15. DIANE
CHAPTER 15
DIANE
Who knew that having a secret affair could be so hot? I’ve never looked forward to going to bed so much in my life. Or waking up, for that matter, since Sam is pretty darn good at taking me to climax no matter the hour. Without even having to get in the car.
Ha-ha—I’m already making Greene County jokes like the locals.
It’s not easy to keep quiet, but it’s a small price to pay for night after night of secret bliss.
The twin bed is a little small, but the nights are getting cooler, so spending them spooning with a strapping farm boy is no hardship.
I mean, it’d also be fun to be able to snuggle with Sam on the front porch swing or give him a peck on the cheek at dinner, but I get why he wants to keep things between us on the down low. His grandmother seems okay with the fact that his brothers are shacking up with their girlfriends without being married, but I guess she might worry about Sam hooking up with a girl who won’t be sticking around .
It’s just that all the reasons why I can’t plant roots here seem less and less important with each passing day. Yes, I should be traveling to make content for my channel, but I’m the one in charge. Why shouldn’t I focus it on one region? Or keep traveling, but have a base to come home to? Where a cute dog and a hot guy in flannel await my return, not to mention weekly dinners with the kind of extended family I’ve always dreamed of?
It all seems possible, until I picture Sam—not to mention the rest of his family—finding out what my grandfather discovered and the many ways my parents have profited from his work. How could they see me as anything other than a spoiled little rich girl and a complete hypocrite?
I wish I had the courage to publicly renounce my family, instead of creeping around pretending to make a difference with my little nonprofit and my silly videos. But I’d rather pretend I’m doing good than face the truth: I’m just another tiny voice shouting into a howling wind.
Suddenly exhausted, I close my computer without even bothering to check that I’ve saved the edits on my latest video. Too depressed to do anything useful, I head outside for some fresh air, leaving my camera behind.
The morning was cold and rainy, which is why I’ve been editing. When I step onto the porch now, though, sunlight filters through the trees lining the driveway, making the leaves glow almost neon green, but I resist the urge to run back inside so I can record the gorgeous view. I need a reset, and diving right back into making content when I’m feeling down won’t be productive, no matter how pretty the pictures.
A buzzing noise I don’t recognize starts up. Following the so und around the side of the sheep castle, I eventually find a man bent over its queen, improbably snuggled between his legs, belly up. Ethel perches on a low stool close by, talking to Baabara and whisking wool out of the way as the man clips it. When she notices me, she brings a finger to her lips, indicating that I should be quiet, before waving me closer.
“Baabara’s a bit shy when she’s being sheared,” Ethel explains in a low, soothing voice once I’ve sidled up next to her. “But Cillian McCarthy’s an artist.”
The man doesn’t look up, just grunts as he turns off the shearers and rearranges the sheep’s position, tucking one of her forelegs behind his knee. When he starts up again, he pulls her skin tight with one hand as he runs the clippers over it with the other, leaving behind the smooth, pink skin of her belly and then her flank.
“He’s the best shearer in the entire Hudson valley. Oh, and you two might be related. Her last name is McCarthy too, Cillian.”
“There’re a mess of McCarthys in the world, Ethel.” The man’s accented voice is gruff, but the laugh lines around his green eyes deepen as he speaks. “Where in Ireland are yer people from, miss?”
I wince. “I’m not sure exactly. I think my McCarthy strain has been in the States for some time. But my grandparents planted an apple orchard south of here.”
“Smarter than growin’ potatoes,” he says with a wink. When he gets the clippers going again, Baabara’s skin wiggles, and Cillian mutters something to the sheep.
“Does it hurt her?” I whisper.
“Course not,” he says. “She’s just antsy. Just a bit more, wee girl. ”
Ethel quietly drags another stool over and gestures for me to sit next to her. It’s oddly soothing to watch the man run clippers over Baabara’s curves, the blobs of fiber bobbing to the floor around us, and my worries fade away. An impressive, fluffy pile of wool grows behind the sheep as he twists her body into what looks like sheep yoga positions, shearing the wool from every bit of her body. Ethel has been eager to record the entire process, from sheep to needles, so I’m surprised she’s not recording this. “How come you’re not filming?” I ask quietly.
She lifts her finger to her lips again and then mouths “I am.” Pointing to her phone, which is suspended above the sheep and shearer, she whispers, “I don’t want Baabara to be embarrassed, so don’t say anything.”
