2 2 I’m definitely not imagining things.
The loan officer is actually checking out my chest and my legs, and probably has plans to inspect my rear view when he finally ushers me from his office. While I sit here and try my hardest to sound professional, yet enthusiastically passionate about my orchard, he’s staring at my cleavage. The whole thing is beyond pathetic, but the fact that I’ve considered how to best use his gross inventory of my assets—and not the kind on my business proposal’s balance sheet—to my advantage is even worse.
I sat there and tracked his gaze for a good ten minutes after I arrived, drifting from my legs and up over my chest repeatedly as he asked me questions that had very little to do with my business. Where was I from? (Washington State. A little town built by a sawmill baron and now kept afloat by people who would hate to admit to its un-green beginnings.) How did I spend my time when I wasn’t working? (I scoffed internally, but claimed an interest in cooking and reading, the sort of half-hearted answers that seemed appropriate for half-hearted questions.) Was I living out there all alone? (This one was tricky. Saying yes meant the smarmy bank officer with my address might put his car’s GPS to use. “Alone but never lonely” was my glib answer).
I showed up here, dressed in a loose purple batik skirt that hit just above the knee and a scoop-neck white eyelet blouse, determined to look effortlessly bohemian while wowing him with my business acumen and playing to what I hoped was his compassionate nature. Yet all it seems I’ve managed to do is wow him with my minimally exposed cleavage and my gams. Both of which are just fine as gams and cleavage go, but what I really need is for him to admire the reports and data I’ve compiled in the three-ring binder I just handed him. Without that, I won’t secure the re-fi I need to save my struggling orchard and home. Short of that or a Mother Earth miracle, I’ll be homeless by the New Year.
Just when I thought I had found a home, a place where the dirt beneath my feet was mine, I’m on the path to losing it all. And to make it even worse, my fate rests in the hands of a kid with ink on a business degree that hasn’t even had a chance to dry yet.
“Your revenue forecasting is very aggressive, Miss Reed.”
He flips pages as he speaks, so quickly I can only assume he is skimming without reading a word. Perhaps the graphs were all he needed to see, the straight-line trajectory I used to forecast the next five years and that would turn my tiny apple farm from sinking ship to smooth sailing. It’s all there, the black and the white of my story. Every thin dime it would take to save my future is noted and footnoted, despite the way Mr. Campbell continues to flick each sheet like a toddler with a picture book.
“Aggressive? Maybe. But I think you can see that between the marketplace’s desire for organic, locally harvested fruits and the moderate yield expansion design I’m using, it isn’t overly optimistic.”
Yes. That’s the way I rehearsed this role. Go me, with all the confident answers. At that moment, I was a seasoned pro instead of merely a grief-stunted woman who left her hometown three years ago and drove until she found a place that seemed idyllic enough to get lost in.
Mr. Campbell slaps the binder shut and tosses it on his expensive desk. It lands with a flat thud, and I fix on that spot for a moment, curtailing the instinct to launch myself toward it and swipe the precious evidence of my failing business into my arms. Campbell leans back in his high-backed leather chair and runs a hand over his jaw. Another perusal of my chest follows.
If only this year hadn’t been so chock-full of meteorological misfortunes. First, there was the frost. One lone night in April when just a few hours of below-freezing temps killed off nearly ninety percent of the tender blooms on my trees. Then came the damp, wet weeks that followed, which only served to stymie pollination and eventually kept some fruit from setting the way it should.
Then it hailed. A last gasp of late summer storm that within fifteen minutes put more fruit on the ground than was left on the trees. Once the hailstorm ended, I walked the tree rows and did the only thing I could. I started to gather the heavily bruised and gouged fruit off the ground, dragged it all into the house, and spent the next four days making apple butter. Waste not, want not, I thought . . . at least it was something I could sell.
Unfortunately, what people really want is whole fruit, bags and boxes of apples they can load into the back of their Subarus and use to create their own masterpieces at home. Apple butter is a novelty at best, one that takes time, sugar, lemons, jars, lids, bands, and labels to make—not exactly a profit powerhouse.
