The problems at Bellamy Farm weren’t going to fix themselves, and I was up barely before the sun the next morning, climbing onto the barn roof to take inventory of the things I’d need to tackle. If I really had the nerve to do what I wanted with Bellamy Farm, my to-do list was extensive. Even so, I knew it was the right thing to do to bring the farm back and make it stand out in the market. I knew my father’s traditional farm methods couldn’t compete with the corporate farms. An organic farm, however, could stand on its own.
But it would take a lot. Organic farm certification was no joke. Every aspect of how the farm did business would have to be reassessed from the water to the electricity to the pest control.
The night before had not gone well. My father refused to speak to me. I told him how much it would cost to change the farm over to a sustainable and organic farm and what a good business decision that would be in the long run. He was having none of it. Dad had farmed this land his whole life in the same way his father did before him, with pesticides and fertilizers. It was the way he was taught, and he was loath to change his ways after seventy-some years.
Sleep had been elusive. I tossed and turned in my childhood bedroom, worried over my father’s silent treatment and the niggling doubt that maybe he was right. Maybe I had made a mistake when I signed a deal with Crocker. As of yet, I hadn’t taken any of Crocker’s money, but I didn’t think that would make much difference, since the contract was legally binding. In it, Crocker would give me money upfront to transform Bellamy Farm. Then he would take twenty percent of the profits from the farm over the next ten years. If the farm failed to make any profit in two years’ time, Crocker would have the option to purchase it at a reduced rate. They were tough terms, but it was the only option I had. I could already hear the two-year clock ticking in my ear. I prayed I had made the right choice.
From my perch on the roof, I took in the scenery around me. Even as run-down and disheveled as the farm was, it was still lovely. The ground was green and lush, if overgrown. I knew that meant the soil was rich underneath and water was plentiful. With the bright sun hanging overhead, I already had most of what I needed. It reminded me of the times I worked with my father on the farm as a kid. I would squint at the sky, trying to gauge if the weatherman was right about coming rain. I never did that in California, since it rarely rained, and even when it did, my livelihood didn’t depend on it. I guessed I would be squinting at the sky quite a lot in the days to come.
Much farther away, beyond the rolling plots of land, was the expansive blue of Lake Michigan. It went on seemingly forever, like it was an ocean in its own right. Sunlight danced on its surface, as it did when I was a child visiting the lakeside. Being back here was like returning to that simple time, reminding me again of how special Michigan was to me.
I couldn’t lose this beautiful place that had been in my family for six generations.
From the top of the barn, I could see for miles. I spotted my cousin Stacey’s house on her half of Bellamy Farm. When my grandfather died, he divided the vast four-hundred-acre farm between his two sons, my father and Stacey’s father. Ever since then, the two farms worked independently of each other. I had never asked my father why this was the case. After Stacey’s father died, she inherited his share. From what I could see from my perch, her portion was in much better shape. Beyond Stacey’s property was the old Cumberlin place that was now Quinn Killian’s home. Of all the people who I would want to live a stone’s throw away from my doorstep, Quinn was at the bottom of the list.
Just below me, the chickens pecked at the ground near the barn, and two of the barn cats groomed themselves on an overturned wheelbarrow by the barn door. Huckleberry watched all these foreign creatures with wide eyes and just a little bit of fear from his spot in the weeds. I would have thought the cats, at least, would be afraid of my dog, but they ignored him and continued their beauty treatments. My vague hopes of turning Huckleberry into a fierce and productive farm dog were quickly fading.
There were two nearby fields of soybeans on the farm. Dad told me they were the only crops Bellamy would have this season, and I guessed that was thanks to Quinn and Stacey. The fields would never have yielded enough to pay the tax debts, even if they produced one thousand bushels of soybeans. Other than those fields and the chickens, the rest of the two hundred acres lay fallow, only hinting at the farm’s true potential. I could turn those unused acres and make them something more than even my grandparents imagined—if I was willing to give it my all.
And I was.
