Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
J enny headed out to the equipment barn after bidding Kristen farewell. It was time to start leveling the ground to prepare it for saplings. She was oiling the tractor when her cell phone rang, showing Senator Wakefield’s familiar number on the screen.
It was a little late for him to return her flurry of desperate telephone messages. It had been more than a week since her grove had been destroyed. She sighed, then dried her hands and reached for the phone.
“Yes,” she said in a flat tone.
“Jenny,” he greeted in a disconcertingly jovial voice.
“Senator.”
Several uncomfortable seconds passed before he tried again. “Look . . . I’m sorry about what happened out at your grove. How are you doing?”
Her gaze trailed out the window. Dirt as far as the eye could see, and she didn’t feel like talking about it. “What can I do for you, Senator?” She clenched the phone so hard her knuckles hurt, but she would be polite even if it killed her.
“Raymond and I are out running errands and would like to swing by your place. Are you up for a visit?”
“Why?”
“To see how my favorite goddaughter is doing. That, and maybe talk a little business.”
It piqued her interest, and she agreed to meet with them.
She called Hemingway immediately. “The Senator and Raymond are on their way over, and I’d like you to be here. I’m curious about what they have to say, so be nice.”
“I’m always nice,” Hemingway tossed off before ending the phone call, probably still smarting over the incident at the Brickhouse.
Hemingway and Raymond Wakefield were opposites in all things. Hemingway lovingly crafted each sentence of the novel he’d been working on for six years, while Raymond paid ghostwriters to churn out laudatory books about his famous relatives. Hemingway kept in flawless shape through manual labor on the grove, while Raymond’s enviable physique came compliments of downhill skiing in the Alps or piloting a sailboat around the Caribbean.
Ten minutes later she sat with Hemingway on the porch swing, slowly rocking as the senator’s Range Rover approached the house. Raymond was driving, and he came around to the passenger side to help his father out of the car. As usual, Raymond looked like he’d just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren advertisement. Crisp white chinos, a navy sports jacket, and a lime green pocket square. His wife wasn’t here, but Jenny would bet that the baroness wore lime green today.
“How are book sales?” Hemingway asked as the pair arrived at the base of the porch.
Raymond’s mouth thinned. “Excellent. It seems I must reiterate your contractual obligation to remain silent on ghostwriting projects. Unless you want a lawsuit, you need to stop mouthing off in public.”
The senator held up a placating hand. “Let’s all calm down,” he said. “We came here to express our sympathy about what happened and offer to buy you out. You’ve declined my offers in the past, but this one is a little different. You can keep the house, keep living here if you like; we’re only interested in buying the land.”
He gave a brusque nod to his son, who opened a briefcase and handed her a purchase proposal. She blinked in surprise. The offer was even more generous than in the past, which made no sense given the condition of her torn-up fields.
“What would you want with a ruined orange grove?” she asked.
“I want it for hunting,” Raymond said. “Fox hunting demands a lot of territory, and since this land adjoins our property, we can transform it to a nice open space to give the horses free rein.”
Jenny always thought Raymond’s quarterly fox hunts were the ultimate in pretentious showmanship, but they’d been a tradition for generations at the Wakefield estate. Rich people from all over Florida brought their horses for the hunt, which didn’t chase a fox at all, merely a carefully laid trail of scent from a lure.
Raymond’s eyes gleamed as he scanned the land. “We can dig out a section and flood it, plant it with marsh grass, then build up a few hills with the excavated dirt. It will dramatically improve the riding experience. And as I said, you’re more than welcome to keep the house and a few acres surrounding it. We only want the land for hunting.”
Her life here revolved around growing oranges, not indulging Raymond’s aristocratic pretensions. She handed the slip of paper back to Raymond. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m going to replant the grove.”
Raymond refused to take the document. “Hang on to it,” he said. “If you change your mind, you know how to contact us. And Jenny . . . I really am sorry for what happened here.”
Hemingway placed a hand over his heart. “Your compassion is a model for us all.”
Jenny held her breath as Raymond glowered, but the two men left without incident.
“Why do you keep needling him?” she asked once their car pulled on to the road. “One of these days he might make good on his threat to sue you over the ghostwriting thing.”
“He won’t,” Hemingway said. “All it would do is shine a spotlight on the fact that he’s no writer. I learned a lot while I was living at Wakefield Manor, doing interviews and listening to that pretentious snob ramble about his glorious family. Most of it was self-congratulatory blather, though he told me a few interesting stories. I put it all in the manuscript, then Raymond blew his stack when he saw it in there.”
