Chapter 3
3
Two hours earlier…
I pull into the parking lot of a downtown office building, wishing I was anywhere but here. I almost yank off the damn tie I’m wearing. The suit might as well be a straitjacket.
Jed was the one who used to handle this side of our property development business. The meetings with stiffs were his area of expertise. My area was getting my hands dirty, dealing with the contractors and making sure the day-in-day-out operations ran smoothly. Overseeing the construction, managing the building sites, dealing with the surveyors and so on. And Laney handled the books.
Now that they’re both gone, I’ve got way more on my plate than there are hours in the day to deal with it all .
I slam the door of my truck, not giving a damn that it’s covered in mud from my early morning drive through the farm to give Luke and Leo a hand getting started with the hay harvesting. They’ve got plenty of farmhands on deck, but it’s a big job and I wanted to make sure they’ve got it under control.
My meeting today is with a guy I can’t fucking stand. He’s a developer from Seattle who’s trying to cash in on the Nashville boom that continues to creep further out. The asshole had never even been to Tennessee until a month ago. He contacted me by video call last week and I could immediately tell he’s half con-artist and half greed-driven douchebag.
Jed was good at dealing with people. I’m…not.
I don’t have the patience for jackasses, especially if they’re only interested in making a quick buck without giving any thought whatsoever to the land itself, the heritage, the surroundings, and especially the people who happen to be a part of the place he’s intending to destroy. People who have lived here for generation upon generation. People who care about the place and how it’s handled and preserved.
People like me.
All this guy cares about are the dollar signs.
Jed used to say it all the time and I can still hear him scolding me. As much as I admire your scruples, man, at least part of the reason we’re here has to be about making some money.
And we have made money. A lot of it .
My biggest problem with this project is that the farm this guy wants to turn into an overcrowded hell-hole of a development is right next door to Sugar Mountain.
At four hundred acres, ours is a big farm by Tennessee standards. Over the past ten years, I’ve worked my guts out, along with the rest of my family, to turn it into a seriously profitable piece of land. My dad died of a sudden major heart attack that killed him before he even hit the ground. I was seventeen. He’d been in poor health for a while, but it was still a shock to all of us, that he could suddenly just be gone like that. Especially for Ma. Our father was a hard worker, but he’d been stuck in his ways and refused to embrace any of the changes that would have helped him get out of some serious debt.
We’ve turned all that around. But it’s taken a shitload of hard work.
I walk into the meeting room without knocking.
Four suits stand up.
One steps forward, looking nervous. “Mr. Boone, good to see you. Julian Fuller. Thanks for coming.” He’s even greasier in person than he was on screen. He holds his hand out and I shake it briefly. His hand is weirdly cold. And soft. Which doesn’t help my mood and in fact makes me feel like punching him in the face.
Jed, damn it .
“Nate, these are my business associates, Wesley Crane, Everett Olsen and Darren Smith. Gentlemen, this is Nathan Boone. ”
I shake the other men’s hands and each one has me feeling more like walking out of this meeting than the last. I already know this is a waste of time. And I fucking hate wasting time. Especially when Daisy is waiting for me.
All four of them are pale corporate types who’ve probably never stepped foot on a farm in their lives. Hell, they look like they’ve never even seen the sun. I’m easily half a foot taller than all of them. A strong wind could probably blow them over. I’m tempted to suggest we go down to the local steakhouse and order them up some red meat.
“Julian tells us you have some reservations about taking this project on,” the one named Everett begins. “But also that you’re the best, most reliable developer in Tennessee. We’d like to try to change your mind about whatever your reservations might be.”
“Please, Nathan, take a seat.” Julian motions toward the chair at the head of the table. I pull it out and sit, glad for the small distance from their clusterfuck of paperwork, spread out in neat little piles.
They all take my lead, taking their seats. “We’re very impressed by the developments you built in Taylorville and East Grove last year,” one of them says. “We’ve heard nothing but good things about your company. We’re interested in having you spearhead seven new high-density developments we’re currently in the process of getting consent for, all within an hour of Nashville. The first one is local to your own property, Julian mentioned. ”
I look the guy in the eye. And I take my time. “Everett, is it?”
“Yes.”
“Everett, did you know that there are more than seventy thousand farms in Tennessee?”
“Uh. No, I didn’t realize it was that many.”
“Did you know that the average farm is family-owned and somewhere between a hundred and two hundred acres, some of which have been in families for generations?”
“Uh…sure, but?—”
“Did you know that almost forty percent of the land in Tennessee is farmland?”
“Um, no, I don’t have all the statistics?—”
“You should. And did you happen to know that the number of farms and farmers is decreasing at a rate that’s alarming to a lot of Tennesseans?”
