Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
JACK
It’s site visit day.
I’ve spent the last week prepping the rows with Isla and pretending Rhodes Renovation is a suggestion, not a business that technically needs my attention. Nico and Talia can handle things in my absence.
Behind me, the coffee maker gurgles. The clock over the sink clicks over to eight thirty. Evelyn said they’d be here at nine. That gives me thirty minutes to drink this coffee and convince myself I’m not about to let strangers dissect my wife’s heart with clipboards.
Isla appears in the doorway five minutes later, dressed for field duty. Work jeans, boots, a zip hoodie over a Mirabelle T-shirt. She looks like she hasn’t slept a wink.
I keep wishing she’d let me in her bed as well as her house, but she drew that line firmly. We’ll keep separate rooms until the dust settles, until we know what we’re really up against here. If we keep separate rooms, we can focus on making it through the site visit.
It may be sensible, but it’s also deeply inconvenient for me.
“You ate?”
“Is coffee creamer a food group?” she asks.
I pour for her, then lean my hip against the counter. “Any chance we cancel? Tell them the orchard’s closed for renovations. Try again next century.”
“Think that’s in the contract?”
“Let me enjoy my fantasy.”
She stands at the window, cradling her mug. I watch her as she counts the rows. The buds are close to popping now, though we’re still a few months off from fruiting.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “We did good work this week.”
“I know, but I keep thinking of all the things we didn’t get to. The south fence is still crooked. The old ladder by the shed looks like it might give up and collapse in protest. The cover crop in the lower block is patchy.”
“They’re not coming here to judge the ladder. They’re coming to judge the outlier yield charts. Besides, we’ve already secured the grant. This is just formality.”
“That’s comforting,” she says dryly.
I move in behind her and slip an arm around her waist. She lets herself lean back.
“Remember the plan,” I say into her hair. “We walk them where you want them. We answer only what we’re comfortable answering. Anything weird goes through Evelyn. If Roland starts trouble, I’ll knock some sense into him.”
Her hand comes up, fingers resting on my forearm. “Please don’t get arrested.”
“I won’t. Unrelated, however, I am very good at bail payment schedules.”
“Jack, please.”
I kiss the side of her head. “I’m not gonna start a fight with the man. I’m just saying that if he pokes you, I won’t hesitate to poke back.”
Before she can reply, two sedans crunch up the drive.
Isla stiffens in my arms.
I give her one last squeeze and step back. “Showtime, baby.”
We meet them on the porch.
Evelyn climbs out of the first car, tablet tucked under her arm. Behind her are two others from the committee—one older woman with a braided knot of gray hair, one younger guy with glasses that keep sliding down his nose.
Roland arrives last, alone, in a sleek black Audi.
“Mr. and Mrs. Rhodes,” the older woman says, stepping forward to shake our hands. “Thank you for having us. I’m Dr. Levin. This is my associate, Aaron.”
“I’m Rhodes,” I cut in, then nod to Isla. “She’s a Winslow.”
Evelyn gives me a sidelong look. “And as you know, I’m Evelyn Mercer. Counsel for the grant recipients.”
Roland joins us. “Stein, though I believe you are all acquainted.” His gaze sweeps the front of the house, then the yard, then us. “It’s good to finally see Mirabelle in person. The pictures don’t do it justice.”
“You’ve seen more of me than most,” Isla mumbles. “At least you now get a glimpse of what you really paid for.”
“Why don’t we start inside,” Evelyn suggests smoothly. “Run through the agenda, then move to the rows.”
We funnel into the kitchen. I top off the coffeepot and pour water. Isla brings out the binders she put together this week, stacked with tabs and sticky notes. The committee people light up at the sight of them. Like her, they’re binder folks.
Evelyn clears her throat. “Before we head out, I’d like to state for the record that Mirabelle Orchard is operating under the revised agreement signed on Monday,” she says.
“Grafting and propagation trials are permitted on site, under joint supervision. No viable plant material leaves without Ms. Winslow’s written consent. ”
Dr. Levin nods. “Of course.”
Roland folds his hands. “We’re all on the same page here.”
They skim the records. Levin asks a few questions, and Isla’s more than prepared to answer them. After twenty minutes, Levin closes the binder.
“The paperwork is thorough,” she says. “I’d love to see the trees.”
Isla guides us outside. “We’ll start with the lower rows and work our way up.”
Evelyn falls into step beside her, asking quietly about boundaries and where the property line technically ends, while Dr. Levin and Aaron trail a few paces behind, already deep in talk of soil samples.
Roland hangs back, so I slow, too; if he wants commentary, he can get it from me. Together, we watch the committee enter the rows like tourists at a museum, heads tipped back, eyes tracking the branches.
“Age?” Levin asks, pointing to the nearest tree.
“About forty,” Isla says. “Some of the older ones are closer to seventy. This block is the most consistent year to year. We use it as a baseline when we compare yield and disease resistance.”
Levin hums thoughtfully. “And you keep pruning records for individual trees?”
“Yes,” she replies. “We have some families that like a lighter hand, some that respond better to hard cuts. It’s a lot of notes.”
“Would you be willing to share any anonymized data on that?”
“Within reason,” Evelyn says. “We can discuss data sharing parameters after the visit.”
Roland drifts a step closer to Isla. “Any anomalies we should know about? Trees that behave in unusual ways?”
Every tree on this land behaves in unusual ways. Some lean toward people they like. Some fruit heavier when certain songs play in the packing shed. One tree sulks if Isla ignores it for too long. You can’t put that kind of thing in a spreadsheet.
“We have some variability,” Isla says, “like any orchard. Elias is our oldest tree. We’ll get there shortly.”