She cocked a brow. “Like what?”
Hemingway rocked the porch swing in silence for several moments before speaking. “Like the real reason the senator dumped Millicent Hawkins.”
Jenny stopped rocking. She had always assumed the romance between the heir to the Wakefield fortune and the daughter of his family’s cook was little more than a fleeting teenaged romance.
Not according to Hemingway.
“Raymond told me that his father wanted to run away with Millicent to France, where an interracial marriage wouldn’t be so scandalous. When old Karl found out, he put an end to it. Karl had grand ambitions for his son, and wanted Max to reach the pinnacle of the American political scene. That couldn’t happen if he was married to a Black woman. When Max wouldn’t budge, old Karl threatened to accuse Millicent’s mother of theft and send her to jail. Max caved, and according to Raymond, he never got over it. Raymond refused to let me include it in the book. He said it would reflect badly on his own mother, and it’s no secret that Max never really loved his wife.”
True. Rumor had it the senator’s marriage was the joining of two wealthy and politically powerful families, and he didn’t seem too shattered after his wife passed away almost a decade ago.
Jenny lingered on the porch long after Hemingway returned to work, but the tale of two thwarted lovers remained in her mind. There were surely a million reasons love affairs died. What would have happened if Max and Millicent ran off to France? Maybe Karl’s threats were empty, and they could have found a happy ending in France.
Maybe she and Wyatt could have been happy in Morocco.
The thought weighed heavily as she revved up the tractor and got to work preparing the soil. She was too practical to throw everything away and run off to Morocco . . . but a part of her would forever mourn the dream of Morocco that vanished before it ever had a chance to begin.
Wyatt was a massive underdog in the race to become the state’s next Commissioner of Agriculture. He had no money, no name recognition, and no experience navigating the world of politics, but his unique background won the grand prize of political advertising: free statewide media attention. Career politicians with their business suits and law degrees weren’t as interesting as someone born, raised, and currently working in agricultural law enforcement. When a television news anchor from Miami asked for an interview, Wyatt chose his parents’ feed store as the location since it showcased his deep roots in agriculture.
Answering the reporter’s questions was easy because all he had to do was tell the truth. “Everyone else in the race is a professional politician,” he told the reporter once the camera started rolling. “I grew up helping customers right here in my parents’ feed store, and my first paying job was bailing hay on a cattle ranch. I’m the only one in the race who knows agriculture from the ground up.”
His parents watched from their position behind the checkout counter, both beaming with pride. It was a friendly interview, and the journalist tossed him a number of softball questions, such as his first priority should he win the election.
“The state’s zoning laws need to protect agriculture,” he replied. “Every year we’re losing more farms and ranches because the zoning laws favor development. I’m fighting to preserve our agricultural heritage rather than build another high-rise hotel. I’m aiming to protect pastureland, not parking lots.”
It was the perfect closing line, and the reporter sensed it. She wished him luck, then signaled to the cameraman to stop filming.
“It will be on tonight’s six and eleven o’clock newscast,” she told him. “Are you able to get Miami broadcasts up here?”
His mother couldn’t restrain herself any longer. “Our next-door neighbor has a satellite dish, and he’s invited the whole street to come over and watch.”
“You must be so proud,” the reporter said politely.
Donna clasped a hand over her heart. “This is the best thing that’s happened to our family in years. It gives us all something to cheer for.”
His mother continued to gush, and Wyatt didn’t have the heart to stop her. His long-shot campaign was likely to come to a swift end after the primary in two weeks, but until then he would go along with anything his mother wanted.
It was why he arrived at his neighbor’s viewing party wearing a T-shirt his mother had printed up with the slogan Pastureland, not Parking Lots! She brought enough T-shirts for everyone at the house party to wear. The whole crowd obligingly tugged on a T-shirt and posed for a group picture. In a few weeks this photo was likely to be nothing but an embarrassing reminder of his failed quest, but for now he was grateful his mother had found a spark of life again.
Donna gleefully recounted the Miami reporter’s interview for his neighbors. “Howard and Tina Mayweather came into the store while the news lady was fixing her hair right before filming. The Mayweathers are having trouble with ticks on their hogs and asked Wyatt for a good delousing solution. They didn’t even realize he was about to be interviewed for television! Wyatt walked them over to the pesticide aisle and told them what he knew about delousing. And you know what? The cameraman got the whole thing on tape!”
