Chapter 11
The morning sun had burned off the fog as I split firewood beside the woodshed. I'd been at it since the morning.
The delivery came at dawn. Two cords of rounds delivered by a local man named Pete. He backed his dump truck in, pulled the hydraulic lever, and had the entire load off the bed in under a minute. I thanked him and paid in cash, as he'd requested.
After he left, I crouched down to examine the wood.
As promised, it was mostly alder with what looked like a good quarter of big-leaf maple mixed through.
Pete said he'd cut it in November. I split one of the maple rounds along the grain.
Still pale and damp inside. Green wood. I'd expected as much.
I'd bought a splitting maul at the hardware store in Forks. It was important to split the rounds so the wood would season faster.
I set the first alder round on the splitting block, a section of old-growth fir stump that I found sitting at the woodshed's edge, its top surface worn smooth by years of exactly this use.
I swung. The round opened cleanly along the grain, the two halves falling apart with a satisfying crack. The alder wasn't terrible. Pete had been honest that it was fall-cut, which gave it four months. Not close to seasoned, but not soaking either.
The maple was another matter, dense and pale and stubborn with big-leaf maple's grain twists fighting the maul instead of giving to it. I used the wedge on the worst of them, driving it in with the maul's poll until the round cracked.
I'd been working for almost six hours with brief breaks in between.
It was exhausting work. The woodshed would hold maybe a quarter of what I had.
The rest I was going to stack in two rows outside against the shed, working the split pieces onto a base of scrap 4x4s I'd pulled from behind the shed to keep the bottom course off the wet ground.
Cut side out, bark side up on the top. When the stacking was done, my plan was to pull a blue poly tarp over the outdoor rows, tying it down at the corners with some lengths of nylon string I had in my toolbox. It wouldn't be pretty, but it would hold, I figured.
Then let the summer do the work. The Peninsula doesn't give you much dry heat to season wood with, but it gives you enough if you split early and stack tight and keep the rain off. After next summer, I'd have dry wood.
I was working a stubborn round of maple when I heard an engine approaching. A vehicle was coming up my driveway. I set down the splitting maul and wiped my hands on my jeans.
A dark green Land Rover entered the clearing. New model, polished to a shine that seemed wrong out here among the dust and fir needles, a vehicle that cost more than most people around here made in a year.
The Range Rover rolled to a stop. The driver's door opened and a man stepped out.
He was about my height, maybe seventy years old.
Gray hair swept back from a weathered face.
Blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, which he did immediately.
He wore canvas pants and a wool vest over a flannel shirt, the uniform of a man who wanted to look like he belonged to the land without actually working it.
"You must be Thomas Harmon."
He walked toward me with his hand extended. His grip was firm and practiced.
"I am. And you are?"
"Harlan Foster. Your neighbor to the northeast." He gestured vaguely toward the trees. "Been meaning to come introduce myself since I heard someone bought the old James cabin. Forgive me for taking so long."
"No forgiveness necessary. I've only been here six weeks myself."
He nodded, looking past me at the cabin. His eyes moved slowly over the structure, the woodshed I'd been working on, the clearing, the pond just visible through the trees. It almost felt like he was taking inventory.
"She looks good. Better than I expected, honestly. Mark let the place go toward the end. His health, you know. Couldn't keep up with it the way he used to."
"You knew Mark James?"
Harlan laughed. A warm, rolling sound.
"Knew him? Son, I hunted this land with Mark for thirty years. Sat right there on that porch and drank whiskey with him more times than I can count." He shook his head, the smile turning wistful. "Lord, the stories I could tell you."
"Stories?"
Harlan didn't need more encouragement. He launched into a tale about a twelve-point buck that he and Mark had tracked for three days one November.
He was a natural storyteller. The way he told it, you could smell the wet earth and hear the snap of twigs underfoot.
Every detail precise. The cold rain that turned to sleet.
The blind they'd built from fallen branches.
The moment Mark had the shot and passed on it because the buck was too magnificent to kill.
"That was Mark all over," Harlan said. "Loved the hunt more than the kill. Loved this land more than anything except Bessie Anne and that girl of his."