Standing on the roof, seeing everything that Bellamy Farm could be, I started to believe I’d made the right choice. The farm was near enough to Traverse City to attract tourists who would be intrigued by the organic farm-to-fork way of life as well as visitors stopping by picturesque Cherry Glen. In my head, in addition to the lavender fields and pick-your-own cherry trees, I saw beehives, and maple groves all grown organically, and using solar power to run the farmhouse and outbuildings. I had actually climbed onto the roof to judge where the best place for solar panels would be, and now my imagination was running wild. There was so much that could be done. I could even envision an organic café at the farm someday.
At first glance, though, there was much to repair: the shutters on the house, the fence at the road, the siding on the barn. Those were the things I could immediately start on. There were untold problems that may lie under the surface as well, and each and every one of them would cost money to mend or fix.
Most people didn’t realize just how backbreaking and difficult traditional farming could be. Sure, farms sustained themselves for generations—just like my family’s had—but there was not a lot of profit and very little margin for error. Weather, drought, pestilence, economy—so many factors could influence a crop’s success. Expanding to include a “tourism” element would help overcome some of those unpredictabilities. And converting fully to an organic operation would secure a more sustainable future for the farm for generations to come. Whatever those generations may be. Since it was just me, what would become of the farm when I was gone? I shoved those thoughts to the back of my mind. I just had to get the farm through the next two years under this agreement with Crocker. Its long-term feasibility could wait.
Near the edge of Dad’s property on a dirt road was a small cabin. It was the home where Grandma Bellamy had lived until she died, when I was a senior in college. How much I wished she were here today. She would have whipped the farm into shape in no time at all with her typical vim and vigor. She also would have scared the tax collectors away. I once saw her chase a corn wholesale merchant who was giving her a bad price on her bushels all the way down the mile-long driveway with her broom. He never came back, and she sold the corn at top dollar to someone else. Gazing at her cabin, an idea sparked in the back of my mind. It could be the perfect home for Huckleberry and me.
My father’s voice startled me from my thoughts. “Have you lost your marbles?” Dad stood with his walker at the foot of the ladder. “What on earth are you doing up there?” He sounded grumpy, but at least he was speaking to me. Huckleberry was at his feet, looking up with a matching dumbfounded expression.
I climbed down the ladder and jumped to the grass. “I was looking for the best place to put the solar panels. From the angle the barn sits, there is perfect solar gain. It wouldn’t take much to harvest solar energy as soon as the panels are installed.”
He grunted. “What happened to you? You went out to California and turned hippie on me?”
“Dad, I’m sorry. I’ve been trying to tell you for months about needing an investor. You told me you didn’t want to hear about it and it was up to me to make a choice. Crocker was that choice.”
He frowned. “And you made the wrong one. Crocker is a crock of—”
I nodded. “Dad, I want to save Bellamy Farm just as much as you do. You have to believe me that we can’t do this without outside funds.”
Dad leaned heavily on his walker. “I know you do. You wouldn’t have left your life behind in California if you didn’t care. I know that was hard for you to do.”
It was both the easiest and the most difficult decision I had ever made. Dad didn’t know my whole life savings were now tied up in this farm. If we lost the farm, I lost everything too. And even though I had always dreamed of coming back and revamping Bellamy at some point in my life, my father’s stubbornness had quashed those hopes many times over. I had grown accustomed to loving Cherry Glen from a distance, and even when Hollywood no longer held my interest, I still had a lot of security in my life there that I had to leave behind to return to the place that viewed me as a last resort. But it didn’t matter. I left LA without a backward glance, both for my father and for this place I loved so much.
Even with the many risks in mind, however, I tried to focus on the potential reward ahead of me. It was true I’d left my steady job behind, but I also had the opportunity to build a better life here. Other than my friendship with Briar, all I had to show for my fifteen years working in television and movies was an addiction to coffee and better highlights.
Maybe in Michigan I would find what I never found in California. A life outside of my job. At the very least, I would be with my father again. Seeing him hunched over the walker reminded me how precious—and fleeting—our time together was.
“Are we okay, Dad? Really?”