Everyone seemed to realize how important this was to Donna and gladly played along.
“Here it is!” his dad called out, hurrying to the television to crank up the volume.
A hush settled over the gathering as an exterior shot of the feed store filled the screen. The reporter enthusiastically recounted Wyatt’s experience in agriculture, his service in the army, and his law enforcement background. They even showed a snippet of him explaining how to delouse a hog.
Most of the story featured a lengthy clip of Wyatt explaining why he wanted to run: “Too many people use the commissioner’s job as a launching pad to a higher office, so they cater to aerospace and tourism because that’s where the money is. I intend to serve the folks who run fishing boats and cattle ranches and the people who make orange juice. I want the person sitting in Tallahassee to put those people first . Trust me, the space industry and the tourists are doing just fine.”
Everyone in the room hooted and cheered. His parents hugged each other, and people clapped him on the back and shook his hand.
The news cut back to the reporter, now sitting in the television station with her practiced smile. “We certainly wish Captain Rossiter well in the primary just two weeks away. Coming up after the break, a rare treasure worth millions has been found on a central Florida orange grove. Stay tuned!”
Wyatt froze. Had he heard correctly? There couldn’t be too many rare treasures turning up in orange groves. Jenny was under orders to remain silent about that egg, but she was bitter about what happened to her orange trees. Bitter enough to blow the whistle on that egg?
His mother had prepared a blowout meal of smoked ribs and wanted to lead folks over to dig in and celebrate on the back patio. While everyone else headed outside, Wyatt paced in the family room, praying the next story wasn’t what he feared.
Jenny wouldn’t dare . . . and yet, he feared she would.
The news came back on the television and cut to a reporter interviewing a lady who looked like a 1950s pinup model. Wyatt cranked up the volume, growing cold as the lady mentioned a Fabergé egg in mint condition. Photographs of the egg appeared on the screen and there could be no doubt. Jenny had spilled the beans about the egg.
The report switched back to the newscaster in the studio. “As to how this egg got from Russia to an orange grove in Florida?” the newscaster said. “It remains a mystery, but we invite you to submit your theories at our online webpage. Christie’s is working with the owner to iron out legalities, and an auction is anticipated later in the year. John? Over to you for the evening traffic.”
Wyatt stood motionless for a full minute. How could he possibly protect Jenny from the firestorm she’d just unleashed? A quick call to the sheriff’s department confirmed they hadn’t authorized Jenny to release news about the egg.
Wyatt couldn’t shield Jenny from whatever retaliatory action the sheriff might throw at her, but he could warn her it was coming. As much as he wanted to keep Jenny in his past, he needed to warn her about this first thing in the morning.
Jenny spent the morning re-grading the soil, which was long, dirty, and stinky work. The air swirled with so much dirt and sand she could taste it. Her tailbone hurt from bouncing on a hard tractor seat and she longed for a shower.
The work put a lot of stress on the tractor, too. It was starting to backfire, but her grandfather taught her how to fix this kind of thing long ago. A good cleaning of the fuel injectors would probably do the trick.
She sat on an upended orange crate in the open doorway of the equipment garage to get started. The metal building was big enough for the tractor, the cherry picker, two pickup trucks, and the ATV. A pegboard filled with tools covered the wall above the worktable, and the space was brightly lit thanks to overhead florescent lights.
She was swiping a bit of steel wool at the crud built up around the rim of the fuel pump when the distant sound of a car engine came from the front of the grove.
She set the pump down, wiping her hands on a rag as a truck barreled down the front drive, stirring up clouds of dust behind its wheels. She mentally kicked herself for not closing the gate after Hemingway left for groceries this morning, but it was too late now.
Really too late. It was Wyatt, and his expression was stormy as he slammed the door of the truck. The only thing she’d done lately to annoy him was let Christie’s make that announcement about the egg, but it was a biggie.
Wyatt glowered as he approached “Why did you talk to the press about that egg?”
“Me? I haven’t. It was the auction house that made the announcement.” It didn’t stop the guilt from rising to the surface. She turned away from the accusation in his face and sat down to continue cleaning the fuel pump.
“You were instructed to keep news of that egg confidential,” he said.
“I was asked to keep it quiet,” she corrected. “I decided to proceed.”
“Why?”
