Page 15 of The Burbs and the Bees
“Thanks for helping.” She waves her arms around. “Where does all this stuff come from?”
“The apples are last year’s crop. We, and by we, I mean, you, still have some produce in cold storage. I can show you that later if you like.” I wave my hand toward the back of the orchard. “Out back, Jack has an extensive vegetable garden, and he also purchases a lot of produce from my farm. He bags them and sells them here, and the craft stuff, like the sweaters, gloves, and mugs, and artwork, are here on consignment from local artists.”
“Amazing.” She goes quiet as the customers approach the counter, and I ring in their order. After they pay and leave, she says, “You don’t run a market?”
“No, but I have a U-Pick in the works. I’m waiting on the right permits. Insurance for people on the property and all that.” I reach under the counter and produce a folder. “Your paperwork is all here, for when you sell.”
“Oh, thanks. I guess that’s pretty important. You know, for when I sell.” She steps toward me, and while she’s trying to portray confidence and composure, there is a tightness in her shoulders that once again stirs my gut. She’s a nice girl, cares about tourists and animals, and I wish I could tell her everything will be all right. It won’t be, and I’m not about to give her false hope. I don’t want to see the farm sell to Bryce Kent, the local who’s been itching to buy it. Jack never really liked the man, and I only mentioned I knew a buyer simply because I think Jack would rather the farm succeed than see it run into the ground by a relative who is outside her comfort zone. She has no chance of success, and she pretty much told me she knew it.
“How… I mean, are people hired to take care of the trees and sprays and things?”
“Sprays and things?” I ask.
“Yeah, you know, like pruning, fertilizing, harvesting.” She waves her phone. “Google search.”
“Yes, Jack hires seasonal workers. The spring pruning has been taken care of; fall pruning will need to be done; trees have to be checked for disease and rot; and harvest is September to October. Jack sells his good apples to local grocery stores, the fallen ones to the juice makers. He hires pickers in the fall. All the information is in this file, but you won’t have to worry about that.”
Her body tightens, a sure sign that she’s overwhelmed by all this. “Right. Still, I’m interested in how things work.” She tilts her head. “Do those tractors out back have a manual I can read?”
“Yeah, I can probably find them.”
“I know nothing about this, but how hard can it be to run a farm, anyway?” she asks, making light of what we do in farm country, which seriously pisses me off.
I clench down on my teeth at her naïveté, her ignorance, her goddamn judgment. Really, though, did I expect anything more? I get it. City folk, especially ones who come from wealth, will always look at us hardworking farmers as dim-witted rednecks. They have no idea how hard we work or how much we care about the food that goes into their mouths.
She falters a little when I go silent. “Wait, I never meant—”
“Is that what you plan to wear on your feet while you’re here?” I ask and cut her off. I’m in no mood to defend what I do here or explain how important it is to me for people to buy local to make farming profitable and sustainable for our entire community. Instead, I let my gaze slide downward. When I realize I’m lingering a little too long on her pink-painted toenails, I jerk my head up. Dark lashes blink over wary eyes, and damn if I don’t get the sense that this girl needs a friend. I’m not sure why that twists me up inside.
“The airline lost my luggage, but I have to confess, I don’t have anything appropriate for farming. Do, uh, do you know where can I get proper footwear and attire?”
I jerk my thumb over my shoulder. “Down on Main Street. But it’s closed right now. Definitely not the kind of clothes you’re used to. Maybe you should just make use of Jack’s things for the next couple days.”
She frowns, and her shoulders drop. “I know you think I’m ridiculous.”
“I never said that.”
She opens her mouth like she’s about to counter but instead tugs on the collar of her shirt. Worried blue eyes search my face. “So you don’t think Jack would mind that I borrowed this?”
My insides soften at her concern for her late uncle. “He wouldn’t have minded at all. He would have liked it actually.”
She hesitates for a brief second. What other worries are going through that pretty head of hers? Probably a ton. She’s in quite the predicament, and I probably shouldn’t get too involved in her world. She’ll be gone sooner rather than later. Yeah, it’s best I keep at arm’s length while she’s here. My mother has other ideas for me—obviously. I get what she was doing with the pie—but I’ll straighten her out on that the second I see her.
She points to the small kitchen and big farmhouse table in the other room. “What’s all this for?”
“Jack made jams and preserves, as well as lunches for the visitors. He hired a local to help him in the kitchen when things were busy.” Lines form around her mouth and tighten as she looks downward. I get it: cooking isn’t in her wheelhouse, either. I pat the file. “Her contact information is in this file if you want to reach out to her.”
“I should probably be okay.” A forced laugh catches in her throat as she holds up her phone like it’s her lifeline, and I suspect it is. “Google.”
She might be a lot of things—everything about her screams pampered socialite, and I know the type all too well—but she’s tenacious and has a kind heart. But farming is hard work, and something tells me this city girl wouldn’t know a day’s labor if it jumped up and smacked her in the face. If that’s not enough to drive her awa
y by the end of the week, she’s a city girl—like my ex-fiancée. Juanita lasted all of four weeks.
“You, ah, want to stay and have a piece of pie?” she asks.
“My brother’s birthday was today, and I already had a slice, but thanks.”
Her lids lift, her eyes brightening. “You have a brother?”