Mother Nature and her grumpy attitude was all it took. My business is too young and tenuous to withstand even one bad season, plus I had already blown through the savings I’d accumulated over the winter from the temp jobs I took on, just trying to keep myself—and my trees—properly fed and nurtured.
Now it’s mid-October, when I should be smack dab in the middle of harvest, running ragged from hitting every market I can; instead I’m three months behind on my loan and formally in foreclosure. While a sale date hasn’t been set yet, I know I have four months at best to see if I can find someone, somewhere, to take a chance on me.
Moving his hands to the top of his head, Campbell begins to rock back and forth in his chair.
“Here’s the thing, Whitney . . . Can I call you Whitney?”
I nod my head and give him a small smile. One side of his mouth turns up in a knowing smirk, nearly convinced in his own mind that I might crawl across his desk any minute now and drop my insatiable self in his lap.
“Excellent. So, as I was saying, Whitney . . . three years ago, you bought a ten-acre farm with a dilapidated house, no water rights, and three hundred apple trees, half of which were so diseased and neglected they had to be removed. You paid cash outright for this behemoth of an orchard, and then proceeded to take out a business loan to keep the operation afloat, using the property as collateral. Now, here you are, with your existing loan in foreclosure, looking for a way out.” He pauses and flips open my intricately prepared binder. “And this year, you’ve shown just two thousand dollars in sales. Can you see my hesitance here, Whitney?”
I lean back into my chair and do my best to stay strong. I promised myself all the way up here that I wouldn’t lose hope, that I’d do whatever it took to persevere.
Straightening my spine, I grip the chair’s armrests tightly.
“I understand, Mr. Campbell, I do. But my business plan is sound and there’s tremendous market demand out there. I’m not just looking for a way out. What I need is a bank that can look beyond my situation, see all the untapped potential that’s there, and help me find a way to restructure the debt so it’s more manageable.”
“My loan committee isn’t interested in untapped potential. If I take this to them, all they will see is an orchard with no revenue to speak of, owned by a woman who’s already ninety days behind on her current loan.” Sighing, he leans forward and shoves the binder my way. “I wish I had a different answer for you, Whit. I wish there was a way we could start a relationship here—trust me, I do.”
OK. That’s it.
Final. Straw.
In the span of three minutes, he went from “Miss Reed” to “Whitney” to “Whit.” If I stay another five minutes, he will have the word honey on the tip of his forked tongue. Then he alluded to starting a relationship with me, complete with a licking of his lips that signified his definition of a relationship would likely include me purring in his ear about how we might come to a creative compromise.
This is now, officially, a wasted trip. I drove three hundred miles, over Kenosha Pass in fifteen-degree weather, in a truck with an intermittently operating heater and no defroster. Then I dropped a few hundred dollars on a hotel room so small that the bathroom door wouldn’t even open fully before whacking the side of the bathtub. I spent thirty-seven dollars on a room-service club sandwich for dinner and fifteen dollars on blueberry pancakes for breakfast. And they didn’t even have the decency to give me more than one pat of butter for the pancakes. Who uses only one pat of butter on pancakes? No one.
Standing up, I tuck my sacred binder into the crook of one arm and reach across the desk to shake Campbell’s hand, drawing the folder up to cover my chest as I do. His hand is clammy. And he gives a cold fish of a handshake. I strengthen my grip to prompt him, but he gives nothing back. He’s just a kid with a bad handshake.
And I’m just a woman out of options.
When I lurch out the doors of the bank, my dress-up kitten heels clicking across the concrete, I walk determinedly until I round a corner out of sight. Once the bank and Campbell are sufficiently behind me, I find the side of a building and lean back with my head tipped up to see the sliver of sky visible between skyscrapers.
With the overwhelming size of those buildings looming around me, things feel impossibly bleak. Instead of if, it’s only when. When I lose my little farm, when they come to collect everything that no longer belongs to me, I’ll have nothing to hold on to except the realization that I squandered every dollar that my father’s untimely death left me with. I’ll be adrift. Again.