“Because according to the law, I need to give the public ninety days before I can sell the egg, and I got tired of waiting.”
Wyatt’s expression remained stony. “What you did could be considered obstruction of justice. Or tampering with evidence. It was a reckless and stupid thing to do.”
She kept polishing the grime from the pump and tried to sound calm. “Has there been talk of doing that?”
“Not yet.”
She glanced up in hope. “Is there likely to be?”
“Probably not,” he conceded. “The courts are overloaded with current issues instead of cold cases of long-dead skeletons, but what you did was wrong. Don’t you get that?”
She dropped the rag and stood up to face him. “I need the money, okay? I took out a huge mortgage on the grove and the first payment is due at the end of the quarter. The bank and I agreed on that date because it was when I was supposed to harvest my oranges, but thanks to someone plowing down my trees, I can’t pay it. So yes. I’m moving as fast as I can to stake my claim for that egg.”
“It’s not yours, Jenny.”
“It’s been on my land for fifty years. My grandfather might have bought it. Or traded for it. Unless someone shows up and can prove ownership, I get it by default.”
“Congratulations,” Wyatt said. “I got word from Caleb that the sheriff’s email system crashed thanks to the flood of loons coming out to claim it.”
“Really?” she asked, trying not to wince. She’d expected as much, although she still clung to the slim hope that there wouldn’t be too many claimants.
“Really. Hundreds are coming in from all over the country, and most are pure nonsense. Someone claimed to have lost it while camping. A guy from New York said it was stolen from his shop last year, even though it’s been in that tree for half a century. One guy even said his Ouija board told him the egg belonged to his grandparents. Any hope we have of weeding out legitimate leads over the skeleton is now going to be tangled up with kooks and fortune hunters.”
That was regrettable, but she wasn’t going to lose her grove over it. “Wyatt, I need money. I can’t lose the grove. It’s the only thing I have left.”
“The sad thing is that I think you really believe that. There are a million things you could do with your life if you could only break free of this place.”
She didn’t want to hear this. Wyatt had always looked down on her for wanting to follow in her family’s footsteps, as though he was better than she because he’d seen something of the world.
“Why should I break free of this place? I love it here. My life is good.”
“Your life is limited. Your family has been growing oranges on this plot of land for ninety years, and if you have your way, you’ll be here for another ninety. Doing what? Growing oranges. I asked you for two years in Morocco. Two years! And you couldn’t give it to me.”
“Because I had a duty,” she snapped.
He walked to her, standing so close she had to crane her neck to look up at him, and he was practically crackling with anger.
“Yes. You had a duty to a bunch of oranges. And where are those oranges now, Jenny?”
She whirled around to start putting tools away, so angry she could spit. Those oranges were sold to the OJ factory, where they’d been pulped, concentrated, and shipped out all over the world. Nobody gave her a Bronze Star or a Purple Heart for it. Maybe a glass of orange juice was a piddly thing to Wyatt, but she was proud of what she’d accomplished that terrible year Jack went crazy.
She whipped off her gloves to point a finger in his face. “There aren’t many people who could have gotten the grove pruned, pollinated, and harvested after what Jack did. I didn’t run away and I didn’t collapse. I did my job, even though everyone in town treated me like kryptonite, like I’m carrying Jack’s stink on me.”
“I never treated you like that.”
“Your mother did. The one time I saw her in the grocery store she acted like?—”
“Don’t criticize my mother,” Wyatt interrupted.
“Then don’t pretend she doesn’t hate me.” Donna had testified at a custody hearing that Jenny shouldn’t have visitation with Sam. Donna’s word carried weight because as a former social worker, she had plenty of experience with traumatized children, and the judge pounced on Donna’s testimony as an excuse to award full custody to the McAllisters.
“That was why I wanted us to go to Morocco,” he ground out, and she flinched just hearing the word. How many times had she wondered if going to Morocco would have been the right thing for them? They could be married now. Maybe even have kids . . . but it would have meant leaving the grove behind, and she would never give up Summerlin Groves for anyone.
“My grandfather always said not to let yesterday use up too much of today,” she told Wyatt. “I’m not going to stand here and argue about your mother. I’m fighting for today. To get my grove back.”
She pointed to the lumpy mounds of dirt. “I’ve got a lot of work to re-grade this land after your people destroyed my livelihood. Don’t try to make me feel guilty over making a claim for that egg. I’m going to fight hard for it whether you approve of it or not.”
