On Sunday, I head out with Derek Meyers and Paul Wagner to look at used cars. One SUV is oddly cheap. The owner tells us that’s because it’s leaking oil and needs a new head gasket. He might as well be speaking Martian, but luckily Wags understands car talk. He looks under the hood while Meysy calls up a mechanic friend. After a bit of negotiating, I’m the owner of a 2006 Subaru Forester.
“We’ll take it to Jasper’s shop. He’ll have it ready for you sometime next week,” Meysy says.
“It’s the right car to get you through winter here,” Wags says.
“How bad is it going to be?” I wonder.
Meysy raises a hand over his head. “Last year, we had snowbanks up to here.”
As usual, I can’t tell if I’m being bullshitted or not. Scare the Californian is the team pastime. They keep bugging me about all my clothing layers, but after the heat of SoCal, I’m freezing.
Wags nods. “This thing’s got four-wheel drive. That’ll get you through. You ever driven in snow before?”
I shake my head.
He continues, “Black ice is the thing you gotta watch for. You think the road is bare, but you can’t get any traction. And remember, you gotta steer into a skid.”
Whatever that means. Maybe I’ll ride with Zoe when it snows a lot. I’m going to miss having a chauffeur. I won’t miss getting to school two hours early though.
Meysy comes over to the farm, both to return Zoe’s car and have dinner. Having seen what passes for dinner at the hockey house, I can’t blame him.
“Derek, you’re home.” Denise lights up at the sight of him. “Come on in. I’ve got coffee and donuts.”
Zoe is already out in the yard inspecting my new vehicle. I’m wearing a hoodie and a jacket, while she’s wearing cut-off shorts and a T-shirt. With rubber boots, of course, but that doesn’t hide her long, bare legs.
“I thought you’d choose something more sporty,” she says.
“Apparently Maseratis don’t handle well in two feet of snow.” I think sadly of my ’Vette back at home. My father’s probably returned it to the leasing company by now. He probably doesn’t want any reminders of me around.
“What chores are you doing now?” I ask. She has work gloves on and a basket of produce.
“Oh, just harvesting a few things before the first frost. I’ll put them up in the root cellar, and they’ll last all winter.”
“You have a root cellar?” I understand both words but not together.
“Of course. It’s really cool. Literally, like temperature cool. You want to take a look?”
“I don’t know. I’ve seen a lot of horror movies. Seems like an excuse to get the city boy in the basement and murder him.” I say as I follow her. Ordinarily, I’d rather join Meysy for donuts, but Zoe’s enthusiasm has me intrigued.
“If I want to murder you, I’ll make you do the milking alone. That’ll kill you.”
“Hey. I’m getting better,” I protest. “How about I milk alone tomorrow?”
I’m on my own next weekend, so I’ve been meaning to do a trial run while Zoe’s still here. Denise apparently has zero to do with the farm, so I’m not sure if she could even help me.
We go down a scary set of stairs into a murky darkness. Zoe pulls on a string and an overhead bulb goes on. We’re in a tiny room crammed with shelves and… food. There are bins of cabbages, apples, and potatoes. There are braids of garlic and onions. And there are mason jars glowing with amber, ruby, and jade contents.
“Holy shit,” I exclaim, because not only is this a lot of food, but it’s a lot of work. And I’ll bet that Zoe has done it all. “Wait, are you a prepper?”
She snorts. “Of course not. By the time spring comes, we’ll have gone through most of this food.”
I look at the cabbages and squash. “How does it not go bad?”
She taps one hand on the wall, and I realize it’s made of dirt. “This cellar was built about a hundred years ago. Before anyone had giant fridges and freezers, so cold storage was the only way they could keep food through the winter. These walls regulate the temperature.”
She pulls a jar off the shelf. “This is the strawberry rhubarb jam you love so much.”
Zoe looks really cute right now. When she’s in her element here at the farm, her face glows with excitement. Even in the half-light here, her eyes are sparkling, her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are pink and slightly parted.
I catch myself staring at her mouth and turn my attention to the jam. “I thought canning meant in cans, not jars.”
Zoe shakes her head. “You’ve probably never seen a Mason jar before.”
“Sure, I have. They serve drinks in these in lots of restaurants.”
“Good grief. That’s ridiculous. You’re so trendy,” Zoe says trendy like someone else might say “psychotic.” She’s not someone who would ever insist on going to the latest hot spot for a date.
“When do you find time to do all this?” I wave at the shelves.
“In the summer. I just have a part-time job at the tourist office, so there’s oodles of time. Derek helped too.”
Denise calls us upstairs. She’s made dinner tonight, in honor of Meysy’s return. Dinner is a lot of fun, between his wisecracks and Zoe’s corny jokes.
Afterwards, Denise takes Meysy back home, and I clean up the kitchen with Zoe.
“Hey, I got some good news. I got a bursary,” I tell her. Coach Keller called me into his office on Friday to let me know. The fact that I’m old enough to apply as a student without parental support was key. Instead of the son of Gary Goodwin, I’m just plain Noah Goodwin.
“Oh no,” Zoe says. “Does that mean you’re leaving?” She sounds genuinely upset.
“Didn’t know you cared,” I say.
“Oh for Pete’s sake. It’s not about you. We need you to work on the farm when I’m away.” She wipes the counter with more violence than necessary.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist. It’s not that much money.” But it is enough that I don’t have to panic if something goes wrong. I had another talk with Coach Keller about whether I should stay on the farm. I reassured him that I could handle it.
I’ve come to enjoy living here. The lifestyle suits me. I’m not eating the specially balanced diet that I’ve been on since I was fourteen, but the farm food is amazing. It’s fresh, local, organic, and delicious. Zoe barely uses any processed foods. It’s like a step back in time, which is exactly what some dieticians recommend. Besides, with all the farm work piled on top of my regular training and hockey, I need extra calories. Despite all the delicious food I’ve been eating, my weight hasn’t changed at all.
“So, you’d be hooped if I leave?” I ask.
Zoe scowls. “I suppose you’re going to use this to blackmail me in some way.”
I yank her chain a little. “Do you do laundry?”
“Are you serious right now? You can’t cook, you can’t milk goats, and you don’t even know how composting works. How did you get through life before you got here?”
“Servants,” I say.
Before the top of Zoe’s head blows off, I tell her I’m joking. Although I’m pretty sure that she would consider our housekeeper and landscapers to be a huge indulgence.
She sighs. “I usually do my laundry on Tuesdays. If you want I could do yours too.”
I lean towards Zoe, close enough to see the cute sprinkle of freckles on her nose. “I told you I was kidding. If you really want to fondle my briefs, you’ll have to find another way.”
Zoe doesn’t even answer this. Instead she stalks out and begins rounding up chickens. The house is boring and empty without her.