Chapter 9 #2
My uncle scoffs. “How many years did I work side by side with you, spraying? I might not have been drenched in that shit for my whole adulthood, but there’s at least a decade of it in my blood.
” Then he gestures at me and my brother.
“And I don’t have two sons who are gonna look after me when the worst happens. ”
Griffin is the first to speak up. “Uncle Paul, we’re still your family. We wouldn’t turn our backs on you if you got sick.”
Paul nods in an ingratiating way. “I understand that it’s easy to say that now, but you’re already stretched thin. And if you aren’t, your brother is. Are you telling me you and Kennedy would be willing to pull up stakes and come home to nurse your old uncle?”
Griffin opens his mouth and hesitates. “I mean, we'd make sure you were looked after.” But we can all hear the edge of defensiveness. No, he and Kennedy would not uproot their lives for that.
Nor should they.
“And your dad here was younger than I am now when he started showing symptoms.” Uncle Paul shakes his head. “I don’t know if Parkinson’s will ever be my fate, but I can’t act like it’ll never happen. That or getting sick like sweet Gracie. Or a stroke. Or Alzheimer’s. You name it.”
Uncle Paul gives a mirthless laugh and flattens his hands on the table.
“Yes, I want to make sure I’ll be comfortable whenever that comes.
However that comes.” He shakes his head.
“But I want to enjoy as many good years as I can before that, and I’m not ashamed to say it.
I’m part owner of this farm, and I. Want. To. Sell.”
Even though I know he’s outnumbered—Pop and Grif would never agree to this—sweat breaks out across my back. My heart hammers. Because it’s crystal clear to me that what this boils down to is his wishes versus mine. The life he wants versus the life I want.
But no way am I giving up this farm.
I speak the words slowly and clearly. This doesn’t have to get ugly. He’s not a majority shareholder. This discussion can end right now.
“This is our home and our livelihood, Paul. We are not selling.”
Before my grandfather died, he was deliberate about his estate. As it was already in Pop’s hands—his and Mom’s—and Grif and I were already around, helping our parents as soon as we could walk—Grandpa stipulated that Pop would inherit the house and seventy-five percent of the farm.
He left Paul the other quarter, clearly outlining the fact that he wanted him to have a stake in the success and survival of the farm. He said he believed this would ensure that if Pop hit a rough patch, he could turn to his brother for help since their fates were connected.
When Mom got sick a second time and the future seemed uncertain, Pop transferred a third of his holdings to both Griffin and me. Griffin still owns his third, but he refuses to accept the dividends, insisting I reinvest it into operations.
It’s the reason I’ve been able to make some of the changes that I hope will keep us afloat.
But with only twenty-five percent of the shares, Uncle Paul can clamor to sell, but that’s about it. The property is entailed. It stays together and it stays in the family.
Uncle Paul doesn’t acknowledge a word I’ve said. He’s just looking at Pop. “It’s a good offer. You should consider it. Because there’s a back-up offer on the table.”
“What does that mean?” Griffin glares at Uncle Paul.
Still, Paul doesn’t take his eyes off Pop. “Y’all can’t afford to buy me out, but Steadman can.”
“Paul—”
“The property’s entailed,” I say, shaking my head. “No one else is buying you out.”
Uncle Paul narrows his eyes at me and Griffin, then raises an eyebrow at Pop. “You haven’t told them?”
Pop’s tremors worsen before my eyes. “Paul, you can’t do this.”
“Do what?” Griffin asks.
“It’s a good offer,” Uncle Paul says, his voice almost gentle.
But Pop slams a fist onto the table and the dishes clatter. “You swore you wouldn’t do this!” he roars. “You promised Gracie—on her deathbed—you promised her you wouldn’t—”
Panic cinches my throat. I’ve seen my father angry. Hell, the man is pissed at the world more days than not.
But this isn’t anger. This is outrage. This is anguish.
And it scares the shit out of me.
“What did he promise, Pop? What’s this about?”
Uncle Paul finally looks at me, and it guts me that what I see on his face is sadness. It’ll occur to me later that this look should have scared me a hell of a lot more. Because my uncle doesn’t want to fuck me over, but he’s doing it anyway.
“The entailment is about to expire. I can sell my share in another ninety days.” Uncle Paul says it like a death sentence.
It’s like being gutted.
This can’t be right. And yet the looks on both my father and my uncle’s faces tell me it’s the truth.
Griffin speaks before I can summon coherence. “Pop. What the hell is he saying? Is this true?”
Uncle Paul gives Pop a confounded look. “How could you not tell them?”