He nodded. “But don’t be doing any more deals without me. I want to be involved now. I want to know the details.”
“I won’t. Promise. I want you to be involved too. You may have given me the farm in name, but it’s our farm at heart.”
He smiled. It was the first genuine smile I had seen from him since I returned.
“I need to get going,” I said. “I just wanted to get the lay of the land before my meeting. It helped me solidify some ideas.”
He adjusted his hold on his walker. “What meeting?”
I wasn’t sure he would want to hear the answer, but I told him anyway. “I’m meeting Crocker at the farmers market to discuss our agreement. Do you want to come with me?”
He shook his head. “I want nothing to do with that. I suppose you can’t go back on your deal now, but be careful. Crocker is like a snake, and he’s always ready to strike.”
I shivered. What had I gotten myself into? I pushed the foreboding rising in me to the back of my mind. I kissed Dad on the cheek, scooped up Huckleberry, and headed to my car.
The farmers market was open on Wednesdays from three to eight p.m. and Saturday eight a.m. to two p.m. It was located in the parking lot where the old high school—my high school—had been. My father had sent me the local newspaper clipping when the building came down five or so years ago, but the town left the large parking lot for special events. The market was known for having interesting and organic vendors, and farmers and handcrafters came from all over the county to sell there. It was also known for the cherries, which were the region’s specialty. July was the height of cherry season, so the market would be busy later in the day.
When we got out of the car, I clicked Huckleberry’s leash on his collar, and he looked at me like I was some kind of traitor. “Leash laws, buddy. I’m not sure what they are in town, but I’m not doing anything that might irritate the cops. I already have one speeding ticket that I will have to pay by the end of the month.”
He grunted like only a pug could, and we made our way into the market.
It was early, but with the humid air, it would heat up fast. Around us, farmers and crafters set up for the day. Many of them placed their booths under white awnings or tents to fight the glare of the Midwestern sun. Some sellers had stands that looked like mini cottages with shutters around the sales window. I hoped to have a booth like that someday. Others who were selling produce simply opened the backs of their pickups and displayed corn, beans, and peppers directly from the truck bed. Regardless of the setup, stall owners bustled about, getting their wares reading for the incoming crowds. The market would open soon, and I felt invigorated seeing how vibrant and active it was already. Coming back to Michigan to take on this new venture had been the right choice. I hadn’t felt this excited about something in years. As much as I loved being a producer, I had grown tired of documenting other people’s lives and wanted to start participating in my own.
“Shiloh Bellamy!” a high-pitched voice cried. “As I live and breathe. What on earth are you doing here?” I turned to see a petite, Latina woman my age walking toward me, and it took me a moment to recognize her. I figured out what initially threw me off—my best childhood friend was very clearly pregnant.
“Kristy Garcia?” I smiled. “It’s so great to see you!” I gave her a hug, taking care not to squeeze her belly.
Kristy placed a hand on her stomach. “Twins, if you’re wondering, and it’s Kristy Brown now. They’ll be my first. My husband is absolutely terrified.” She laughed. “But I couldn’t be happier.”
“Twins! Wow, congratulations!”
She grinned. “Thank you!”
“Do you have a booth here?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No, I manage the market. It’s my baby.” She patted her tummy. “Well, it was before these two.”
Huckleberry spun in a circle and put his front paws on Kristy’s leg.
“Huck, you need to ask first.” I tugged on his leash.
She looked down at Huckleberry. “Who is this cutie?”
“Huckleberry. He’s still acclimating to country living.”
She laughed, squatted down, and patted the pug on the top of his head. She winced as she stood up, and I gave her my arm to help her make it the rest of the way.
After releasing me, she said, “Being pregnant with twins is not for sissies.”
“I wouldn’t think so,” I said. “I’m glad you’re in charge of the market. I’m actually interested in having a booth here too. I will need to talk to you when I’m ready to rent space.”
“You want a booth? For what?”
“For my family farm,” I said. “Produce, homemade goods, that sort of thing.”
“Bellamy Farm hasn’t had a booth at the farmers market in over a decade.”
