Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
J enny needed to learn if she had the right to stop a journalist from taking photographs of her grove, but asking the sheriff wasn’t an option. There hadn’t been a murder in Pierce County for thirty-five years before the night Jack went crazy, and Sheriff Eckert still resented having his pristine track record broken. Then there was the incident when Jenny fired a rifle to scare a trespasser off her land. Sheriff Eckert overreacted, and she was still on probation because of it. Now he was angry over her delayed reporting of the Fabergé egg, and she couldn’t risk letting anyone learn what she was really hiding on her grove.
That meant Senator Wakefield was the best place to turn for help. Sometimes living next door to the most powerful family in the state had its advantages. Of course, “next door” meant a mile down a rural county lane, but that didn’t stop their families from becoming entwined over the generations despite their different stations in life.
The Summerlins were salt-of-the-earth farmers, while the Wakefields were high-flying jetsetters who loved politics, business, and the limelight. Despite his wealth and prestige, Senator Max Wakefield had a folksy manner that made him popular both in Florida and on the national stage. His friendship with the Summerlins went back a long way. He grew up hunting and fishing with Jenny’s grandfather, and even stood as godfather to both her and Jack.
The drive through the sprawling pastureland surrounding the Wakefield estate was a balm to Jenny’s spirit. A person could drive through miles of this land and never realize it was owned by the Wakefields because they never boasted about their wealth. Some people assumed the Wakefields got rich off of land and cattle, but it was really their stake in the phosphate mine that made them rich.
It used to be called the Wakefield Phosphate Mine back when it was founded in 1890. After the environmentalists started coming after them, they renamed it United Phosphate & Fertilizer, which had a much more humanitarian sound to it. As the Wakefield family rose in the American political scene, the phosphate mine was a millstone around their necks. Open pit mining didn’t project the image old Karl Wakefield wanted for his family’s dynasty. He sold the mine decades ago to a multinational conglomerate, though everyone in central Florida remembered who once owned that mine. It had paid for high schools, hospitals, and an art museum that was the envy of cities five times the size of sleepy little Amity, Florida.
She parked her truck in front of Wakefield Manor, a sprawling country house that looked like it had been plucked from eighteen-century England. The honey-limestone walls were enhanced by a red tiled roof, mullioned windows, and a massive walnut front door. A kennel with thirty purebred English foxhounds was around back, and they yapped vigorously as Jenny crossed to the rear entrance of the manor.
The senator answered the door himself. He was seventy-five years old but still looked handsome and fit with a barrel chest and perfect posture.
“Jenny,” his voice boomed as he wrapped her in a bear hug. “How’s my favorite goddaughter?”
She returned his hug with affection. The senator was probably the person who had been looking out for her ever since the terrible night of the murders, even though he denied being the person who alerted her about the unpaid property taxes in the nick of time. It was the sort of benevolent, grandfatherly thing he’d been doing for her all her life.
He led her to the living room filled with comfortable leather seating. Photographs on the end tables showed various members of the Wakefield family posed alongside presidents and movie stars, and the painting over the fireplace was an original Rembrandt. The only thing that looked out of place was the Kashmiri tapestry hanging beside the bookshelf, a memento of the senator’s time serving as a missionary in India.
“Anything new about that skeleton found on your land?” the senator asked as he handed her a glass of lemonade.
“They say it’s a middle-aged woman who has probably been in there since sometime in the 1950s.”
He nodded. “Anything else?”
The senator probably had enough clout to get all sorts of inside information, but did he know about the Fabergé egg? So far, its existence had been withheld by the sheriff and she was still sworn to secrecy.
“Not that I’ve heard, but people keep trying to nose around my grove.”
He cocked his head. “What do you mean, ‘nose around’?”
“Reporters have tried to get onto the property even though I posted a sign against trespassing. They set up a scaffold right outside the front gate and are threatening to come back to film a story so they can milk that skeleton for TV ratings. It seems like an invasion of privacy. Is there anything you can do?”