"Claire."
"Claire, yes." Something flickered across his face, gone before I could read it. "You've met her, I take it?"
"She showed me the property when I bought it."
"Good. Good."
He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out a butterscotch candy. He unwrapped it slowly and popped it into his mouth, then offered one to me.
I shook my head.
"Mark and I used to sit up on that ridge." Harlan pointed toward the northern slope. "There's a clearing up there, about a quarter mile in. Best view on the whole peninsula on a clear day. Mark called it his thinking spot. Said that's where he went when he needed to figure something out."
He sucked on the candy. I let the silence stretch.
"I remember the day he told me he was planting tea instead of dairy farming.
I thought he'd lost his mind. Tea? In Washington?
But Mark was stubborn. Said he'd done the research.
Said the climate was perfect." Harlan shrugged.
"Turned out he was right. The farm's doing well now, from what I hear.
Bessie Anne and Claire have made something of it. "
Something about the way he talked about Claire and her family didn't sit right with me. It felt over-familiar. I folded my arms across my chest.
"What can I help you with today, Mr. Foster?"
He tilted his head slightly. The smile stayed in place, but I caught something behind his eyes. A recalculation.
"Direct man. I appreciate that. Most folks around here, they'll talk for an hour before they get to the point." He chuckled. "But you've got it backward, Thomas. I'm not here for your help. I'm here to help you."
"That so?"
"It is." He took a step closer. "See, I made an offer on this property after Mark passed.
A fair offer. More than fair, actually. I wanted to keep it in friendly hands, you understand.
Preserve what Mark built here. But Claire.
.." he sighed. "Claire didn't want to sell to me and convinced her mother. "
"Why not?"
Harlan spread his hands, the gesture of a reasonable man dealing with unreasonable circumstances.
"The girl has a grudge. I'm not entirely sure what I did to earn it, honestly.
Some misunderstanding from years back? Maybe she blames me for not doing more to help her father when he got sick?
Maybe it's something else entirely." He shook his head sadly.
"I loved Mark like a brother. Whatever Claire thinks happened between us, she's got it wrong. "
"I appreciate you explaining the situation, Mr. Foster. But I'm still not clear on what help you're offering."
The smile widened. Warmer now, more direct.
"I'd like to buy this property from you, Thomas. Same offer I made Claire... plus something for your trouble. You paid what, four-fifty for this place? I'll give you five-fifty. Cash. You walk away with a tidy profit and none of the headaches."
"Headaches? What headaches would that be?"
"This place needs work. A lot of work. The roof's got another winter in it, maybe two. The well pump is old, and the septic system hasn't been inspected in years. The county's very strict about septic systems near water resources like your stream and pond."
He ticked off the items on his fingers.
"That woodshed you're building? Mark started it three times and kept fixing it. There's a reason for that. The drainage on this side of the property is a nightmare. Come October, you'll be fighting thick mud."
He let that sit, letting me imagine the problems. The money, the effort. The "headaches".
"I'm not trying to scare you off," Harlan said. "I'm just being honest. I know this land. I know what it takes to maintain it. And I know most folks who buy a dream like this don't understand what they're signing up for."
"And you do?"
"I do. Been working land my whole life." He gestured toward the north again. "My property runs right up to the James Farm's eastern fence line. Sixty acres. Been in my family for two generations. I know every rock and root between here and the cove."
I nodded slowly, taking his words in. I kept my face neutral as I considered what he had told me.
"Let me speak plainly, Thomas. This cabin and this land should never have gone to a stranger.
I'm sure you're a good man, but you're not family.
At least, not like me. Mark James was my best friend.
By all that's right, I should have been the one to buy this property.
I know this land, and I know how to care for it.
Claire's stubbornness is irrational and baffling.
I was her father's friend, and I cared for her and her family.
Instead of selling to me, she put it out on the marketplace, like some damned garage sale lamp or sofa.
But I'm here to make things right. Take the money, Thomas.
Whatever you're looking for, you won't find it here. "
I held his gaze, seeing his warm smile as well as his icy glare. Harlan Foster expected me to give him what he wanted. But that wasn't going to happen.