Back inside the shoe box–sized hotel room, I strip off the batik skirt and ball it up, shoving it into one corner of my suitcase, leaving on the black leggings I wore underneath. The kitten heels are tossed in favor of a pair of wool socks and chore boots. The white eyelet blouse comes off to reveal a white cami. I slip on a zip-up hoodie, and when I put my whiskey quartz necklace back on, the negativity of Campbell and failure dissipates. I press my palm to the crystal, hard enough that the rough edges of it nip at the skin of my chest, and take a deep breath. If my father could see me right now, he would shake his head, call me a hippie, and proclaim he loved me anyway.
Once my body feels like my own again, I zip my suitcase shut, taking a last look around the room to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything. Satisfied that all my meager belongings will return with me, I drop two dollars on the bureau for housekeeping, wishing it could be more, and go to throw open the heavy hotel room door, tossing my suitcase out into the hallway with a swift thud. It bounces awkwardly and before it tips on its side, a hotel uniform–clad man is reaching out to grab it. Behind me, the door shuts with a loud click and I leap forward, trying to save my own bag. We stumble against each other and when he steps back, he looks entirely flustered for a moment, before regaining his composure and straightening his tie.
“Ms. Reed?”
I manage to right my suitcase and find my balance so neither of us will topple over.
“Yes?”
“Ma’am, your credit card was declined this morning. We tried to call you earlier, but we need you to settle your bill before checking out.”
Shame rises up, because beyond the problem of my loan, money remains an ever-present monkey on my back. Every month, I gather my bills and stare out at my little apple saplings, then sit down with a piece of scratch paper and a pencil trying to get the numbers to add up the way I wish they would. It’s a precarious balancing act, sometimes stretching the propane bill to next month while catching up the car insurance this month, all in an effort to find a few extra dollars. If only I had fancy handbags or a nice car to show for it; instead I have rusted farm implements, fertilizers, and pruning shears.
At the front desk, a pert little woman with a platinum-blonde pixie cut takes mercy on me, running my card four more times in successively lesser amounts until it finally clears. I dig into my wallet and fish out a fifty I keep tucked away—my “for emergencies” stash—then hand it over to settle up what my credit card wouldn’t cover. I try not to whimper when she gives me only jingling change in return.
The valet disappears to retrieve my truck from the hotel’s secured underground parking and under the canopy of the entrance, I sit down on the top of my rolling suitcase and watch the city traffic as it passes by.
It’s chilly out, so the crisp air easily seeps through my zip-up hoodie and leggings. My real jacket is in the truck, tucked behind the seat along with a box of bone meal and various well-used pairs of work gloves. Perhaps if I manifest a vision that I’m a traveler in a faraway land of tropical temperatures, I might stave off the cold in my mind.
Closing my eyes, I summon up the sight of it all: white sand burning the soles of my feet, a broad-brimmed hat that does nothing to quell the relentless sunshine, and a companion of the male variety with sweat beading up in all the right places.
The delusion works for a few minutes, until a blaring car horn ruins it all. Across the street, standing on the edge of the sidewalk, a guy in loose track shorts and a hoodie pauses to adjust his iPod earbuds. After a quick scan of his frame, I decide he might be the ideal specimen to share all that relentless sunshine I just imagined with. His hood is up, covering an already knit hat–clad head, and when his gaze darts across the street to gauge traffic, he catches my stare.
The expression on his face, sullen and irritated, is unexpectedly familiar. If it isn’t surly salt guy from last night, it’s his evil twin. Or maybe his good twin. Because the guy in the drugstore was just as moody, dour, and brooding, with a dash of miserably ill thrown into the mix.
If he hadn’t been built like a modern-day Roman god, with short but shaggy dark blond hair, I wouldn’t have remembered him in such acute detail. Plus, when he fixed his blue eyes on me, full of glowering and focused attention, I nearly offered to take him home and put him in the salt bath myself. He looked so pained, so desperate for something tender and comforting, I wanted to bake him a cake and rub his shoulders until that seemingly permanent furrow in his brow finally lessened.