Instead of answering her, the senator gave a weary sigh. “I’m worried about you all alone out there. Don’t you ever want to see something of the world beside the inside of an orange crate? I thought you wanted to spend a year in Italy after college. Whatever happened to that?”
“It was the year my grandfather experimented with pineapples,” Jenny said and winced at the memory. Pineapples were a lot of work, and when their ten-acre crop began to fail, she cancelled the trip to Rome. They tried everything to coax the undersized and unappealing pineapples into health before abandoning the project. Jenny still sometimes hankered to see Rome, but that was okay. She’d heard the reality wasn’t nearly so wonderful as the travel brochures made it out to be . . . but sometimes she still wondered.
Senator Wakefield obviously disapproved. “You’re too young to be tied down to a grove, and I wouldn’t mind expanding the ranch. I’d be happy to buy you out.”
She cut him off before he could launch into his prepared speech. “My answer is the same as it was when you offered after Jack’s funeral. It is very generous of you, but I’m not leaving the grove.”
“I’ll give you a good price. You could spread your wings and see something of the world.”
There was a time when she might have been tempted by such an offer, but it was too late now. What would she do if she couldn’t grow oranges? Changing careers would take degrees and certifications and training. She wouldn’t even know where to begin.
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t want to sell. I just want things to stay exactly as they are.”
Actually, she wanted to turn the clock back to eighteen months ago, back when she still had Wyatt. Back when she had a laughing nephew and a brother she could respect. The senator leaned over to pat her knee.
“Don’t worry, Jenny. I’ll put a stop to the television reporters. You have a right to privacy on your own land, and I’ll make sure you get it.”
She relaxed back into the cushions of her seat, comforted by the warm confidence in his tone. “Thanks,” she said. “My life is finally getting back to normal, and gossip over that skeleton is the last thing I need. The McAllisters are even going to let me see Sam again.”
“Oh?” the senator asked. “What made them change their mind?”
She held his gaze. The senator still owned a heap of United Phosphate stock, and Kent McAllister was now the CEO of the mining company. The connection was obvious.
“I thought you might have had something to do with it,” she said.
He shook his head. “Kent McAllister is a mean son of a gun, but he loves the boy. Maybe he’s finally realized you can’t be blamed for what Jack did.”
Maybe. Jenny was still fairly certain the senator had somehow leaned on the McAllisters to permit the visit, but she wouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. The visit with Sam was going to happen this weekend, and she silently gave thanks for whatever strings the senator pulled to make it happen.
Senator Wakefield made good on his promise to intervene at the television station. The scaffolding disappeared the day after Jenny’s visit, making it one less thing she had to worry about as she geared up to meet with her nephew again.
Would Sam still recognize her? Eighteen months was an eternity to a six-year-old. It would have been better to meet with him at the grove to help jog Sam’s memory, but this visit was at the McAllisters’ discretion, and they picked the gazebo at the new public park for the reunion.
The two hundred acres of restored wetlands was part of United Phosphate’s commitment to the environment. Twenty years earlier this stretch of land had been strip-mined into a barren white landscape that looked like the moon. Now Jenny waited amid the lush greenery at a gazebo overlooking a freshwater pond. It was stocked for fishing and a two-mile boardwalk meandered through lush wetlands. Long-legged storks poked through tall grasses and the call of wood ducks sounded in the distance. Fast-growing loblolly pines towered over the park, obliterating any clue that this land had once been strip-mined.
She tried not to fidget while watching people come and go from the boardwalk. Hikers navigated around mothers pushing baby strollers, but so far there had been no sign of the McAllisters. Would they actually show up? They’d been so nasty while fending off her attempts to see Sam, insisting Jenny had nothing to offer they couldn’t provide.