“No. No, I didn’t know that. But?—”
“Did you know that more than 360,000 people in Tennessee are employed in agriculture and forestry?” Of course they don’t. They don’t know jackshit about anything. They don’t know what the Tennessee rain feels like on your work-dusty skin. Or the smell of fresh-cut hay on a hot August afternoon under the Tennessee sun.
Everett looks uncomfortable at this point.
I don’t wait for his reply. “Did you know that the collective production values of those seventy thousand farms pumps more than five billion dollars a year into the economy of Tennessee? ”
“No, but Mr.—”
“These numbers are important to Tennessean farmers, Everett.” I pause to make sure I’m not about to lose my temper and throttle one of them. “Tennesseans, including me, are invested in preserving as many of the family farms as we can. We think about our kids and our grandkids and we want to make sure Tennessee isn’t completely bulldozed into parking lots and strip malls before future generations have a chance to experience it like we have.”
Julian exhales an uneasy chuckle, like this is some kind of fucking joke. “We definitely understand all that, Mr. Boone. But progress means change. We currently have seven hundred clients interested in buying small land parcels in Tennessee. Seven hundred ,” he repeats. “With more people—Californians, in particular—signing up every single day. These are people willing to pay top dollar for a partial acre of land.”
“And be squeezed into the countryside like sardines,” I point out gruffly.
“A 0.2 acre section is all many families require, Mr. Boone,” says the one named Darren. “Townhouses are very desirable. Especially with country views.”
“You’re telling me you want to put seven hundred houses on a hundred and fifty acre property.” I don’t ask it. I state it as an unbelievably stupid idea.
“Yes. That’s what we’re proposing.”
Fucking hell. “The infrastructure required for seven hundred houses would drastically change the landscape of the entire area. And I’m not just talking about the views. I’m talking about the traffic, the impact on the ecosystems and the wildlife, the businesses that would be required to feed, school and provide for all the needs of that kind of population growth. The carbon footprint of a project like that?—”
“Mr. Boone,” interrupts Wesley. Or Everett. Or Darren. Who the fuck cares. “You—and all of us—stand to make a significant amount of money out of this project. We’re talking multi, multi millions. Let’s keep our eye on the ball.”
I’ve had just about enough of this. “How about this, Wesley: you keep your fucking eye on your fucking ball and I’ll keep an eye on mine.”
Damn it all to hell, Jed. I don’t know how he smiled his way through meetings like this every day of the week. My tie feels more like a noose around my neck with every passing second.
Daisy will be waiting at the house and once again I’ll be late because I so often get held up by assholes like these.
I look at these watery-eyed men and all I can feel is contempt. They’re quiet now, in the wake of my rant.
Jed and I started this company when we were both twenty-two and our skillsets were well-matched. He was the people person with a good-natured knack for dealing with clients. He knew how to talk sense into people like this and appeal to their sense of integrity, no matter how deeply it might be buried under all those layers of greed.
I was good at dealing with the nuts and bolts of the ground-breaking and the building—and do it in a way that was in the best interests of the community, the history of the place while also doing my best to preserve the aesthetics of the countryside. Making all of the above line up can be a juggling act. And I can admit that, without Jed, I’m dropping a few fucking balls.
“Look,” I say, mining deep for an inkling of patience. “I don’t disagree with you guys. Progress does mean change. You’re right. And I have no problem with change. But I can’t—and I won’t—agree to the kind of change that’s going to destroy Tennessee.”
Sure, I could take on a project like this, cash in and retire. And have all the time in the world for Daisy.
I’m already pretty close to being able to do that, come to think of it, or way past the point of being already there. But these projects should never be only about the money.
Either way, I’d rather be dirt poor than see seven hundred houses built on the doorstep of Sugar Mountain.
I’ll fight them tooth and nail with everything I’ve got.
“Mr. Boone, I don’t think you understand the amount of money we’re talking about here,” Everett pleads.
“And I don’t think you understand how easy it would be for me to kill this project with one five-minute phone call.” Which is exactly what I plan on doing. I can’t blame them for trying, but there’s no fucking way. I can admit my people skills are severely lacking today. I’ve barely had five hours of sleep a night for months on end, with Daisy’s nightmares and my own tossing and turning with worry about everyone I care about, who all seem to need my help .
Julian correctly reads the room. “I think we’ve gone as far as we’re going to go with this today. But Mr. Boone—please—read through this business proposal here when you’ve had some time to go through the numbers. I’m sure you’ll be impressed by just how lucrative this project could be for you.” He slides a manila envelope over to me.
As much as I’d like to tell him to shove his manila envelope up his pasty white ass, I see this as my out.
I stand up from the table, taking the envelope. “I’ll look it over.”
Julian and the others stand. “Could we reconvene in, say, a week? Same time, same day?”
“I’m afraid the answer to that question is no. I’ll call you if I change my mind or if hell freezes over, whichever comes first. Nice meeting y’all,” I add, because manners are still ingrained in me even if patience isn’t. With that, I walk out.