Chapter 2 #2
Since he doesn’t argue, I know he’s probably feeling pretty weak. It’s crazy how quickly he tires out these days. The man used to put in an eight-hour day by noon and then a six-hour day after lunch.
He’s managed to wash off all the dirt, but the sink and floor are spattered with fat drops of blood.
“Looks like a crime scene in here,” I mumble, washing my hands.
He snorts, pressing a rapidly reddening wad of toilet paper to his gash. “Return your phone calls next time.”
Ouch.
I pick up the bottle of peroxide and a clean cotton ball from the Mason jar on the counter. Pop doesn’t flinch when I swipe at the one-inch cut on his jaw.
“Well, you’ve done a good job cleaning it,” I say, dabbing as gently as I can. “But I don’t think butterfly bandages are up to the task.”
Pop grunts. “There’s superglue in the tool chest.”
I step back and take him in. He’s not joking.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. Then I grab a wad of cotton balls, stuff them into his hand, and mash the hand to his face. “Press hard, you stubborn goat.”
I leave the bathroom to the rasp of his laughter in search of the Superglue.
Twenty minutes later, I’m scrubbing blood from the porch railing when Javier pulls up in his truck.
Pop is sitting out here watching me, looking like he’s in the makeup chair for a horror movie.
“He punch you in the face?” Javier teases him, rounding the truck bed before dropping the tailgate.
“Gotta let him get in a lick every now and then,” Pop mutters back, wearing a hint of a grin. I roll my eyes at Javier, but I’ll admit I’m grateful he can amuse the old man most days.
My foreman wraps his big arms around one of the crates in his truck bed but then stops, eyeing me.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive these in?” His question is hushed and his eyes cut toward my dad’s direction for just an instant.
Again, I’m grateful to Javier. He’s a great foreman but an even better friend. I know he’s offering to make the delivery so I can stay close to home and keep an eye on my father, but the last thing Pop wants is a babysitter.
And I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t use a drive—one where I can actually zone out for a few minutes.
Because harvesting requires total focus. The minute you don’t give it your full attention, people get hurt. There’s only about ten different ways workers can lose a finger, an arm, or their lives with the harvester, and no matter what, my farm, my machine, my fault.
And if you’re lucky to just lose focus long enough to pitch over a slope too fast, but you don’t kill anybody, you just fuck up the digger assembly, then you’re only out five figures.
“Thanks, but I’ll do it,” I tell Javier and then help him shift the load to my truck.
“You gonna make your restaurant deliveries while you’re at it?” Pop barks. This isn’t a question or a suggestion.
Of course, he’s right. If I’m driving into town, it doesn’t make sense to make just one stop.
“Yep.”
“Gonna need another crate,” he gripes.
“Yep.”
So I hit the store shed for another half a dozen sacks before I’m on the road.
Maybe it’s better being behind the wheel of the tractor. Because as soon as I’m on Gendarme Road, my mind doesn’t wander.
It whirs.
Pop fell. Again.
Am I an idiot for not taking him to get checked? Should I call Griffin and risk disrupting his and Kennedy’s long-awaited trip to NYC?
My brother-in-law might forgive me, but my twin?
The last thing I want to do is call Uncle Paul. He’ll just use the latest fall as another opportunity to push selling. I can just hear him.
It won’t be long before he needs full-time care.
None of us wants to see him end up in a nursing home.
If you sell the acreage, you can keep the house, set him up with quality home health, finish your degree, and do whatever the hell you want with your life.
He doesn’t seem to get that what I want to do with my life is exactly what I’m doing.
Running the farm.
Only—with any luck—better.
Not better than Pop or Grandad. Just better for the times.
Better agility. More efficiently.
And, of course, more profitably.
I’ve got plenty of ideas, but none of them are cheap to implement.
Like the new harvester.
At least the last two rounds have proven that the investment is going to pay off.
And then there’s my other project.
Sweet potato vodka.
It could be huge. It could make the kind of difference for us that would see Pop getting the right care that’ll allow him to stay in his house for the rest of his days.
It could give us insurance against seasons that go south for us. Summers and falls that are too wet. A late cold snap. Fungal spread. Pests. Low yield on our off-season crops: soybean, corn, and alfalfa.
Even though I’ve held the permits for more than a year, my sweet potato vodka enterprise is just a dream that takes up one corner of the east store shed.
A little micro distillery where I play with mash composition, yeast balance, purifying methods, dilution ratios, infusions—all while I make notes of every variation between batches.