Nodding slowly, suppressing a giggle, I give her a thumbs up.
When he’s done, Ethel gives the sheep a kiss on the nose and a treat, and then Baabara literally kicks up her heels before cantering away into a field.
Cillian tips his hat at Ethel, which makes her blush again, before bidding me a gruff goodbye and driving away. After Ethel resets her phone on a tripod—the one I gave her when I first visited, fibbing that it was an extra—I hold the bag open while she gathers the wool and stuffs it inside. She explains how she’ll skirt and scour the wool before spinning it, and then I suggest she repeat the instructions to the camera.
“You can use that bit as a teaser for your next post,” I say.
She wags a finger at me. “Always thinking ahead, aren’t you? ”
A huge sigh heaves out of me, and Ethel tips her head to the side. “Something’s upset you. Is it Samuel?”
“No, no. Sam’s been… fine.” Not going to get into any more details about him, not with his grandma. Sinking back onto the stool, I shake my head. “It’s my family.”
Ethel settles down next to me and pats my knee. “Colleen says you grew up in New York City. What got you interested in farming?”
“The orchard my grandparents ran. The one I told Cillian about.”
“Ran, as in, they don’t anymore?”
“They passed away about five years ago, and it was sold.”
“Your father didn’t take it over?”
I almost tell her that it was my mother who would’ve inherited, but I catch myself just in time. Ethel believes my last name is McCarthy. “No ma’am, he didn’t.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. I bet you miss them.”
I nod, my chin trembling. “I’m the youngest grandchild, and they were a lot older than you are, but I wish I’d had more time with them.”
“I’m sure they’d be proud of the work you’re doing.”
I’ve been so focused on undoing the damage of my father’s side of the family that I never thought about how my maternal grandparents would feel about my nonprofit. “I hope they would,” I finally say, my voice thick.
“When I’m missing my Eugene, or my son Jimmy, I imagine them watching out for me from the photos I’ve got hanging in the house, cheering me on.”
I look over to find her eyes shiny as she gazes at the house in the twilight. After a moment, she waves a hand in front of her face. “That’s pretty silly, isn’t it? ”
I take her hand and give it a squeeze. “I think that's pretty cool, actually.”
She turns to face me. “Do you have any pictures of your grandparents? Maybe that would help.”
“I don’t have any prints on hand.” Even as I say it, a tightness I hadn’t realized was gripping my chest releases, giving me the freedom to take a full breath. “But I think I know where I can get some.”
The next day, after our usual early morning wakeup call from Gomer, where hitting the snooze button means giving him a puzzle toy he can enjoy until he alerts us that others in the house are stirring, Samuel uses the time well before scooting down the back stairs.
It takes me a moment to come back to earth, but when I do, I hop out of bed, excited to head south to the Ulster county seat in Kingston. Less than an hour later, I’ve found even more than I expected—not only the date of my grandparents’ wedding, but from the property records, I learn that the orchard is up for sale.
Torn, I pause outside the stately brick building, but after a few moments, I decide I need to find a photo of my grandparents before I visit a realtor. It’s unlikely that I have enough liquid assets for a downpayment on the farm, and even if I did, I’m not sure I deserve it.
The faces of my beloved Nana and Pops, however, I do deserve to see again, so I get back in the car and drive up the highway to the largest town near the old farm. There, the West Saugerties librarian gets very excited when I tell her what I’m looking for .
“I’m a bit of a genealogy nut myself,” she confesses, rubbing her hands together like an evil villain with a sweet smile. Pulling one of what looks like many pencils from her bun, she gestures for me to join her at the computer monitor in the local history section. Tongue in the side of her mouth as she concentrates, she taps away on the computer, jotting down information on the back of an old card catalog card.
“You’re in luck!” After clapping her hands together, she hands me the card. “We’ve got their wedding pics on the microfiche copies of the old newspaper, but we also have an adorable photo from just ten years ago in the digital version of our seasonal magazine, which means they might even have the original files.”
Less than an hour later, my new best friend has printed two photographs for me, and I can’t decide which I love more. The wedding picture is beautiful, if grainy—my grandmother’s dress trailing gracefully behind her, my grandfather’s smile lighting up his whole face. But the color photo from a hilarious magazine contest is a delight. Along with posed couples, including a man and his dog, a same-sex couple, and two babies, my grandparents appear in a re-creation of the classic American Gothic painting.