Before I can look away, my truck appears and blocks the view, announcing its arrival with rough-sounding exhaust and a motor that sputters so loudly it’s vaguely embarrassing. Sighing, I slip around to the back and twist open the rear glass on the truck topper to drop my suitcase into the bed, amidst the short ladder and various bushel bins that crowd the space. The decision to buy this truck, reliable but small, for cash was a good one, simply because it has a shell. I might end up sleeping in it soon.
“Hey.”
Gah. He might sound slightly less tortured this morning, but surly salt guy’s voice is every bit as husky as it was last night. If I said it didn’t resonate down to my gold toe rings, I would be lying. I let the back glass thwack shut and twist the handles on both sides, securing it for the drive. Turning, I place my hand to the crystal pendant again and give a slight tilt of my head.
“Hey there, salt guy.”
His eyes are clearer this morning, and with the exception of the dark circles underneath, he looks like his night hadn’t ended up all bad. Probably had a house full of cake-baking, shoulder-rubbing women at his disposal.
“You look better this morning.”
He nods, sharp eyes flickering to where my hand lies on my chest. I drop it in reaction and watch his gaze soften.
“And you look a lot less like an elderly gentleman escaped from a retirement home. Not that those pj’s and wool socks weren’t all kinds of bizarrely sexy last night, but that might have been my impending migraine talking. Apologies if I was a complete asshole.”
I take note of the word sexy immediately and despite knowing that what I should do is call him out on it, demand his offer of an apology, instead my heart proceeds to flutter. Freaking flutter.
After Campbell, I should have had enough of men and their pointed comments and roving eyeballs. My chest should be tightening, and my hands should be clenching up into little annoyed fists. Unfortunately, surly salt guy and his unreasonably pretty eyes only inspire a full-body sensation of feminine triumph—while also prompting my pulse to thud harder in my neck.
“Not a complete asshole. The first word I heard you say was motherfucker. Then after that, motherfucking. But you bought my bottled water, so my karmic scorecard remains clean on that transaction. Even-steven.”
I slip around him and make my way to the driver door, where the valet kid waits with my keys in his hand. The exchange would dictate a tip, a problem compounded by the sudden awareness that I’ll need to fuel up at some point on the way home and I’m most definitely broke. Might have to stop by a pawnshop on the way out of town; surely a short ladder might get me enough cash to make it home. I lean into the truck and flip down my sun visor to unearth a five-dollar bill stuffed underneath a stack of business cards tucked there. As I hand it to the kid, he relinquishes my keys. Salt guy follows and comes to a stop next to my car door.
“What’s your name?”
Before I can stammer out something evasive or glib, I blurt out my name. My whole name. First, middle, and last.
“Whitney Willow Reed.”
He raises his eyebrows before thrusting his hand forward, prompting for a handshake. And I, Whitney Willow Reed, do nothing but look down at his hand with confusion. From behind us, a loud bellow comes from across the sidewalk, in a manly kind of catcall.
“COOOOOP! YOU KICKED ASS LAST NIGHT!”
Still holding his hand out to me, he lifts his other arm up and casually gives a two-finger wave in the direction of the bellower.
“I’m Cooper Lowry. Cooper Marcus Lowry, if that matters.”
I take his hand, finally, and shake it flimsily. Salt guy, Cooper Marcus Lowry, has some seriously strong hands. No soft Campbell-esque cold fish here. I grip stronger in reaction. Then I realize I’m now shaking too aggressively, up and down in a wide path, and for far longer than appropriate.
Dropping our hands awkwardly, Cooper steps back and takes a glance at my truck.
“Headed home?” I nod and turn to slip my keys into the ignition. “Where’s home, Whitney?”
“Hotchkiss. On the Western Slope.”
Cooper studies me for a moment, eyes narrowing as he does. He was adding me up, trying to fit the pieces together. If he only knew. I’m like a puzzle composed of mostly corners, missing all those critical links that belong in between.