It also takes up most of my evenings, but when it’s time to sample a batch, Javier is there to keep me company.
He’s so enthusiastic about the pecan and maple infused recipe that I’ve bottled about a dozen liters of it, and he’s pushing me to start offering sample bottles to our restaurants and local groceries.
I usually reserve a booth at the Moncus Park Farmer’s Market in the middle of harvest season. We’ll be back there next weekend, and last night Javier suggested I bring my bottles and offer tastings.
No matter how many tons of Covingtons or Beauregards we’ve produced over the years, it’s not like we get to see customers humming in satisfaction over their sweet potato pancakes or pies.
It’s a rush watching Javier and whoever he’s got crewing for him come into the store shed and enjoy a tasting, the way their expressions change and their eyes brighten as the vodka hits their tongues and the flavors open up on their palates.
The thought of spending a Saturday morning dispensing samples and selling bottles has me grinning like a fool.
But I don’t have a label or a marketable name for the recipes or anything close to that.
And I’d be lying if I said that the absence of a label is the only thing stopping me. I still haven’t said anything about this scheme of mine to Pop.
Or Griffin.
Or Uncle Paul.
Javier’s kept this mouth shut to everyone else, but he busts my balls almost every day about what he calls my hidden agenda.
You should tell them. Maybe Paul would get off your back. Maybe Grif wouldn’t feel so guilty about up and moving to New Orleans with his professor husband. Maybe your Pop would have something to be excited about.
He might have a point. Or three.
Maybe all those things would be true.
And maybe they would think I’m crazy to imagine I can grow a fortune—or at least a comfortable life—out of a homemade distillery and some sweet potatoes.
Maybe tipping my hand would only show Paul I’m really fucking scared of this place going belly-up.
Maybe knowing that I must branch out or die would make Griffin feel worse.
Maybe seeing the direction I want to go would only piss Pop off even more.
Change hasn’t been especially kind to him the last few years.
We lost Mom. He got a crippling diagnosis—one that doesn’t leave a lot of hope for his golden years. Griffin gave me control of his share of the farm so he could move to New Orleans with Kennedy instead of running things with me like we’d planned as kids.
Though, if I’m being honest, that last move didn’t come as much of a surprise.
Griffin has never shied from hard work, but the land isn’t in his blood the same way it is for me and Pop.
Far from it. He’s an Associate Director of Enrollment at River Parishes Community College, a far cry from agriculture.
But Javier is right. I should at least tell my brother. He’ll get it. Shit, he might even be able to help me.
My shoulders loosen at the thought, and Highway 182 in Carencro rolls into University Avenue in Lafayette. Maybe when Grif and Kennedy get back from New York, I’ll invite them over for a secret tasting.
The thought takes shape as I pull onto Lee Avenue. I’m thinking about putting together an evening when Javier, Griffin, Kennedy, and I sample a flight of my current recipes. Maybe get their take on where to go from here.
I’m hardly seeing the world around me when I pull onto the alley behind The French Press and get out. I wrap my knuckles against the steel door, scanning the restaurant’s vat gardens that hold herbs and greens. They grow their own romaine, green onions, and rosemary.
It’s a good thing they don’t have more room back here or they might not even need us.
The door swings open and a sous chef I recognize but can’t name sees me and props the door wide.
“Thanks, man,” I say with a nod and turn back to my truck.
They’ve ordered a crate, not a sack, so I’m reaching over the opened tailgate, shifting loads, when I catch movement out of the corner of my eye.
Probably a server or busboy coming out to take a smoke break.
I haul out one of the crates, turn toward the door, and nearly drop the whole thing on my feet when I see her.
A girl—not a girl. A woman. Young. Lovely. Wearing a party dress and—
Crying.
The heavy crate.
Sweet potatoes.
My own name.
I forget them all.
Tears streak the perfect porcelain of her cheeks. Pain tightens her full pink lips. Her eyes are squeezed shut, the dark fringe of her lashes such a contrast to her ivory skin.
I don’t know what hits me harder: her beauty or her distress, but it’s a hit. I’m glad her eyes are closed because, just like falling backward off the harvester and having the wind knocked from me, I can’t move. I can’t speak.
And then she must sense me there because her wet lashes bat open, and hazel eyes as rare and striking as the rest of her lock on me.
Two cinnamon-tinted brows draw together. I’m too caught up in noticing their color and the matching thick tumble of waves that crash over her shoulders to recognize that she’s frowning.
By the time I do, it’s too late. Now she’s scowling.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”