Three log gums stood on Grace land. Edith couldn’t stop smiling. That should supply all the honey she needed for as long as she needed it. Would the Oscars object if she moved the remaining log gums to her side of the boundary? They shouldn’t mind, since Grant had planned on destroying them all when he plowed the land under. Would the smaller parcel produce as much honey?
When Edith glanced at Grant, she knew he wasn’t pleased. He didn’t own all the land he thought was his all along, but the Oscars still had the larger portion of the parcel, and the thorny issue about the honey could be easily resolved.
“What’s troubling you, Grant?” She spoke quietly so only he could hear her.
He ground his teeth together, which informed her more certainly than anything else that the result hadn’t pleased him. “I should be laughing. God’s played a pretty trick on me.”
A puzzled frown replaced her smile. “What more could you want? I have plenty of honey, and you have most of the land to farm.” A thought struck her. “Or did you hope that the shared meadow was a tall tale and you did own all the land after all? Perhaps we ought to put up a fence so that our grandchildren don’t make the same mistake a hundred years from now.”
His face went red at the same time she realized what she had said. If they had grandchildren together—she wouldn’t allow her mind to go in that direction. She would rather be a spinster than marry a man so they could join their farms together.
“You don’t know anything.”
She barely understood his words, the way his mouth hardly moved, his jaw shut tighter than a sealed can of peaches. “Then explain it to me. We’re friends. At least we used to be, and I am very fond of your father. I would never do anything to harm either one of you. But I don’t understand what difference a few square feet of farmland can make.”
She needed to calm down. The meadow had been her sanctuary for years, a place she could come and commune with the God who created it all. She breathed in and out. Bees flew around their heads and hands. How beautiful the creatures were, the furry black and yellow stripes dancing around the black center and yellow petals of the sunflower.
“You wouldn’t understand.” Grant repeated his answer and walked in the direction of their parents. He wouldn’t let things rest until they resolved the situation.
Picking a sunflower, she pressed it to her face and breathed in the sweet smell before twirling the flower between her fingers. She started pulling off the petals. He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me. The final petal said “He loves me.” Edith looked toward heaven. “You love me. I already knew that. But is there someone else?” She looked at Grant and shook her head.
Her mother was smiling, apparently as happy with the outcome as Edith was herself. Papa was paying Mr. Nelson for his services. Edith looked behind them and saw the posts wavering in the wind. They would need to get them firmly planted so no one—that is, Grant—could question the boundary markings.
Grant was on his knees, talking with his father face-to-face. That showed a good side to him. Mr. Oscar was shaking his head, as if he disagreed with something his son had said.
Grant moved closer, his knees almost touching his father’s. Did Mr. Oscar feel intimidated? Not that Grant was doing it on purpose. She decided to join them. What harm could it do? She walked to the wagon and gave Mr. Oscar a quick hug.
“Honey yours.” He smiled at her.
“Half of it is, at least. And that’s probably as much as I need.” She stood to face Grant. “Do you want to secure the boundary posts, or shall I? Or perhaps you want something more permanent—like a fence?”
Mr. Oscar shook his head, and even Grant had the grace to blush. “We could do it together.” Grant’s mouth quirked into a crooked grin. She blinked, taken aback at the humor. “And no, I don’t want a fence. We’ll find another solution.”
“Leave alone.” Mr. Oscar pounded the ground with his cane. “God’s way.”
Her parents interrupted. “Now we know how the property is divided, we all need time to think about what we’ve learned. Then we can iron out any problems together. Shall we come to your house in a week?”
“Two days,” Grant said.
Edith’s eyebrows raised. Why so fast?
“We’ll be there on Friday, then.” Mama made arrangements for a picnic lunch. “Are you ready to head home?” she asked Edith.
Edith wanted a few minutes alone with Grant, to see if he would open up to her, but Mr. Oscar needed to get back home. “If you have time this afternoon, why don’t we both work on fixing the poles? We can make quick work of it.”
Grant opened his mouth, and she feared his refusal. “That sounds wise. Two o’clock?”
“I’ll see you then.” Edith followed her parents, dropping the stripped flower.
Grant picked up the sunflower and stared at its brown center. Pulling the petals seemed so unlike her. It reminded him of the child’s game to determine a boy’s interest. For a second, he hoped that’s what she had done and what the answer was.
“Edie like you.” Pa pointed to the flower.
Grant shook his head. “She thinks I’m crazy to plow the meadow.” He picked up his father and settled him in the back of the wagon.
“You are.” Grant felt the cackle against his chest. He secured the chair so it wouldn’t roll off the wagon and wiped a weary hand over his forehead. “I’m not going to argue with you about it today. Let’s ask God for an answer neither one of us has come up with yet.”
