Chapter 22
Twenty-two
You would think a tractor ride was only fun for little kids, but whenever Wit pulled up outside a house, people couldn’t wait to join us.
“And, as most of you know, this is the Big House,” Wit explained, steering the tractor up the sandy rock road toward a Victorian farmhouse. “It’s the oldest house on the Farm.” He turned back and winked at us. “And it just got a much-needed renovation!”
The Big House looked like it had been entirely re-sided in cedar shingles, since they weren’t weathered brown like the Annex.
Instead, they were a light maple color. My guess was they darkened with time.
A job well done, I thought to myself, admiring the fresh green shutters and porch that wrapped around the house like a hug.
“Evening!” Andrew Fox called from the porch. “Do you have room for two more?”
“One more, darling,” his wife corrected him. She was relaxing on the porch’s daybed but waved her book around, determined. “Book club meets tomorrow, and I’m only halfway through.” She blew a kiss to everyone. “Next time!”
Someone moved to help Andrew Fox onto the Oystercatcher, but he was capable of hoisting himself up without assistance. Seemingly a spring chicken.
Meanwhile, my heart threatened to pound its way out of my chest.
Did you date Annette Lupo? I was desperate to ask once he had settled near various generations of family and friends. Or did you know Annette Lupo, once upon a time? Did she come here?
But I swallowed the words, realizing he wouldn’t. “Lupo” was Annie’s married name, and before I could internally rephrase the question with her maiden name, Andrew cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Onward, Wit!”
I can ask his brother, I thought, knowing Christian’s house was the next stop. I knew him better, anyway. The Jaws Bridge disaster had been quite the icebreaker.
The sun was low on the horizon when the tractor reached the Pond House, the site of the Fourth of July party. It truly had an incredible view of Oyster Pond. The water glimmered in the waning light, and I spotted a couple peaceful evening kayakers.
Jay and Allison, I recognized the green and yellow kayaks. After discovering Nick and Sage’s love for kayaking under the stars, I’d learned his parents preferred paddling at sunset.
I turned to the Pond House at the sound of pounding feet.
Two children charged across the back deck, with blankets wisely thrown over their shoulders, and while other Foxes followed, none of them were Christian.
Andrew stuck two fingers in his mouth to sharply whistle.
“He’s not here,” a middle-aged woman told him.
“He went straight to the barn after dinner.”
Straight to the barn? I wondered.
The tractor resumed its journey.
“Am I not comfortable enough?” Connor asked when I shifted against his chest.
“Comfortable?” I felt my face melt into a smile. “Try cozy.” I glanced around; we had left the houses in the dust, now rolling along a meadow trail. “Where do you think this leads?”
He kissed the top of my head, murmuring, “I have a hunch…”
Wit slowed the tractor several minutes later, after impressively winding to a grassy oasis overlooking a small, placid pond.
The sun had officially started making its descent, the blue sky bursting into shades of orange and pink, but you couldn’t miss the house several yards away.
Or, the bones of a house. It was mostly framework, but you could tell a sweet Cape would someday stand here.
Wit and Meredith’s house, I surmised. This was where they were putting down roots.
“Everyone, everyone!” Meredith stood on the flatbed after Wit made a bird call to get the group’s attention. “We’ve brought you all here tonight to make an announcement!”
“You’re having a baby?” Claire asked.
Her mother gasped. “Claire!”
Meredith smiled as people laughed, but I caught the tiniest wince behind it. “No, Miss Dupré,” she said. “No bun in the oven.”
“We can’t afford a kid,” Wit joked, slipping his hand into Meredith’s and squeezing it. “We’ve sunk our savings into this house.” He gestured to the cottage. “Which we’ve finally thought of a name for…”
Too many people spoke at once, suggesting that this had been a Farm topic of conversation all summer. “Wave Watcher!” someone shouted.
“The Beachcomber’s Bungalow!”
“Plover House!”
“Wit’s End!”
“We appreciate all your suggestions,” Meredith said, “but ultimately settled on one of our own.” She grinned. “Drumroll, please!”
Her grandfather pulled off the perfect drumroll.
“Introducing,” Wit said, “in late September…”
“Clair de Lune Cottage!” he and Meredith chorused.
Moonlight, I translated from the French. Moonlight Cottage.
And while that meant nothing to me, I could tell it meant everything to them. Their family and friends were excited too.
“We should get them some fudge,” I whispered to Connor. They’d been so nice to us.