When he speaks, Pop’s voice is gnarled with bitterness. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to, brother.”
The two of them trade almost identical wounded looks.
“Let me get this straight—” Griffin drags clawed fingers through his hair. “The entailment that keeps the property together expires?”
Paul gives a slow nod. “The prohibition of division was allotted for twenty years from the time of inheritance. Which technically puts us at January 20th of next year.”
Three months from now.
Paul’s face has lost some color. I can tell he’s not enjoying this. Yet he’s doing it anyway. “Your grandfather wanted to encourage us to keep the farm, keep it whole. But he knew times were changing and that we’d face a future he couldn’t predict. He didn’t want to tie our hands forever.”
Tie our hands? This farm? That has been in our family for four generations? That has sustained the Oliviers since 1934?
“So now everything unravels?” Quick anger strangles Griffin’s voice. I’m grateful. Because I’m stunned silent.
Paul owns a quarter. If he can sell that in just three months, it’ll ruin us. Eighty of our three hundred twenty acres would be gone. We can’t sustain a twenty-five percent profit loss.
We’re barely making ends meet as it is.
Griffin is right. If Paul sells his share, everything unravels.
I finally find my tongue. “This is why you keep coaxing us to think about selling,” I croak. “So you’re not the one breaking it up. So it’s not all on you.”
He doesn’t respond, but his lowered gaze says it all.
“Steadman will pay $1.6 million for the whole three hundred twenty acres and the outbuildings. And $350,000 for my share alone. It’s market value and then some.”
Jesus Christ.
“We’ll buy you out,” Griffin growls.
But with what?
The little capital we have we wipe out almost every year to keep things running.
Repair equipment. Maintaining buildings.
Fix one of the store shed’s ACs that inevitably goes out.
Purchase slips for planting and alfalfa, soybeans, and corn for the off season.
To cushion a bad crop. Hell, I just financed the Standen harvester, so we’re already mortgaged to the teeth.
Paul is shaking his head. “I don’t want to break it up.
But everyone at this table knows the reality.
” Exasperation nearly chokes him. He lifts a hand and gestures to each of us.
“Castor is sick. Griffin’s in New Orleans.
Beckett, I know your heart’s in this place, but you’re young.
Your share of the sale would give you financial security for years.
You could go back to school. Buy a home.
Hell, set it aside for your own kids’ college fund or bankroll your retirement.
You could do anything you wanted to do—”
“Except for farming my land,” I say hoarsely.
Paul winces. “I told you. Steadman would take you on. You could keep doing the work without the risk.”
My neck is on fire. “But it wouldn’t be mine.” Does he not see how impossible that would be? To live in this house? To work the land? While it belonged to someone else?
“We’re not selling,” Griffin says. He doesn’t even need to ask me or Pop. He knows we’d never agree to that.
But Paul looks at each of us in turn. “You should at least hear their offer.”
I shake my head. “Don’t need to.”
“We’ll buy you out,” Griffin says again. But, goddamn, he’s got to know that I am in no position to make that kind of offer.
Griffin must read this on my face. “Kennedy and I will help.”
“How?” My question is nothing but air.
He shrugs. “We’ll get a second mortgage.”
“I can’t let you do that.” No way I could put us in a financial position where failure means not only do we lose the farm, but Griffin and Kennedy lose their house. No matter what this place means to me—what this life means to me—I can’t do that.
Griffin screws up his brow. “I letting this happen. Not ever, but sure as hell not now.” My twin shakes his head, and, fuck, I know what he’s going to do the moment before he does it. “And you’d be a fool to sell now, Uncle Paul. Because Beck is about to make a fortune.”
Paul snorts. Pop jerks to look at me. “You gotta plan to grow marijuana I don’t know about?”
I lock eyes with Grif. Who needs twin telepathy when your faces say it all?
You know I’m not ready to do this.
You don’t have a choice, bro.
Because you forced my hand.
You’re welcome.
“Goddammit,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Not marijuana. Sweet potato vodka.”
Paul scoffs. “What do you know about distilling? You thinking about taking up a hobby?”
It’s the condescension that gets under my skin. “It’s not a hobby. It’s a plan.” I sound like a defensive kid. Fuck me, this is not how I wanted to do this.
“It’s more than a plan,” Griffin says, grinning with a fiendish pride. “It’s a fucking product.”
Pop turns a confused frown to me. “What the hell is he talking about?”
Grif pushes up from the table. “Be right back.”
“Wait—” I try to stop him, but seconds later we hear the screen door slam behind him.
My heart is jackrabbiting. Sweat pricks my temples and the back of my neck. I. Am. Not. Ready. For. This.