I nodded. “I know. I want to change that.”
“Does that mean you’re back in the Glen for good?”
“It does.”
She nodded. “I’d heard you were, but I was afraid to even believe it. I never thought you would come back here after the accident.”
The accident was Logan’s death. He had been killed by a drunk driver one night while driving to Traverse City to see me. I shook the memory away and realized Kristy was still talking.
“You’re a good daughter to take care of your father like that,” Kristy said. “But it can’t be easy to leave your life behind. Sully was very proud of his California producer daughter. He talks about you constantly to anyone who will listen.”
I raised my eyebrows at this. This was the second time I had been told Dad talked about my LA life. He’d never said he was proud of me to me. I wondered what he thought about me leaving that career behind to farm. Did he like the idea or wish me away? I guessed now that I had hired Crocker, he probably wished I had never come back at all.
Something caught in my throat. I looked at my feet to cover my expression and then said, “I want to get the family farm back on track for Dad.”
“Well, girl, you’re a braver one than me to want to save a farm in this day and age.” She gave me a hug. “I’m glad to see you back though. We must catch up.”
“I’d love that,” I said.
A vendor from a maple syrup booth waved frantically at Kristy.
“Oh, I have to go, Shi. The vendors are all so needy before the market opens.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
I nodded and went back to looking for Crocker. I checked the time on my phone. He was ten minutes late. A small bead of worry began to grow in the back of my mind. I glanced down at Huckleberry. “Let’s take a loop around the market. I’m sure he just got caught up in something and will be here soon.”
Huckleberry snuffled in response.
As I made slow progress around the market with Huckleberry stopping and sniffing most everything along the way, many of the vendors waved or smiled at me, probably eyeing what they thought was a potential customer. The volume of the market rose as more vendors arrived, pulling up their cars through the wide aisles to unload their wares. Greetings were shouted, carts of produce squeaked by, and old trucks sputtered around the back of the stalls, clunky engines adding to the cacophony. As a car backfired somewhere in the distance, a burst of laughter sounded from a close booth, and a trickle of early morning radio sounded in the air. It seemed that old Midwest friendliness was alive and well in Cherry Glen.
Huckleberry took it upon himself to inspect every booth and passerby. As we walked, he buried his nose in one of the many giant urns scattered around the parking lot that were bursting with summer flowers. I tugged on the leash, but he wouldn’t come. Huckleberry loved flowers to the extreme. He also loved digging them up. I tugged again, and he still wouldn’t move. Sighing, I bent over to physically remove the pug from the pot when I heard footsteps behind me. I glanced up just as a woman bumped into me and knocked me to the ground. She didn’t pause and kept running. She didn’t even apologize—so much for that Midwest friendliness!
The woman wore a ball cap that barely contained her black hair and turned back at me just long enough for me to see frightened dark eyes. I had never seen her before in my life. Then she was gone, swallowed into the hustle and bustle of the vendors prepping for the day.
I dusted myself and Huckleberry off. “That was rude,” I told the pug.
He licked my cheek, which made me feel a bit better.
“Let’s find Crocker and get out of here.”
He snorted in reply, which for Huckleberry was pretty close to a bark.
Huckleberry and I walked toward a booth emblazoned with a Buzzin’ Better Honey sign. The entire stall was shaped like a giant beehive complete with a metal weather vane waving back and forth on the very top. In the middle of the hive, a counter held jars of fresh honey, each with a different colored bow tied around the lids, lined up and ready to sell. I paused to take in the empty and elaborate setup before turning to scan for my investor.
I was at the very end of the large market and still no sign of Crocker. I grabbed my phone to text him and ask where he wanted to meet, meandering around the honey booth. As I turned the corner, Huckleberry gave a sound caught between a woof and a startled grunt. I pulled up short.
A man lay before me on the black pavement just on the other side of the booth, hidden from view. There was a red stain in the middle of his chest that was made more noticeable by his white button-down shirt. A shattered jar of honey lay at his feet, its pink bow stuck to the man’s right shoe.
I’d found Jefferson Crocker, and he was dead.