“I’m surprised they won the Most Authentic category,” the librarian says. “I mean, their outfits are perfect, but the original painting was supposed to be a farmer and his daughter. Most people just assume they were man and wife.”
Even though their expressions are pretty grumpy, I’m so excited to have the print that I give her an impulsive hug. “This means so much to me. Thank you for helping me find it. ”
As Ethel had predicted, just looking at my grandparents' faces gives me comfort. My mother may have hated growing up “in the middle of nowhere,” as she called it, without the advantages of city life or the funds to afford them, but I’m grateful I got to spend as much time with them as I did. And I do think they’d be proud of the work I’m doing, maybe even as excited about it as Ethel seems to be.
My trip to the real estate office isn’t quite as inspiring, but I make an appointment to tour the house and orchard later in the week. Even if I can’t afford—or shouldn’t indulge in—buying it, I can at least visit and take pictures to add to the photo gallery I plan to bring along with me wherever I go next.
Later that afternoon, Sam texts to tell me he’s planning to go to trivia and that he’ll meet me there after work. Colleen promises to go too, and even brings along Alex and Molly. When I met Molly the first time I visited the Bedd’s farm, I thought she had the widest smile I’d ever seen, adorably highlighted by the freckles across her nose. But since she’s returned and made up with Alex, she seems to be floating on air.
I try to talk them into joining the Geezers, but I’m informed that we’re already at the limit. Instead, Alex and Molly team up with Sam, that woman Ginny, and a couple I recognize as the owners of the local feed store, Chen and Diego.
This week, I’m not as upset by the way Ginny paws at Sam, but I’m even more determined to beat her. Unfortunately, this w eek’s Quick Picks—as Ginny’s team is called—are formidable opponents.
The Geezers win the movie round, thanks to Small Paul’s knowledge of silent-era film, but the QPs kill us on US geography.
“No fair!” Colleen yells. “Molly just spent the last year driving all over the country.”
Our host just rolls his eyes and pulls up the slide for the first question in the Farmer’s Almanac round. “What traditional holiday celebrating the harvest takes place on August 1?”
Big John, who has the answer sheet in front of him this round, prints neatly without hesitation, “Lammas Day.”
“I didn’t know that,” I murmur.
“Shhh,” hisses Tall Paul, the Geezer who’s always worried people will copy our answers.
“Question two,” MT intones, “August 8 is National Sneak Some blank Onto Your Neighbor’s Porch Day.”
“That’s so easy,” Colleen says. “It’s?—”
“Shhh!” Little John slaps his hand on the table. “Don’t say it out loud. We’ve got it.”
Colleen rolls her eyes and mouths “zucchini” to me, like I didn’t know.
Our team is sure about the next two answers, but we argue a bit over the final question, “What is the name of the first full moon of November?” We finally write in Hunter Moon, even though Small Paul argues that it’s in October.
And when MT reads the answers, it turns out he was right. Unfortunately, the Quick Picks got the correct answer: the Beaver Moon.
“Which means,” MT announces, his mic crackling, “We now ha ve a lightning, head-to-head, tiebreaker round. Our two top teams need to choose their representative.”
After a lot of whispered arguments, Colleen convinces the Geezers to send me up to the stage since I came up with half of the answers this evening. There, I’m faced with none other than my very own secret Bedd Fellows Farm bedfellow.
Sticking out a hand, I say, “May the best woman win.”
With a wicked smile, he turns my hand over and kisses it. “We’ll see about that.”
A collective oooh rumbles through the room as MT hands us each a buzzer. Just as I’m hoping I can stay focused, Ginny shouts, “Do it for me, Sam!”
Oh, it’s game on, Ms. Quick-to-try-and-steal-my-man.
Sam’s fast and he knows his trivia, but I’ve got jealousy on my side. I pull ahead fast with my knowledge of fashion greats and New York Knicks history, but he catches up on herbal tea varieties and local politics—which has Colleen yelling “Not fair” again.
By the time we get to the final question, we’ve somehow scooted so close together that we’re practically nose-to-nose, and when I beat Sam to the buzzer and yell the answer to the question “In what century were potatoes first grown in the United States?”—spoiler alert, it's the eighteenth—Sam howls in frustration before grabbing me by the cheeks and planting a kiss right on my smacker.
Right in front of half of Fork Lick.