“Elias,” Levin repeats. “You name them?”
“Well, just that particular one. He’s named after the man who planted it in 1879,” she says. “My great-great-grandfather.”
We walk the lower rows, then the mid-block. Dr. Levin and Aaron ask good questions; Isla talks through her choices. I chime in when infrastructure comes up.
At one point, Roland reaches for a fallen branch. There’s a new bud on it.
“Please don’t pick up viable material,” Evelyn says calmly. “If Mrs. Winslow wants you to see a cutting, she’ll provide one.”
He straightens and brushes imaginary dust off his sleeve. “Of course.”
By the time we reach the upper block, the sun is blasting us. My shirt sticks to my back. Isla has pushed her sleeves up, forearms streaked with damp bark dust where she leaned against trunks.
We turn the corner, and Elias comes into view.
He stands two-thirds down the row, his trunk thicker than the rest, branches spread in a wide, steady crown. A few stubborn mirabelle plums are already forming there, little gold-green promises hanging where they have no business being yet.
He’s a perennial show-off, and if it weren’t already late May, he’d be in real danger of blowing our cover.
“Goodness,” Levin says. “Isn’t it a little early for this level of fruit set?”
For most mirabelle varietals, late June would count as early. Some don’t fruit until August. We’ve had to come up with a loose script over the years to explain Elias without inviting too many questions.
Isla’s steps slow. “That can happen when we get a mild winter and an early warm spell. Some of the older trees jump the gun.”
Roland closes his hand around a low branch, thumb brushing the scar where an old limb was cut. Every muscle in my body draws tight.
Isla’s hand finds my arm. Her fingers curl in.
Levin clears her throat. “If you don’t mind,” she says to Isla, “I’d like to take a core sample from one of the younger trees in this row. For ring analysis. We can do it on-site and leave the plugs here.”
“From the fifth tree in,” Isla says. “That one handles stress well.”
They work. Aaron pulls out a small drill. Levin explains the process. Evelyn stands off to the side, watching Roland. He’s drifted to the edge of the row, out of easy earshot, staring back down the line of trees.
I walk over. “You planning to feel up the rest of them, too?”
“Just taking a moment,” he says. “It’s a beautiful place.”
“Is that why you want to carve it up and relocate it?”
“You give me far too much credit,” he says. “I’m just a curious donor.”
“A curious donor who watched my wife dance and used your front-row seat as an excuse to mine her life for data. Forgive me if I don’t feel charitable.”
“I admire what she’s done here,” he says, ignoring my blatant hostility. “The numbers are remarkable. I’d rather see this replicated than sold off to the highest bidder. You think your little town is immune to that?”
“I think that whatever happens to this place should be Isla’s choice, not yours.”
“And what happens when the money runs out?” he asks. “A soft spot for sentiment doesn’t keep a multi-acre business solvent.”
“She’s not overly sentimental,” I say. “She’s stubborn and realistic and hell of a lot smarter than you’re counting on.
She’s also standing ten feet away, answering your committee’s questions.
If you want to talk future scenarios, let’s go over there together.
We can address the person who actually owns the land. ”
“You’re her husband, are you not?”
“I am, but she’s the boss.”
Evelyn appears at my elbow, eyes flicking between us. “Everything all right over here?” she asks, pleasant.
“Mr. Stein and I were just discussing loyalty,” I say.
“How Greek of you. We’re about wrapped up. Dr. Levin wants to walk the perimeter, and then we’ll head back to the house to draft preliminary notes.”
We finish the loop. I briefly consider sticking my foot out and tripping Roland.
Fortunately, I manage to resist the urge to commit assault in front of a grant committee. They head back to their cars in a polite cluster, Dr. Levin still talking to Aaron while Roland hangs back half a step.
After their ring analysis is over, they clear out, and we can finally breathe again.
Evelyn lingers in the kitchen to go over next steps.
“They were impressed,” she says. “They’ll need to formalize their notes, but I’d be surprised if there’s any change to your funding status. If anything, this gave you more leverage in future conversations.”
“I’ll believe it when the ink is dry,” Isla says.
Evelyn closes her tablet. “Try to rest this afternoon. Your job now is to keep doing what you’ve been doing. Mine is to be annoying on your behalf.”
Isla smiles weakly. “You’re very good at that.”
“Years of practice,” Evelyn says. She nods to me. “Keep backing her up.”
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
Once the cars roll down the drive and out of sight, the house goes very quiet. Isla stands in the middle of the kitchen, hands flat on the table.
“You good?”
“You corrected Dr. Levin,” she says. “Earlier, when she called me Rhodes.”
“As much as I love hearing that particular combination of words, I know you’re still a Winslow, baby. Always have been. Always will be.”
She crosses the space between us and kisses me.
It’s quick, but it still hits like a match to dry kindling. One press of her mouth, and every thought in my head burns off. By the time she pulls back, I’m standing there wrecked over a kiss that barely lasted two seconds.
“I don’t know if I can do this for the rest of my life,” she says. “Constantly arguing with banks and grants and zoning and donors and the town and the weather. I’m so tired of fighting. Of feeling like every decision is choosing which piece of my life I can stand to lose.”
I want to pick her up, carry her to bed, and give her ten years of uninterrupted sleep. Right now, our schedules can’t accommodate that. So, I give her the only thing I can—my reassurance.
“Let me take some of it. You aren’t the only one who gets to carry the hard parts. Whatever you want, Isla, I can give it to you. And whatever you need, I promise I’ll find a way to provide it.”
She tucks herself against me, head in the crook of my neck.
“Please just—don’t go anywhere.”
I stroke her hair and say, “There’s not a world in which I’d ever dream of it.”