There was no delicate way to put it, but Jenny knew the problems that came from being raised by a grandparent. She’d never breathe a bad word about Gus Summerlin, but he was sixty-five when she graduated from high school. Instead of having a mother teach her to cook or put on makeup, Gus taught her to bait a hook and which brand of arthritis cream was best. By the time she was twenty-four, Gus had passed away and she was on her own in the world.
Twenty-four was too young for anyone to be left without older relatives to provide wisdom and guidance. That would eventually happen to Sam once his grandparents passed on unless she could foster a relationship with him.
The McAllisters were ten minutes overdue and it was chilly. Just when she considered running back to the truck for a heavier jacket she spotted Kent McAllister’s tall form striding down the boardwalk and her heart sank.
He was alone.
She stood, ready to face him. “Have you brought Sam?”
“Sam is in the car with my wife,” Mr. McAllister said, looking tall, tough, and flinty. “I’m going to set the ground rules for this meeting. First, you are not to breathe one word about your good-for-nothing brother. My wife and I will be a few yards away, listening to every word you say. The best thing for Sam will be if he scrubs Jack entirely out of his memory, so don’t attempt to instill any warm or tender memories of your brother. Is that understood?”
It didn’t sound like she had much choice, and she nodded.
“What have you got in that bag?” Kent demanded, eyeing her canvas sack on the wooden bench.
“Just an activity to serve as an icebreaker,” she said. A two-hour visit was a long time for a six-year-old unless they had a project to work on, and Sam loved to help. He used to follow Jack around the grove to pick oranges and loved helping Hemingway feed the chickens. Getting Sam engaged in a task would soothe the awkwardness of this reunion.
Kent tugged the rim of her canvas bag to inspect its contents. His frown never altered, but her activity must have passed muster since he gave a brisk nod, then called his wife’s cell phone, saying all was in order and she could bring the boy.
Jenny stood at the front of the gazebo to watch Mrs. McAllister walk Sam down the boardwalk toward them. How tall he’d grown! The chubbiness of a toddler was gone, but his hair was still a stick-straight blond. Would he even remember her? She twisted her hands as Sam squatted to watch some ducks paddling beside the boardwalk.
Mrs. McAllister finally coaxed Sam to leave the ducks and continue toward the gazebo. Jenny beamed as he drew closer, but Sam ignored her as he ran ahead to give his grandfather a quick hug.
Okay, that was fine, too. It was good Sam was comfortable with his grandfather because Kent McAllister scared the dickens out of most people.
“Sam, this is your Aunt Jenny,” Mr. McAllister said with stern formality. Sam didn’t say anything, just peeked at her in curiosity through his big blue eyes.
She hunkered down to be eye-level with him. “Do you remember me?”
He shook his head, and she swallowed back a squeeze of disappointment.
“That’s okay,” she said. “I’m your Aunt Jenny. I live on an orange grove. And look! I’ve brought something from the grove for you to help me with. Would that be good?”
Sam glanced at Mr. McAllister as though silently asking permission, which he received. Jenny reached for Sam’s hand and led him into the gazebo.
“We’ll be right here if you need us,” Mr. McAllister told Sam.
“We’re not going anywhere,” his wife called out, and both McAllisters settled onto a bench a few yards away at the edge of the gazebo. Jenny tried to ignore their glowering presence as she took the potted lemon sapling from the canvas bag. Then she set out pruning shears, a jar of grafting compound, and a set of damp paper towels.
“I need help building a magic tree,” she said to Sam. “Do you think you can help?”
The child’s eyes grew large. “What’s a magic tree?”
“It’s a tree that can grow oranges, lemons, and limes. With luck, we might even be able to get this tree to grow grapefruit someday. Can you be my helper?”
A hint of a smile tugged as Sam gave a tentative nod.