Wyatt smoldered as he drove down the rural two-lane road back to town. There was a time when he had loved this drive because it meant he was going to see the woman he wanted to marry. Now the view was forever tainted with what happened that horrible night in July.
He hated fighting with Jenny. In the entire time they dated they hadn’t fought a single time. Now all they did was yell and snap at each other when painful emotions rose to the surface.
For a few days after Lauren died, he still hoped for a future with Jenny. In the wake of the town’s rage and his parents’ tears, he felt Jenny slipping away from him and reached out for the long-shot hope that Morocco might be their salvation.
At the time, Wyatt’s unique background in agriculture and the law prompted an unexpected job offer from United Phosphate & Fertilizer. The richest phosphate deposits in the world had just been discovered in Morocco, and the company was setting up a new operation in the small north African country. They needed an American lawyer on the scene who understood the fertilizer business and was tough enough to deal with dicey issues of international trade. The appointment would last two years and the company would pay him a fortune to do it.
Wyatt hadn’t seriously considered the opportunity until Lauren died, but then it seemed the perfect solution to escape memories of Lauren that surrounded him in Amity. He wanted to take Jenny with him, strike out for the horizon, and never look back. They were two wounded souls who could start over somewhere completely new. After checking with United Phosphate to confirm the job offer was still on the table, he drove out to the grove to find Jenny.
He parked his car on the south side of the farmhouse where he wouldn’t have to see the outbuilding where Lauren had been shot in the back. Jenny was mixing a tank of fertilizer at the pumping station when he approached. It was the first time they’d seen each other since Lauren’s funeral.
“Wyatt, thanks for coming.” Her voice was weak and timid. She took a moment to twist the spigot off and stood. Wearing faded jeans and a dingy white shirt, she looked as exhausted and haggard as he felt. “Wyatt, I’m so sorry . . .”
What happened wasn’t Jenny’s fault and she shouldn’t apologize for the mess her brother had made of their lives. Wyatt just wanted to solve the problem and get out of Florida.
“Jenny, the United Phosphate job in Morocco is still on the table. I’m going to take it.”
She sagged against the side of the water tank, sorrow clouding her pained blue eyes. “You’re leaving?”
“I want you to come with me. Right now. Leave everything behind and we can start over on the other side of the world. Just you and me and the desert and a new start.”
Jenny let out a stunned laugh of disbelief. “I can’t just leave.”
“Why not?”
She opened and closed her mouth a few times, as though trying to speak words that wouldn’t come. She looked past the pumping station to the endless rows of orange trees beyond.
“I can’t leave the grove,” she finally said. “There’s so much to do.”
“Let someone else do it. Come with me and we can find a pastor to marry us. Then we buy a one-way ticket and start over in Morocco.” No more memories of Lauren. No parents who hated Jenny and blamed her for what Jack did. Just a clean start beneath the hot baking skies of the desert.
“Wyatt, you’re not thinking clearly. I have responsibilities here. I’ve got thirty acres under cultivation. Pruning season is next month?—”
“Screw pruning season,” he roared. “I love you! We belong together. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
She held up her hands. “Yes, I want us to be together, but not in Morocco. Are you insane? I’m not leaving my grove.”
“Ever?”
She got more and more panicked and threw her gloves on the ground. “Yes, I’m never leaving my grove. It’s been in my family forever and I’m the only one left. I can’t leave it because you want to go to Morocco on a whim.”
A whim . Every word she said was a nail to his heart, and he lost his temper. He couldn’t remember all the things he’d yelled that morning, or the angry words she’d hurled back . . . the only thing that was indelibly etched in his mind was that Jenny’s undying love for a miserable orange grove would always mean more to her than anything he could offer. They’d be married now if she could have thrown off the shackles of that two-bit grove.
He silently steamed as he continued driving down the country lane, still angry over that Fabergé egg. He’d done what he’d come out here to do. Yelled at Jenny.
Was that all they were going to be to each other anymore? His car hit a pothole and he muttered a curse. He’d have to submit another work order to get it patched because the county had ignored his last request.
Why was he still running all over town to fix Jenny’s problems? If Jenny understood her rights, she could have demanded the county patch any pothole this big, but this was the sort of thing normal civilians didn’t realize. He would swallow his ire and go pound on the right doors to get the job finally completed.
And then he would be finished with Jenny. For good, this time.