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The walls around me close in and I press against the surge of claustrophobia hitting me out of nowhere. “I’m going for a drive. Keep the show running, will you?”
“Sure thing.” Derek’s eyes are on me, filled with concern. “We’ll figure it out, cuz.”
“Yeah.” I need to get out, into the fresh air, away from this weight of responsibility that traps me.
By the time I’m back to my senses, I’m on the road us Logan kids all avoid. The road with the bend where the crash happened twenty years ago. The quickest road that takes me past the turn-off to Collingwood Farm, and not the twelve-mile detour I would prefer to take. With her in the passenger seat, fifteen and beautiful, me at last allowed to drive others around without an audience, sixteen and six months to the hour. Her hand on my thigh. My fingers in her hair.
Fuck. The things I’ve given up to get where I am today.
As I slow down to look up the short driveway to the farm buildings, my heart is in my throat. This is the problem with life. You take the route you think best, not being able to see beyond the next bend. Before you can see it for what it is, you’ve unwittingly slipped into a side road that only leads you to a dead end.
A fucking dead end. And I don’t know if I can reverse out of this one.
2
HUNTER
I didn’t plan to stop at Collingwood Farm but now I’m slamming on the brakes. On the side of the road, within the property boundary, two men are putting up a sign at the entrance. Not a small one, a big motherfucker of a sign that’s leaning against one of their trucks.
For sale. Prime real estate. Luxury development. Exclusive lakeside living. Golf estate. Winter sports haven—skiing, snowboarding and cross-country. A beautiful lakeside image of Vermont in the fall seals the deal.
My eyes jump over the catch phrases and my blood rises in a slow, roiling boil. No mention of a single cow pie. Nope. Nothing about a going concern. Zero indication that this is an established organic dairy farm. Instead, handy distances are included: Montreal International Airport—only a two-and-a-half-hour drive. Boston, a three-hour drive. Well, they nipped and tucked on both of those.
New York, a five-hour drive. My ass.
I shift my truck back into drive and shoot off with too much foot on the gas. How dare those Collingwood kids do this to the family farm that’s been handed down for generations? Old Collingwood passed away six years ago but things kept going with a manager and farm hands in place. The kids skipped Vermont long ago for lucrative city careers in law. Lady Collingwood, as we mocked her—the condescending Lucille Collingwood really thought she was in a class of her own—wasn’t Vermont farm wife material. She was a Boston beauty and a city girl to the bone and spent little time on the farm. Once all that history with the Andersons went down sixteen years ago, she permanently left Ashleigh Lake about a year later. When the old man died, she showed her face once and sped out of here as if the place were on fire. The Collingwood kids were at least fifteen years older than me and I have no clue what happened to them. They never showed their faces.
And back then, it never mattered. Six years ago, this farm wasn’t one of my biggest suppliers. Something must have happened to Lady Collingwood to have tipped this first domino. She’s probably passed away.
I run my hand through my hair as I ease my foot off the gas. I have to think.
By the time I reach the turnoff for the Brodie Farm where I grew up, my thoughts are more of a jumble than before. I reverse into the parking spot next to Bill’s truck and for a moment stare at the breathtaking view over the lake. It never gets old. The easy slope from the farmhouse leads the eye to the lake, where the old boathouse stands sentinel at the water. It’s so calm today that the lake mirrors the blue second-summer sky. Wispy clouds float in the water and the picture captures nature in perfect harmony. It’s hard to believe my life has been turned upside down. As I step out of the car I suck in a deep, calming breath and exhale it slowly. Thank God there’s still this.
From the right, a screen door slams and Bill walks onto the porch as I look up.
“Hunter? Thought it was your truck we heard. Everything okay?”
I shake my head as I walk up to the porch. When I saw Bill and May yesterday it was to make plans for the Brodie farm once the loan money came through. Now I’m only here to saddle them with my own problems, and the Logan boys have served them platters full of that for decades. I tried to be the easy one and stay out of trouble, but nothing could lighten the load of four orphaned kids foisted onto these two wonderful people.
“Come have lunch. May took out the shepherd’s pie a minute ago and we just sat down.”
“Thank you.” As I walk inside the warm and welcoming home, a quiver runs through me as this morning’s stress eases off my shoulders. The hearty, rich aromas of the shepherd’s pie ribbon through the air and lure me closer to the kitchen. I’m so lucky to still have this place and these people to come and talk to. Here I can lighten my burden and just be, and the thought of life’s inevitable route that will take them away from me too makes my throat tighten. I swallow and feel every inch of dread as my Adam’s apple drags itself over the pebble in my throat.
“Oh, Hunter. You’re here for lunch. How nice.” May looks up from where she’s dishing up at the ten-seater family table, but her hand stills midair. She slowly puts the plate down. “What’s wrong?”
“I didn’t get the loan because Collingwood Farm is up for sale.”
“We’ve heard about the sale,” Bill says on a sigh as he walks into the open plan kitchen. “From Jo this morning at milking. His son works at Collingwood Farm. They only heard last night. Took everybody by surprise by the sounds of it.”
“I bet.” A surprise and a half. I never want a surprise again at this rate.
“Sit down, son. I’ll sort out a plate and so on.” Bill is at the antique wooden cabinet and reaches for a plate and cutlery.
I sink into my usual spot and meet May’s steady gaze. The lines on her face cut deep, but she has such a soft tenderness about her, every wrinkle a trophy of the love she’s nurtured in our composite family.
May drops her gaze back to the food and continues dishing up as Bill hands her the extra plate. “It’s going to be okay.”
“I drove past the farm. They’re aiming to sell it for development and not as a going concern.”
