of his father and whatever he’d experienced in the Army, could harden anybody.
I felt bad that my being here was causing him more distress. I pushed too hard tonight. That was my fault. I needed to convince him that I honestly cared about what he was doing and really did want to help, but I needed a less direct approach. What would it take to make him look at me differently? See me as a friend?
Or something more…
No. Just stop that train right there and get off, Margot. For God’s sake, he’s a client! And he’s still wearing a wedding band! You’re a little attracted to him, yes. You feel sorry for him, fine. You want to help his farm, sure. But leave it at that.
Sighing, I rolled onto my stomach and tried to stop thinking about him.
But I tossed and turned all night.
At five thirty, I gave up on sleep and tugged on running shorts, a tank top, and running shoes. If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well try to get a little exercise. I figured I’d make my way up to the highway, then head across and up the dirt road next to the Valentini farm. Scout it out a bit.
I put my hair up, locked the door, and tucked the cottage key into the little hidden pocket on my shorts before setting off at a light jog. Behind me, the sun was just peeking up over the lake, turning the sky a gorgeous orange-pink. The punishing heat of the day was hours away, and the air felt cool and refreshing against my arms and legs. I smiled at an early dog walker and an old couple out for a hand-in-hand sunrise stroll, but my spirits flagged when I reached the highway and realized I should have gone to the bathroom before I left.
Oh, well. I’d be OK for a quick jog, wouldn’t I? I’d just loop around their property and head back. How big could a “small farm” be?
As it turns out, pretty fucking big.
I headed west on the dirt road—past the orchard, big plots planted with vegetables, a pasture, and finally thick woods. By the time I turned left at the far edge of their property, I had to go, and the pressure in my bladder quickly escalated from bad to worse.
Biting my lip, I eyed the woods behind the Valentini fence on my left and the open pasture of someone else’s farm on the right before glancing back the way I’d come. I hadn’t seen a single soul back here. But…but I was outside. Could I really?
I don’t think I need to tell you I’m not a terribly outdoorsy type of girl. My idea of “roughing it” is a three-star hotel, I certainly don’t camp, and the one time I had to use a port-o-potty at a concert Jaime dragged me to I thought I was going to die of disgust. Or a bacterial infection.
Would peeing outside like an animal be worse than the port-o-potty? What would I use to wipe myself? I’d heard stories about girls having to do this before, but clearly I’d never paid close enough attention! Did you drip dry like a boy? Use a leaf? But I had sensitive skin! And what if I used poison ivy by mistake? Or some other harmful plant? Wasn’t there something called poison oak? I didn’t know what those things looked like! Why hadn’t I brought my phone? Throwing scones was one thing, but this was something I still found dreadfully unpalatable.