“Long drive. What does a girl like you do in a town like Hotchkiss?”
There is a momentary desire to wail and shout nothing. I do nothing, I am nothing, and I’m going home to nothing. No prospects, a sad end of harvest, and a cold, empty house. Instead, I turn and lean into the truck, rummaging around on the passenger side to pull out a half-pint mason jar.
“This.” I hand him a jar of my apple butter and he twists it side to side to read the label, then hands it back. I toss it on my driver’s seat without turning away.
“Delaney Creek Orchards? You work there?”
“I own it.”
“You own an orchard? Impressive.”
His compliment actually brings about the sensation of needing a good, long, slobbering cry about losing the only significant thing I’ve ever done to the front of my mind. But impressive? Hardly.
“Don’t be impressed. It’s only ten acres, with a bunch of struggling apple trees, a handful of pear trees that yielded a grand total of twenty pears this year, and a house so drafty I have to layer a wool cardigan over those pj’s just to stay warm enough at night. And double up on the socks sometimes.”
He nods thoughtfully, and I immediately want to bake him another cake. But up close, in the daylight, it doesn’t appear that much cake crosses Cooper’s lips. Those lips, the ones he now proceeds to purse the smallest bit, couldn’t have seen much but clean living and lean protein for the last few years because if I couldn’t surmise accurately about the contours of his body last night, I absolutely can now.
Under that hoodie is likely nothing but ridges and abs for days. And the legs, gracious . . . the legs. Quads and calves, hamstrings and whatever those muscles are that are adjacent to your shins—they’re all there, plus a few others I definitely couldn’t name, in every inch of their bulky, toned, well-worked glory.
My gaze settles on his legs and fixes there long enough for him notice, because he proceeds to flex his calves with only a minuscule lift of his heels. Too much power there, too much strength, too much masculinity for any one body to manage. Especially for my out-of-practice body to handle. The sight reminds me of the obvious: that I need to cease this silly semi-flirtation with a stranger, get in my truck, and go home. I have far, far bigger problems. The kind I need to focus on with a clear head.
Before I can make my goodbyes and wish him well as he skips off to run a marathon or whatever that body of his is primed to do, Cooper’s face contorts and he squeezes his eyes shut. Then he pinches the bridge of his nose and groans.
“You OK?”
“Throbbing headache. Comes and goes. Mostly if I’m doing something crazy—like, you know, trying to stand upright.”
He drops his hand and takes a deep breath, then opens his eyes again. When he does, those eyes are unbearably gentle, every bit of his broody charisma giving way to something infinitely simpler. In a move that contradicts my recent internal reprimand to get in my truck and screech away, I reach out and take his left hand in both of mine. He doesn’t seem shocked—likely because Cooper is probably unnervingly accustomed to strange women touching him—but he narrows his eyes and lets them drift between our interlocked hands and my face.
“Relax your fingers.”
He unclenches his fingers and lets the tips graze against my open palms. I take two fingers and begin to press firmly against the meaty part of his hand, between his index finger and thumb. When he flinches, I press harder. Then his face goes slack and he closes his eyes.
“I have no idea what in the fuck you’re doing right now, but if you could just stay permanently attached to me like this for the foreseeable future, that would be awesome.” Cooper lets out a long sigh, and his chest seems to slowly deflate as he does. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s just acupressure. This one works for me if I have sinus pain, but you can also just do the tips of your fingers for headaches. Just press like this when you have pain.”
Cooper’s eyes stay closed. “I’m guessing it won’t feel as good if I’m doing it and not you.”
I let out a small chuckle, moving my hands to press on the end of each of his fingers. When I start to reach for his other hand, I remember that we’re blocking the hotel drive. But the area remains nearly empty, save for a little boy standing about ten feet away, who is staring at us, shyly, with his hands clasped behind his back. Just behind him, I spy a couple, gently prompting the boy to move closer.
Cooper realizes I’m now only holding his hand limply, because he opens his eyes and then tracks my stare over his shoulder. When he does, he drops my hands and turns toward the boy, dropping down to a crouch.
