Earnings Season #7
Lili hides a smile, as she flicks open her email. Jackie’s family has lived in a gorgeous walk-up in the East Village since
the eighties, rent stabilized with creaky floors and huge windows. Growing up, Jackie ate at Veselka more often than she ate
at home. Going to Columbia for college counted as a cross-country move, in her family. They’d bought this tiny place outside
of Cold Spring a few months ago, but hadn’t had time to fix it up yet. When the urban farm’s workshop intensive was scheduled
upstate, near Saugerties, and Lili had started scouring Airbnb for affordable accommodation, Jackie had immediately offered
it up: Do you have any idea how insanely expensive places get upstate in the summer? It’ll be fun, we’ll make a trip of it—you work,
we’ll relax.
As her emails load—slow Wi-Fi, nearly nonexistent service; nothing urgent comes in, just workshop schedule reminders for tomorrow,
a few emails from Kerr—Lili asks: “What’s the plan for today?” Outside, she hears the sound of birdsong, the rustle of overgrown
grass.
“Shower, change, whatever you need, then let’s meet downstairs in thirty, yeah?” Jackie suggests. “We’ll head into town, we
need groceries, and to stop by the hardware store.”
“More alcohol,” Amina asserts.
Jackie rolls her eyes. “I think we have plenty, but fine, more alcohol. There’s also a farm stand up the road, I want to grab
fresh fruit.”
It’s gorgeous, a high summer weekend along the Hudson. The train from the city was packed, crowds descending on the tiny village,
Cold Spring’s main street bustling all the way down to the water. Many more antique shops than necessary, too-expensive cars
in the streets, signs of city folk with second houses.
Lili rarely leaves the city, this concentrated island of compacted intensity, this bright port that feels poised between continents with its simultaneously unnerving and comforting mix of placelessness.
Compared to the open expanse of the West Coast, the ease of movement around the Pacific—that freshness of air and boundless stretch of the horizon, sharp snap of youth, sunshine and orange blossoms, easy smiles—the East Coast has always felt tangled, darker, heavier: a sense of perpetual fall, the amber glow of whiskey, gleam of leather-bound books, low laughter, shine of riding boots, generational references.
But there’s charm here, too, she supposes. A different type, all apples, milk pitchers, and crisp mornings, chipped paint,
old trucks, the laden buzz of bees. Jackie’s parents bought the house cheap through a friend of a friend, old family property
from elderly folks that recently passed. The acreage is mostly woods plus the worn-down farmhouse, with its groaning floorboards,
too much chintz furniture, frankly ugly charcoal sketches of fox hunts—but it’s permeated with a great sense of affection,
a place that was loved once.
“Jamie, what are you wearing?” Jackie asks when his car finally rolls up the drive.
“What?” James frowns down at his clothing—dress shirt, pressed trousers, Ferragamo monk strap loafers—holding an unopened
bottle of vodka in each hand. “I just got off work, I drove straight here. What did you expect me to wear?”
“We’re doing manual labor,” Jackie says. “My parents actually need our help, we’re not getting a free vacation. We need to
earn our keep!”
“Not tonight we’re not,” James says, popping the trunk of his Audi. “Tonight, we’re getting belligerent. Here, help me, I
brought shit—”
They stay up late, cramming chaotically into the kitchen to cook dinner: Amina orders them around while doing absolutely nothing,
until James takes over and shoos them out after Jackie accidentally drops the uncooked chicken on the floor. A mess of plates
clutters the living room, kitchen table too small to hold everyone. They break into the stash of Laphroaig Jackie’s dad has
hidden away, drinking it while Lili forces an uncharacteristically bashful Amina to listen as she reads out loud from the
just-posted Artforum review of her recent group show: “‘—an exceptionally promising young painter, with clear inspiration from Brown and Mitchell, but with emerging hints of figuration similar to
Toor, a clear’—shut up, listen to me—‘a clear standout among a show of middling talent’!
” Card games, mixing Scotch and vodka, building a fire outside, the shine of stars, dark skies, deep-throated laughter, warm velvet air, white noise of cicadas and frogs.
Around the bonfire, Lili leans her head against Amina’s shoulder, letting her eyes drift closed.
In the morning, she’s the first one awake. The intensive starts early, kicking off at half past eight and hosted by a partner
farm of theirs, a major organic grower that supplies most high-end, produce-driven restaurants in the city; she’s excited
to see their fields, the setup they have in their greenhouses, too. As Lili gets out of bed, Jackie steals the rest of the
comforter, tugging it over her head and grumbling unintelligibly while Lili yanks on her Blundstones. Pulling on a sweater,
she closes the door behind her with a quiet click.
There’s a chill in the early air, dew on the overgrown grass. From the porch, Lili has a clear view over the backyard: the
remains of last night’s fire, Jamie’s abandoned tent. As she curls up in one of the wicker porch chairs, squirrels dart between
the trees.
Taking a sip of hot coffee, Lili swipes open her phone. The coffee is bitter, more burnt tasting than she’s used to. She’d
found a moka pot in one of the cupboards, old ground espresso in the pantry.
(6:32 a.m.) morning.
(6:32 a.m.) how are you?
Lili fidgets with her phone case after sending the text. She looks over the property, taking another sip of coffee; there’s
a big overgrown garden plot. Tangled boughs of blueberries, perennial and persistent; aggressive trees of kale, left to seed
over years; prehistoric rhubarb, dense; fibrous knots of rosemary, woodsy and incalcitrant. If she has time, she wants to
try and tackle it today after work, as thanks to Jackie’s parents for the accommodation.
On her phone screen, typing bubbles appear. Lightness lifts in her chest.
(6:34 a.m.) Good morning, Lili. I’m well.
(6:34 a.m.) How’d you sleep?
(6:34 a.m.) good, but Jackie snores
(6:34 a.m.) and steals the covers
(6:35 a.m.) Just like you, then.
(6:35 a.m.) i DO NOT snore
(6:35 a.m.) Indeed.
Lili tries not to smile, she really does.
(6:35 a.m.) are you at the office?
(6:35 a.m.) Yes, I do occasionally work, sweetheart.
(6:35 a.m.) and here I thought white men got everything handed to them
(6:36 a.m.) I, too, am disappointed.
(6:36 a.m.) How is the workshop?
Lili draws her legs into her chest, tucking her knees under her chin. The quiet clatter of her fingers against her screen
mingles with the high trill of birdsong.
(6:37 a.m.) we’re getting started today
(6:37 a.m.) What are you tackling first?
(6:37 a.m.) first up is seed saving practices someone put on their Spotify, Ray LaMontagne in the morning.
Backing out of the driveway—choosing to take the old Subaru that Jackie’s parents keep up here, rather than Jamie’s sleek black Audi; I’m not sure that’ll give the right impression, she’d informed him, dryly, when he offered her the car for the week—Lili hears rising shouts of an argument from the backyard
as Jackie criticizes Amina’s approach to clearing rain gutters.
It’s just under an hour drive to the farm: Blue Acres, a gorgeous property tucked among apple orchards, ablaze with thick
green color. It’s well-known for working with prominent chefs in the city, combining serious scaled commercial operations
with decades of organic farming experience. The Subaru’s manual transmission makes her feel like a teenager again; she hasn’t
really driven since California, and she almost misses the turnoff, trying to shift the sticky gears.
But as she parks—cutting the engine, slamming the car door shut—she hears the hushed patter of irrigation, sprinkling over
the field crops in the softer morning light; in the rows closest to her, she spies brassicas, beets she’d bet are Chioggia.