Chapter 15
Josh
The last thing I needed was more bullshit to deal with today. My list was a mile long and growing, thanks to the raccoons that had caused damage to one of the tubing junctions.
I could feel it. This day was already going off the rails.
The tricked-out, spotless white truck driving up my road only solidified that.
It was equipped with tinted windows, a logo too polished for a Vermont fall, and the fancy trim package. My dad had taught me at a young age, never trust a person with a brand-new gleaming truck.
It parked right inside the gate like it had every right to be there.
I walked towards it, with Wayne on my heels, annoyed, undercaffeinated, and too busy to put up with any more shit today.
The driver’s door swung open and the man who stepped out looked like he’d never held a shovel in his life. Pressed khakis, clean boots, branded fleece vest with a distinctive green and gold logo stitched over the chest.
“Josh Lawrence?” his tone implied we were old friends who shared a friendly round of golf once a year. He smoothed his short blond hair and unfolded a pair of Ray-Bans that he’d tucked into the collar of his shirt.
I slowly removed my work gloves. “Depends,” I said. “You lost?”
He laughed like I’d made a funny joke and reached out. “Tristan McDevitt. Regional development for AgriNova.”
Of course.
I crossed my arms. “When we last spoke on the phone, I told you I was all set.”
His smile got wider. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.
As you know, I’m deeply committed to supporting independent producers.
” With his hands in his pockets, he wandered up the driveway, surveying my land like he owned it.
“You’ve got quite an operation. Family-run, organic certified, one of the highest yields per tap in the region. Well done.”
His knowledge of my business made my hackles rise. “What do you need, Tristan?” I asked. Wayne stared him down like he was an annoying squirrel.
The man stepped closer, lowering his voice like this was a friendly chat. “BGX-9.”
My jaw muscles clenched involuntarily.
“It’s not a fertilizer,” he said quickly. “We’re past that. Twenty-first century innovations. It’s a bio-organic enhancement agent. Improves flow efficiency and cellular response during freeze-thaw cycles.”
I’d heard this sales pitch half a dozen times.
Every few years some giant agro-chemical company came out with a revolutionary product that was going to make us all rich.
Investors and scientists were always trying to hack nature.
But maple syrup wasn’t like that. We needed healthy trees, the right weather, and appropriate expectations.
Maple trees weren’t faucets that could be turned on and off.
The tree gave what it gave, when it wanted to give it.
But these assholes could not accept the reality that maple sap was a finite resource.
No, they wanted bigger and better and more.
“It’s already being piloted across the state. And it’s having major success in Canada. We’ve seen a 12-percent increase in yield due to high flow efficiency and increased Brix percentages.”
That was the pitch, the sentence designed to hook me and make me see dollar signs.
“Which producers?” I asked.
He hesitated a beat too long, and when he spoke, his eyes shifted to one side. “Several in Addison County. And even more in the north. This upcoming season will be the best ever.”
“You talk to the Fitzgeralds?” I asked.
He’d likely been chased off their farm with a shotgun. They were one of the biggest operations in the state, and I had no doubt they wouldn’t touch this shit with a ten-foot pole.
Another flicker. “We’re in conversation with the family,” he said diplomatically.
“Not interested,” I said, already bored of this conversation.
“I don’t chase yields.” I also did not take risks with my trees.
A maple tree had to be around thirty years old before it could be tapped.
Each tree was a long-term investment, and some of my best producers had been planted by my grandfather. I didn’t fuck around with them.
“I get it.” He held his hands up in surrender. “You’re a steward of the land, which is why we are aligned environmentally.”
I’d spent five years on Wall Street trading agricultural commodities. I knew the buzzwords and all the corporate bullshit that came along with them.
“You’re pushing this really hard.”
“Our company is committed to—”
“Your company,” I interrupted, “is owned by one of the largest agro-chemical manufacturers in the world. Filling our soil and our crops with all kinds of genetically enhanced and synthetic shit.”
His eye narrowed, but the creepy smile remained. “BGX-9 is EPA compliant. But I only stopped by to have a conversation. Independent farms like yours are under pressure these days.”
His tone only set me further on edge.