“Hey, buddy.”
The kid immediately turns into a pile of mush, gush, and grins, outpaced only by those of his parents, his mom even doing a strange silent clapping thing while she bounces on the balls of her feet. The little boy pulls his hands out from behind him and thrusts forward a black marker. Cooper waves him closer and takes the pen.
“Alright, buddy, what’s your name?”
“Sean.”
“What do you want me to sign, Sean?”
Every bit of surliness is gone from Cooper—not a trace in his voice, his body language, or his words. The little boy looks to his parents for an answer and they mock whisper to him, “Your shirt, honey. Have him sign the back.”
He turns and stands stock-still while Cooper signs the back, just over the boy’s tiny shoulder, before recapping the marker and handing it back to the boy’s mother. After an awkwardly enthusiastic round of handshakes, they scuttle off and Cooper returns to my side.
I raise an eyebrow and cock my head.
“Pray tell, Cooper Marcus Lowry, what is it you do for a living? I’m guessing whatever it is, it’s way more impressive than owning a ramshackle excuse for an orchard in southwestern Colorado.”
Cooper shrugs. “I play football.”
“For a real job? As in professionally? Not like, my buddies and I have a rec league and we roll around on some grass and act like we’re in a beer commercial? When in fact what you really do is manage an office supply store?”
A sharp snort tears from Cooper’s mouth and he scrubs his hand over his face.
“No, it’s totally legit. I mean, I’ve been in a beer commercial or two, but I get paid to play ball for real.”
Wacky. That’s what this is, straight-up, bad-trip weird. I just spent a handful of minutes slobbering over and hand-rubbing a guy who plays for . . . I don’t even know. The name of our football team escapes me, if I ever knew it at all. Only occasionally does the topic of football come up in Hotchkiss, and only when I’m at the co-op. Even then, I’m not a part of the conversation; it only takes place in my orbit, between the men buying chicken feed and bovine antibiotics. Evidently, I should have been paying more attention.
“Sorry, I’m sure I should have known that and properly addressed you by shouting your uniform number while waving a foam finger or whatever. I don’t even own a TV, so I’m not exactly caught up on the local sports scene.”
Cooper locks his eyes on mine and steps closer until he can put one hand on the top of my opened truck door and the other against the roof, effectively trapping me in a two-foot space where his body is crowding mine in an unexpectedly pleasant way. He tips his gaze to look at me.
“I’m glad. Not about you not owning a TV; that’s just weird. But I like that you didn’t know who I am. Explains a lot.”
He smells like sweat and possibly—lemons? Then I remember the lemongrass oil. My mind immediately takes a very direct and unruly path to Cooper soaking in a tub. Naked, obviously. And grumpy. There is also the possibility that my fleeting fantasy includes him groaning and grunting a bit, huskily and unsatisfied.
Perhaps my pupils flare or I actually drool, because he steps back and makes as if he’s leaving.
“One more thing, Whitney. It’s a favor, I guess. A personal request.”
I draw my hand up to set it on the armrest of my door panel and try not to dig my fingernails into it too hard.
“Sure. Shoot.”
He points into my truck. “Can I have that apple butter? That’s a serious throwback for me. I haven’t had decent apple butter since my grandma died.”
My shoulders release on a laugh and I crane into the truck to retrieve the mason jar. When I turn back, I catch the last moments of his eyes tracing my form. It never matters, does it? Here stood an apparently well-known guy who probably had his pick of women, but he still couldn’t help checking out my goods. It must be genetics or some evolutionary instinct. Even if I wanted to chalk it up to more, it surely wasn’t.
Cooper saunters off across the hotel drive with an athlete’s gait, purposeful and flawless, while holding the mason jar in the air.
“I’m an apple butter snob, so this shit better be good. Otherwise, I’ll bring my complaints directly to your door, Whitney Willow Reed!”
My truck door is halfway shut, my hand on the keys to fire the engine. All I can do is laugh. And, perhaps, pray that my apple butter absolutely sucked.