peers, and Sharon was wholly absorbed in motherhood. As for Colm—well, too much attention there. He’d read a Dorothy L. Sayers mystery novel, and, like her Lord Peter Wimsy, had begun proposing to Ruth once a week. She couldn’t accept, of course, not yet. She’d grown used to her freedom, too, hadn’t she? Did she ever want to marry again?
Colm wasn’t discouraged, though; Wimsey did finally get the girl. But Ruth wasn’t going to conform to some woman in a mystery novel. Oh no.
Free of Moll, she shooed the cows into the barn, got the first four ready for milking. Just as she was about to disinfect the teats, Emily ran into the barn, breathless. “I went [gasp] for a ride [gasp] with [gasp] Adam. We had a flat tire, Mom, on Snake Mountain Road [gasp]. Adam didn’t have a jack, we had to hike to somebody’s house.”
“Yes,” Ruth said, not wanting to hear the tale. She was tired, her back was aching; she needed help, not excuses. “You can tell me later. Prep those cows, will you? Then we’ll milk. The cows won’t wait. Molly’s getting antsy.”
She knew she should listen now. But she was everybody’s mother here: not just to Emily, but to three dozen cows and calves! Seeing Emily’s lips tighten, she relented. If Emily couldn’t confide in her, what crazy thing might the girl do? She thought of the Rowan boy whose parents had deserted him for work and religion.
“I’m sorry, Em. I really want to hear all about it. At supper, okay? I’ve made a meat loaf.”
“Meat loaf again?” said Emily, sounding world-weary, and Ruth sighed, turned back to the cows. Immediately, of course, the barn phone rang, and mechanically she picked it up. “Hello?” she said, hearing her own voice hard, and then harder still when she heard who it was. “Pete? What do you want, Pete?”
It was Pete who should be here milking these cows; angry tears squeezed out of her eyes. “What are you into now, Pete? You’re a developer, are you? Buying up people’s dreams? They’ve had problems at that orchard, Pete, they’re good people. They’re trying to make a go of it.”
“Wait a minute, wait,” he said, sounding laid back as always, making her seem the shrew. “I’ll explain.”
She heard him clear his throat, heard the change jingle in his pocket. She remembered that about him: He always cleared his throat when he was nervous, jingled the change in his pocket. Good. She’d wait it out. Why was she still bitter? She’d have to get over it. She should accept separations, accept divorce. “This is the twentieth century, Mother,” her daughter Sharon would remind her. “Divorcees are civilized to each other.” Yet when she saw Pete, heard his voice, the old shock of his leaving welled back up in her.
Finally Pete said, “This woman, she’s a friend of Violet’s.” (Violet, oh yes, that was the woman’s name—she kept forgetting it.) “She ... I...” He was confused now; she relished it. “She knew I farmed for a time.”
“A time? Twenty-two years,” she said.
Ignoring the comment, he went on. “I, um, know the area. I said I’d help out. The friend is from downstate New York. Trying to get back to the land, you know, has some capital.”
Back to the land all right, she thought, and waited again.
“Well, that’s it. I’m helping out a little.”
“You’re a partner.”
“Well, that was her idea.”
“You told her to go to that orchard. You knew they had some, well, problems?”
“I did read about the spraying last spring. I get the local paper, like to know what’s going on.” He chuckled. “I am a native here,” he reminded her. “My parents and grand-parents are—”
“Buried here, yes.”
She heard him pull in a breath. “I think I’ve explained,” he said stiffly. “And it wasn’t just because they’ve had ‘problems.’ We— she—has called on other orchards and farms.”
“Not this farm, Pete. I don’t want her coming around here.”
Now it was
Colm wasn’t discouraged, though; Wimsey did finally get the girl. But Ruth wasn’t going to conform to some woman in a mystery novel. Oh no.
Free of Moll, she shooed the cows into the barn, got the first four ready for milking. Just as she was about to disinfect the teats, Emily ran into the barn, breathless. “I went [gasp] for a ride [gasp] with [gasp] Adam. We had a flat tire, Mom, on Snake Mountain Road [gasp]. Adam didn’t have a jack, we had to hike to somebody’s house.”
“Yes,” Ruth said, not wanting to hear the tale. She was tired, her back was aching; she needed help, not excuses. “You can tell me later. Prep those cows, will you? Then we’ll milk. The cows won’t wait. Molly’s getting antsy.”
She knew she should listen now. But she was everybody’s mother here: not just to Emily, but to three dozen cows and calves! Seeing Emily’s lips tighten, she relented. If Emily couldn’t confide in her, what crazy thing might the girl do? She thought of the Rowan boy whose parents had deserted him for work and religion.
“I’m sorry, Em. I really want to hear all about it. At supper, okay? I’ve made a meat loaf.”
“Meat loaf again?” said Emily, sounding world-weary, and Ruth sighed, turned back to the cows. Immediately, of course, the barn phone rang, and mechanically she picked it up. “Hello?” she said, hearing her own voice hard, and then harder still when she heard who it was. “Pete? What do you want, Pete?”
It was Pete who should be here milking these cows; angry tears squeezed out of her eyes. “What are you into now, Pete? You’re a developer, are you? Buying up people’s dreams? They’ve had problems at that orchard, Pete, they’re good people. They’re trying to make a go of it.”
“Wait a minute, wait,” he said, sounding laid back as always, making her seem the shrew. “I’ll explain.”
She heard him clear his throat, heard the change jingle in his pocket. She remembered that about him: He always cleared his throat when he was nervous, jingled the change in his pocket. Good. She’d wait it out. Why was she still bitter? She’d have to get over it. She should accept separations, accept divorce. “This is the twentieth century, Mother,” her daughter Sharon would remind her. “Divorcees are civilized to each other.” Yet when she saw Pete, heard his voice, the old shock of his leaving welled back up in her.
Finally Pete said, “This woman, she’s a friend of Violet’s.” (Violet, oh yes, that was the woman’s name—she kept forgetting it.) “She ... I...” He was confused now; she relished it. “She knew I farmed for a time.”
“A time? Twenty-two years,” she said.
Ignoring the comment, he went on. “I, um, know the area. I said I’d help out. The friend is from downstate New York. Trying to get back to the land, you know, has some capital.”
Back to the land all right, she thought, and waited again.
“Well, that’s it. I’m helping out a little.”
“You’re a partner.”
“Well, that was her idea.”
“You told her to go to that orchard. You knew they had some, well, problems?”
“I did read about the spraying last spring. I get the local paper, like to know what’s going on.” He chuckled. “I am a native here,” he reminded her. “My parents and grand-parents are—”
“Buried here, yes.”
She heard him pull in a breath. “I think I’ve explained,” he said stiffly. “And it wasn’t just because they’ve had ‘problems.’ We— she—has called on other orchards and farms.”
“Not this farm, Pete. I don’t want her coming around here.”
Now it was
Similar Books