“We should,” he whispered back. “For them and for us.”
* * *
A few lanterns were switched on after the sun had set, but the stars and moon were bright and guided the tractor back the way it’d come. “Thank you for riding along with us,” Wit said at each drop-off point. “Tips are not necessary but much appreciated…”
Meredith hopped off the Oystercatcher at the Annex, and Connor moved to follow her—he’d whispered that he had one more surprise for me—but I found myself frozen in place. My pulse picked up, not ready to leave this moment—the tractor—yet.
What more do you want? the voice inside my head asked. You found it, isn’t that enough? You know Annie was here.
Did I have confirmation?
Everything but. I hadn’t had the guts to talk to Meredith’s grandfather before he’d disembarked at the Big House.
He’d winked at Connor and me once during the ride.
“Having fun?” he asked us, and I only mustered a smile and nod.
Maybe I was afraid he wouldn’t remember Annie, or I was scared that he’d broken her heart.
“Where does the tractor live?” I asked Wit now, as if the John Deere were a living, breathing thing.
“The barn,” he told me, scratching his ankle. Someone had forgotten bug spray. “It’s not far, if you want to check it out.”
I looked at Connor, who looked at me—and that was all it took. One look. I didn’t need to open my mouth and explain. “Keep rolling, Witry,” he said. “We’ve heard the lore behind Paqua’s barns.”
My lips tipped up in a smile. I’d told Connor about the Fourth of July legend: the Brothers Fox accidentally burning down one of the barns during their fireworks show. Their parents had been so pissed they gave the Fourth of July to the Carmichaels.
Wit chuckled. “Copy that, McCallister.”
He shifted the tractor’s gear stick, and we rolled forward again. I couldn’t help but shiver when we disappeared under a canopy of branches that shielded the road from the sky. Branches snapped and critters scuttled. It was also dark.
“Scared?” Connor teased.
“No.” I shook my head, even though I couldn’t imagine being out here alone. “You?”
“Terrified.”
I giggled into his shoulder.
“Here we are!” Wit announced a few beats later, as we pulled into another whorl of darkness.
But this one had bright spots of light. Two cedar-shingled barns squared off in a wooded clearing, one much larger than the other.
THE BARN, a carved sign read in the lamplight.
Connor helped Wit roll open the wide doors, welcoming the tractor back home.
I peeked inside to see a smaller red tractor, as well as a Kawasaki mule and a pair of dirt bikes.
The enormous American flag from the Fourth of July party hung on the back wall.
Then I turned back to the John Deere.
“I know,” Wit said. “She’s a stunner.”
“Absolutely.” I nodded, then I took a deep breath and asked if Connor could take a picture of me next to the tractor. He’d already fished his phone from his pocket. “I know it sounds silly, but…”
This was the final photo I needed, the one I thought I would never get the chance to take.
Wit grinned. “Not at all. I take a picture of Claire with the tractor every summer.” He offered a suggestion as Connor framed me in his crosshairs. “Maybe rest your arm on the back wheel?”
I did, since I had no glass of white wine to hold.
“Say cheese!” Connor smirked.
“Feta!” I smiled wide when he laughed.
“Good turnout tonight?” someone asked, and the three of us turned to see Christian Fox step into the Barn’s lamplight.
Baseball hat atop his head, he wore a pair of faded jeans and frayed crewneck sweatshirt.
There were dark stains on it, some faded, others fresh.
He was wiping his blackened hands with a rag, which smelled to the high heavens.
Motor oil? I wondered, the scent taking me back to a catastrophe in our garage. My dad used to love tinkering on his college Saab, determined to bring it back to life. (After the sludge had been cleaned up, Erica had gently encouraged him to give up on resuscitation.)
So Andrew’s an artist, I thought. And Christian is a motorhead.
“A new record,” Wit bragged. “I cleaned out every house.”
Christian smiled and shook his head, bemused. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
“What are you working on?” I asked despite not having much of an interest in cars. “Someone mentioned—”
“I’d stop right there, Olivia,” Wit warned. “Grumps doesn’t unveil his genius until it’s genius.”
“He speaks the truth, I’m afraid,” Christian said, with a hint of bittersweetness. He hesitated. “But if you count to a hundred so I can hide the current bane of my existence, I’d be happy to show you some of my finished pieces.”
Finished pieces? How many cars did he have?
“One…” I responded, keeping it light. “Two…”