Yes! Jenny unwrapped orange and lime twigs that had been kept damp in the paper towels. It wouldn’t take long to graft them onto the lemon tree. Even the McAllisters looked interested as she began preparing the lemon sapling by slitting a two-inch cleft into the trunk. She let Sam hold the bud from a lime tree, then began the grafting process. She slipped the bud beneath the flap of lemon tree bark, where it would hopefully grow into a branch that would produce limes in the years to come.
She let Sam have a try with the next bud. His little face screwed up with the intensity of a surgeon as he began the task.
“You’re doing a good job,” she said, helping him through the more delicate parts. “You seem like a natural at this. When I was your age, my grandfather showed me and my brother how?—”
“Careful,” Mr. McAllister barked from a few yards away, and she bit her tongue. The McAllisters held the keys to the kingdom, so she gave a single nod to acknowledge that she’d overstepped, then proceeded to show Sam how to wrap the bud union.
It was the last mistake she made. After finishing the tree project, they fed the ducks outside the gazebo while Sam asked a zillion questions. He wanted to know where the ducks slept at night and did ducks have to brush their teeth. Even the McAllisters seemed more relaxed as she supplied a steady supply of pellets to feed the ducks.
The easy relaxation abruptly ceased at the end of the visit when Jenny suggested Sam could take the magic tree home with him. The McAllisters lived on a thirty-acre ranch and could surely find a spot for the sapling. It would be the perfect excuse for her to start visiting and establish a relationship again.
Sam loved the idea and he looked at Mr. McAllister. “Can I?” he asked, his voice bursting with excitement. “Can I, please?”
Mr. McAllister frowned. “Of course not, Sam. We wouldn’t know how to take care of it.”
“I can come out and show you,” Jenny volunteered. “It’s not hard. Every couple of weeks Sam and I ca?—”
“That’s not going to happen,” Mr. McAllister said. “Come along, Sam. It’s time to get home and practice your Spanish lessons.”
“But what’s going to happen to the magic tree?” Sam asked, his voice brimming with such dismay that Jenny rushed to the rescue.
“I’ll take it to my grove and look after it for you,” she reassured him. “The tree will be fine.”
“Come along, Sam,” Mr. McAllister said, taking one of the boy’s hands while his wife snatched the other. Sam had to trot to keep up with them as they headed down the boardwalk.
A tangle of emotions twisted inside as she watched the trio walk away. The visit was mostly a success, wasn’t it? And the McAllisters might let her have another visit. Anything was possible if she just refused to give up.
A gust of cold wind buffeted her as she reached her pickup truck. It snaked beneath her collar, sending a chill throughout her entire body. The wind carried pinpricks of icy rain, reminding her that the one thing she would never be able to control was the weather.
And for an orange grove, ice could be deadly.
Jenny lugged the magic tree onto the farmhouse porch because she still couldn’t be certain the canker in the grove was completely gone. The sapling was young and vulnerable, but it might also be her key to establishing a renewed relationship with Sam. She was brushing grit from her hands after placing the sapling on the edge of the porch when Hemingway came driving up on the ATV.
“A cold front is coming in and there’s going to be a frost tonight,” he said.
The breath left her in a rush. Frost could wipe out her entire season’s crop, and those oranges were worth $300,000. After deducting the operating expenses, she ought to clear a little better than half, and she needed every dime of it for the mortgage she’d taken out to pay off the McAllisters.
It would be suicide to ignore a freeze warning. “If you get out the smudge pots, I’ll go into town for fuel,” she said, dreading the next twenty-four hours.
Hemingway agreed, and they went into high gear. A line had already formed at the agricultural service station when she arrived. Growers from all over the county waited to buy oil for their smudge pots. Big orange groves had wind machines to blow warm air into the tree canopy, but small operators like her still used the metal pots with an oil supply to send clouds of warm smoke into the tree canopy. It was usually enough to buy a few more degrees of warmth and stop the trees from dropping their oranges.
Ned Wilkensen was in front of her in the line. He leaned against the side of his truck as a clerk filled his cannisters. Deep grooves were carved into his leathery skin, his face betraying no emotion. He’d been through plenty of cold snaps and was still in business, so she shouldn’t be so worried, right?