“Just because you kissed me in front of everyone doesn’t mean we have to be, like, boyfriend and girlfriend,” I say the mi nute we’re alone in the cab of Samuel’s truck, suddenly feeling like I’m thirteen all over again. “I mean, things don’t have to change between us.”
Sam just stares at the steering wheel. “Because you’re leaving.”
“Well, yeah.” I say, even though I’ve been wondering if I really need to.
“But what if I want more?” he asks so softly I can almost tell myself that I imagined it.
When he turns to face me, the naked longing in his expression makes it clear that I didn’t. “Um. More what, exactly?”
“Forget it.”
He shakes his head and reaches to start the engine, but I grab his wrist before he can. “I mean it. What do you mean by more? I’m not sure if I could have more orgasms in a day, but hey, I’m game to try if you are.”
“That’s not what I meant, and I think you know it.” Collapsing back into his seat, he looks at the roof. “It’s not like I’m an expert in the field of dating, but I don’t want to hide in the bedroom anymore. I’m sorry that I didn’t ask you first. That was probably shitty.”
“It was surprising, that’s for sure.”
“It’s not that I want my family or this town all in our business—which they will be now, just so you know. I just want, I don’t know… to know more about you. Your family, what you were like as a kid, that kind of thing.”
And there’s the rub. Swallowing past the avalanche of boulders now lodged in my throat, I push out the words, “What if you didn’t like what you found?”
He turns to face me, unruly brows furrowed. Even in the di m light of the poorly lit parking lot, I can read this expression: total surprise. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
Coughing out a bitter laugh, I scrub both hands over my face. “Oh, I think it’s possible, all right.”
He shifts, this time torquing his whole torso in my direction, and gently takes my left hand in his. “Try me.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I whisper, “I’m not ready. Is that okay?”
Kissing my palm, he says, “You’re not the only one with a past you don’t like, you know. So I get it. And I can wait.”
“Thank you.” Squeezing his hand, I blow out a shaky breath. “So what are we going to say when people ask? About us.”
He squeezes my hand, releases it, and starts the engine. “We’ll tell ’em to mind their own damn business.”
With Sam gone for two days and nights, it’s ridiculous how empty the twin bed feels, like we’ve spent years spooning every night rather than days. Unfortunately, it also gives me time to worry about what I’m doing here. I want him to want me; I want his friends and family to like me. But the more they like Diane McCarthy, the more I worry they’ll hate Didi Mayer.
The only good news is I’m extra productive in his absence, finishing up interviews with Ethel’s seed co-op and sticking to my content schedule.
Which gives me plenty of time at the end of the week to visit Kaaterskill Orchards, named in honor of my grandm other's Dutch ancestors, and the forest nearby. Now, sadly, it’s just called lot ZXT485.
It’s a beautiful late summer day, so I take the scenic route and punch in a playlist that reminds me of driving from Vassar to visit my grandparents for the weekend. Lowering the windows, winding down the country roads, my emotions are all over the place. Anxious and uncertain about my growing attachment to Sam, excited and fearful about what I’ll find when I get to the orchard. But also blissful because my body and my heart are shouting that I’m heading home.
None of the residences my parents own—not the penthouse Manhattan apartment, not the vacation homes in the Hamptons or Colorado—ever felt like home to me the way my grandparents’ farmhouse did.
It’s strange, though. I’ve begun to overlay memories of my grandmother’s kitchen with Ethel’s. The layouts are similar: bank of windows over the sink, brick wall behind the stove, big wooden table that serves as a work surface, walkthrough pantry that leads to the dining room.
But as I turn onto the county road that leads to the orchard, I realize that the smells are different. Instead of an occasional waft of cow manure floating over from the dairy, the sweet scent of apples fills my nostrils, growing more intense the closer I get. When I pull up the drive, the anticipation of being folded into my nana’s arms, of a hair ruffle from Pops is so strong I almost believe I’ll see them waiting for me on the porch.
Instead, though, a fancy sedan idles in the drive, its motor running wastefully. After I park, the woman waves to me before turning off her car, stepping out to greet me, and handing me a glossy brochure .
After introducing herself, she picks up our conversation from earlier in the week. “As I said, we have offers on the table, but the seller is accepting them through the beginning of next week. Are you with a developer or… ?”
I’m not sure if she finishes her sentence or not because I’m so shocked at the images on the shiny paper in my hands. Instead of rows of lovingly nurtured heirloom apple trees, I’m looking at rows of cookie-cutter townhouses.