“Things happen,” he went on. “Bad weather. Dwindling tourism. Supply chain disruptions. Farms like yours…” He trailed off, turning and surveying my land. “Run lean margins, any season could be your last.”
There it was.
The pressure. The hard sell.
“We’re good,” I said firmly. “But you mentioned Addison County, and that got me thinking. Funny thing about all those beehive collapses. More failures this year than ever. No mites. No disease markers. Just failure.”
Logan had been going on about the bees and what he’d heard from colleagues near the New York border. I had no idea whether they were connected, but I was sick of this guy’s shit.
He froze for a second, his face falling before he recovered his salesman’s smile. “Unrelated.”
We stood, staring at one another. I refused to look away. This guy needed to go. Wayne trotted to my side, and Tristan’s eyes widened. Wayne was a sweet boy, but he looked like the progeny of a pony and a wolf.
“I’ll just leave some pamphlets.” Tristan strode to his truck, then returned with a green folder. “Call me when you want to talk.”
I took it from his hand. “I don’t need to talk.”
“You will.” With that, he hauled himself into the driver’s seat of that too clean truck. Then he was gone, turning around and rolling down the driveway.
As I watched him disappear, my stomach tightened. I’d spent too many years watching markets spike because of so-called innovation, only to crash on buried data and junk science.
“No shortcuts,” I muttered to Wayne as we walked back towards the barn.
“Excuse me?”
I lifted my head up from the front-end loader I was working on. I was cranky and had skipped lunch to finish this.
Celine stood in the barn doorway with a clipboard clasped to her chest like armor.
“Hey,” I said, standing up and dusting the dirt off my jeans.
She continued to hover there, with the posture of someone bracing for impact, standing at the edge of the building, scanning everything around her, taking inventory, looking for exit paths.
The more time I spent with Celine, the more I clocked these behaviors. And I desperately wanted to ask her Who hurt you? But I knew that would be a massive overstep.
“You lost?”
“No,” she said. “I mean, yes, but intentionally lost.”
I waited and crossed my arms.
She exhaled and lifted the clipboard. “I was hoping we could talk about hayrides.” She gave me a forced smile.
I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Okay. What do you need?”
“Um… I thought that since I’m not familiar with the area and you are, that maybe you could help me plan the route and…” She sighed, her jaw tightening. “I know this is a lot.”
“Of course I’ll help,” I said, admitting the inevitable. “And I’ve done it before. So no need to worry.”
“You have?”
“Unfortunately. Well, I’ve helped. My dad used to do it.” Just the mention of him made me thaw a bit more.
“The committee told me to ask Charlie at Whittaker Farm, that he usually plans the route, but I don’t know them, and I’m not good with new people.”
I nodded. Glad that she hadn’t asked Charlie, pleased that she’d asked me instead. Why? I had no clue, but I wasn’t in a position to be particularly reflective at the moment.
Instead I was mesmerized by her sad eyes and her bravery. In coming here and asking me.
“I’m glad you asked me,” I said softly. “I can help.”
Her shoulders dropped an inch. It was a small change, but it was real.
“I’ve been outside all day, and I’m cold,” I said. “Wanna work on this plan over a cup of coffee?”
With the smallest of smiles, she nodded, so Wayne and I led her from the barn to my house.
The moment she stepped inside, she gasped.
I followed her in and smiled, toeing off my boots. I’d forgotten that she’d never been inside my home before.
“This isn’t fair,” she said, turning to me, all the traces of fear gone from her face.
Wayne cozied up next to her, and she immediately scratched his ears, taking in the space. I was proud of my home. I’d updated and modernized my parents’ old farmhouse, but I’d kept some of the rustic qualities.
I’d opened up some walls, adding a breakfast nook and mudroom and creating a massive living dining area with large wooden beams. The five-bedroom house was too big for just me, but I’d grown up here, and my mom had always dreamed of one of us living here and taking over the farm.
So when she passed, I moved in. Jasper had lived with me for years, sleeping in his childhood bedroom, which he had not allowed me to touch.
But these days it was just Wayne and me.
She walked through the open-plan living room, running her hand along the honey brown leather couch. “Look at those light fixtures.”
As she examined every detail, pride filled me. People were often complimentary about my house, and I always appreciated the remarks, but seeing it through Celine’s eyes felt special.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”