“How bad do you think it will be tonight?” she asked him.
Ned shrugged. “Not too bad. Can’t afford to get lazy, though. We thought the frost ten years ago wouldn’t amount to much, but that one took everyone’s crop down.”
It wasn’t the comfort she’d hoped to hear. She’d helped operate the smudge pots with her grandfather during plenty of frosts. Back then, she and Jack had looked on it as an adventure. The glowing smudge pots had flickered in the night sky like campfires as they darted from pot to pot, ensuring they didn’t run out of oil. She’d never been confronted with a freeze as an adult, and Hemingway had never done it at all.
Soon it was her turn at the pump, and she watched the electronic numbers on the display climb at an alarming rate. This fuel bill was an expense she hadn’t counted on. She went inside the station to pay and was stopped short by a poster hanging on the front window.
It showed Wyatt Rossiter in a denim shirt with his sleeves rolled up as he gazed confidently at the camera. The slogan on the sign was a shock:
Wyatt Rossiter for Commissioner of Agriculture. Florida needs pastureland, not parking lots.
Laughter bubbled up inside. Since when had Wyatt aspired to political office? And yet . . . he would be a good commissioner. He knew ag. He was trustworthy.
Pride mingled with anguish as she gazed at his image. If he won, Wyatt would leave Amity and move to Tallahassee. He would finally be completely gone from her life.
“ Oh, Wyatt ,” she whispered as an ache bloomed in her chest. Maybe it was just as well that he had dumped her. Wyatt always had such big dreams, while she didn’t belong anywhere except Summerlin Groves. Trying to keep up with Wyatt as he tackled the world would have exposed her inadequacies. The only thing she knew how to do was grow oranges. She was nearing thirty years old, and it was too late to learn anything else. Still, she gave in to the temptation to gaze at Wyatt’s photograph for a guilty few moments before heading inside to pay.
Cory Messner stood behind the front counter. She’d known Cory since elementary school when he used to fry ants under a magnifying glass.
“That’ll be three hundred and twenty-five dollars,” Cory said, his voice carrying a hint of scorn as he took her credit card. He probably resented having to wait on a woman.
“Be a shame if this frost killed everyone’s oranges,” Cory said as he handed her card back. “Almost as bad as if two innocent women got shot because they crossed Jack Summerlin.”
The words were a slap in the face. She ought to be used to the contempt by now, but it still hurt. Cory had said it too quietly for anyone else in the store to hear. Cowards were like that, hitting only when no one else was looking.
Jenny tucked her card back into her wallet. “Been great seeing you, Cory. You’ve always been such a class act.”
She slid into her truck to head home. Small-minded people might always blame her for what Jack did, and it got worse after her own brush with the law.
It happened a month after Jack died. A trespasser came onto the grove wanting to poke into her family history. He was a little guy, with horn-rimmed glasses and a goofy smile. He claimed to be a genealogist and wanted insight into Summerlin ancestry. The goofball refused to leave when she asked him, and she ended up getting a gun to prove she was serious about not wanting to talk to him.
He still refused to leave. All she did was fire a single shot into the air, but it was enough to bring charges against her, even though she’d been on her own land and nobody got hurt.
The district attorney wasn’t going to overlook any gun crime committed by a Summerlin, and he tried to make a name for himself by demanding the maximum penalty, which would have meant jail time.
Somebody pressured the district attorney to back off, and Jenny was allowed to plead guilty to a lesser offense. She was still on probation, but so long as she kept her nose clean for the rest of the year, she’d be fine.
That was in the past. She’d learned to live with the cold shoulders and snubs because no one could ruin Jenny’s self-respect without her own consent, right?
Snubs could only hurt her feelings, but a real battle was brewing tonight when the blast of frost from the north could wipe out her grove for good.