Pop is going to take one look at the homemade labels and roll his eyes. Paul will just snicker.
“You heard me, I’m sure,” Pop grumbles. “What’s he talking about?”
I draw in a deep breath and try to settle my jangled nerves. “I have a distillery—just a small one,” I add when they both reel in shock. “It’s in the east store shed.”
“A—A distillery?” Pop sounds like he’s choking.
“Yeah. A five gallon still…” They both just stare at me. “I’ve been… experimenting with fermentation and distilling methods. With blends and—”
“Since when?” Pop interrupts, a fresh scowl stamped on his face.
“Um…” I rake a hand through my hair. “About a year?”
It’s been sixteen months to be exact. My first three batches were basically lethal. A lot of research, fine tuning, and learning on the fly went into perfecting the process I use now.
Pop’s brow looks like an angry caterpillar. “A year? And this is the first I’m hearing about it? You know it’s illegal to distill without permits, don’t you?”
I scratch my eyebrow, cringing a little on the inside. “I have state and federal permits, Pop.”
The look he gives me? It’s about as lethal as my first batch of vodka.
If I would’ve talked about my plans and what I hoped to do back then, Pop would’ve told me I was wasting my time. Wasting my money. Losing my focus. Sailing along with my head in the clouds.
In other words, he would have given oxygen to the fire of my doubts, and my doubts were flickering pretty good on their own.
Hell, they still are.
If Griffin hadn’t opened his mouth, I seriously might have waited until Olivier’s Organic Farm-to-Bottle Sweet Potato Vodka was on grocery store shelves before I told Pop.
But I’d die before admitting that.
“It’s… early days, Pop.”
This does nothing to erase his scowl.
“I didn’t see a damn distillery the last time I was in the east store shed.”
Where the fuck is Griffin? What the hell is he doing? The bastard can’t just drop this truth bomb and disappear on me.
I swallow. I can’t remember the last time Pop set foot in any of the outbuildings. He’s too unsteady to walk down our gravel paths, and he hasn’t driven in about a year.
I’m saved from having to remind him of that when my brother strides in, wearing a huge ass smile, clutching the three remaining labeled bottles we didn’t sell yesterday. He sets them on the table with a thunk and stands back, beaming. Hell, he might as well be crowing: Ta-da!
“Olivier’s Organic Farm-to-Bottle Sweet Potato Vodka,” Pop reads aloud, sounding like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“We almost sold out at Moncus Park yesterday,” Griffin says, preening.
Uncle Paul’s brows lower. “How much did you profit?”
Griffin’s face blanks. He looks to me.
It’s not a fair question this early on. Of course, I haven’t even made back what I’ve put into creating my little distillery, so my current profit is in the negatives.
But I’ve worked out projections. What could be.
Even with production costs and expenses on things like advertising and distribution, I’m still hopeful for a thirty-five to forty percent profit.
“About $8 a bottle.”
“Not bad,” Paul says, but then adds. “But it’s not $350,000.”
“Of course not,” Griffin barks. “He’s just getting started.”
Paul nods slowly. “Yep. That’s exactly what I mean.” He waves a dismissive hand that belies his next words. “No offense, Beckett, but you have a five gallon still and an $8 profit. And how long did it take you to get there?”
I set my jaw. “It took time to get the outcome I wanted, but I’ve got it now.”
He huffs a laugh that sets my stomach on fire. “And you think you can scale it tenfold and just plug and play?”
It’s my turn to scoff. “Of course not. New equipment and bigger batches will require their own learning curve, but it sure as hell isn’t beyond me.”
Paul throws up his hands in defense. “Didn’t say that.” He chuckles like we’re just shooting the shit, casually bantering on a Sunday morning.
Not talking about dismantling my whole life.
“But what I am saying is this plan of yours is gonna take time. It’s gonna take money. And it’s gonna take a whole lotta luck.” Paul shakes his head. “And none of that adds up to three hundred and fifty large I could put in my bank account in three months.”
“You can’t do that, Uncle Paul,” Griffin says. And I hear the tightness in his throat, the emotion that threatens to choke him because I feel it in mine.
Our uncle sits back in his chair, tired and unhappy. Beside him, Pop looks downright ill. I don’t even feel like the same person who rolled out of bed this morning, happier than I’ve felt in years—after talking to Hattie all night.
A spasm of longing grips my heart. It makes no sense, but the thought of her right now is like a lighthouse. The only bright spot in a storm.
“Then give me a better option,” Paul says wearily.
And, fuck me, because I’ve got nothing.