Maybe he should ask Edie. That one was full of ideas and wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
When they reached the house, Grant again lifted his father. Pa was so worn out, he couldn’t lace his arms around his son’s neck, making it harder to carry him. Grant himself was tired by the time they settled inside the house. “I could use a cup of tea with honey right about now.” He might as well enjoy it as long as he had it.
The answering smile on Pa’s face decided the matter. While the tea was brewing, Grant threw together ham sandwiches and drew a couple of pickles from a jar.
The honey tempted him to run his finger around the rim of the bottle after he sweetened his tea. The first cup went down so quickly that it almost burned his throat, but the smooth honey eased the pain.
After lunch, Grant settled Pa in his favorite chair by the front window for his afternoon nap. Grant went over the account books again, checking for a loophole he had missed the first three times he had looked. Pa hadn’t kept business and household expenses separate, so Grant couldn’t tell for certain what had created the debt. Back in 1893, during the bank crisis, Grant found a few entries that suggested his father had helped his neighbors out. The numbers were listed without names. That was Pa, generous without protecting his future. He’d probably say that was God’s job.
Grant glanced at his father. If he asked, Pa might refuse to answer. And would Grant understand the names, with his garbled speech?
The day’s mail contained mixed news. One request for payment had been returned, the client having moved without a forwarding address. Grant’s temples pounded while he checked the balance in the account book. Fifteen dollars. The amount wasn’t ruinous, but every extra penny mattered.
On the other hand, another envelope revealed payment in full for one of the larger accounts.
Unfortunately, unpaid accounts outnumbered the paid accounts. For businesses affected by the bank crisis, Pa had either written off the debt or continued to carry it. Not only so, he continued to sell to them, long past the point of financial sense. He didn’t seem to understand that he couldn’t feed anyone if he didn’t keep the farm.
If Grant had been home, he might have seen the danger signs earlier. If he had been home, he could have eased the workload his father carried and perhaps prevented his stroke. If only. He couldn’t change the past, and he had asked God’s forgiveness. He still felt the daily panic, and he lashed out at the closest person. Even Pa, which made Grant even angrier at himself.
And also at Miss Edie Grace, who with her winning attitude and determination represented all the things the Oscar farm needed. Pa was right. She’d make someone a fine wife, a fine farm wife, and she was pretty, smart, a believer—everything a man could want. But while she might love Grant Oscar Sr., she had made it clear how she felt about the junior version.
Maybe today when they pounded in the poles, he could help rectify that.
The final piece of mail was a circular that Grant dangled over the trash can until the headline caught his eye. FIFTY-DOLLAR CASH PRIZE FOR BEST VERMONT-MADE PRODUCT in celebration of the 50th annual Rutland State Fair. Other cash prizes promised for the best in produce, animal husbandry, and housewifely arts.
Grant rapped his fingers on the desk. Most of this year’s crop was average at best, given the intermittent care. But if the honey was as good as Edie claimed it was, maybe, just maybe, they had a product to enter into the fair. If it won, he could sell the honey at a heightened price.
Suddenly he wished he had all six hives instead of the three that he had once vowed to plow under.
The flyer gave details about the various competitions and what products belonged in which category. He’d have to give that some thought. And he’d have to learn quickly how to transform honey from the comb to the honey found in a jar.
On the opposite side of the flyer he found a list of amusements, as well as the always popular pulling contests. He ran his finger down the list. Yes, there was a strength contest for men. Not lifting weights, but pulling loaded wagons, the yoke across his neck instead of his faithful oxen’s. Did the contest offer prize money? Yes. Not as much as the unique Vermont product, but every penny would help.
He shook his head. Not if he injured himself.
Before he left to join Edie in the meadow, he gathered supplies and checked on his father. A part of him wanted a fence, craved that precise definition, like the markings on a uniform indicated rank. The same way he wished his father kept better accounts.
At least this path, leading from his house to the meadow, followed a well-defined pattern. They had crossed from house to house often enough to wear the grass down.
“We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.” Edie was singing at the top of her voice, as she sometimes did when working outdoors. He chuckled. Did the irony of the words strike her the same way it did him? She wouldn’t be pleased if he grew sheaves in her fair meadow.
At the edge of the meadow, he admired her from a distance. The ribbons on her hat fluttered in the breeze. As she raised her arm to hammer the wooden post, her form was alluring. If the fair gave a prize for feminine beauty, she would win.
The fair’s strongest man and loveliest lady—some would say they were made for each other. If only Edie could agree.