7. Junie #2
She stared at the chair, her hand reaching up to clasp her locket in a gesture that always seemed to soothe her.
He knew she hated accepting favors. He suspected that Junie had spent her entire adult life defining her worth through the physical sacrifices she made for others.
To sit down and eat with him was to acknowledge that she deserved a moment of comfort that had nothing to do with her responsibilities to her family or her harvest.
"This is highly impractical in such a small space," she countered, her throat tightening as she slowly lowered herself into the wooden chair. "Besides, Sam Hollis is searching for all your records, and we should be reviewing everything instead of wasting time."
"Eating dinner isn't a waste of time," Micah replied, a glimmer of dry amusement touching his mouth as he handed her the second fork. "And we'll analyze the files much faster if we're not both running on empty."
He watched her carefully as she took the fork, her movements finally slowing as she settled into the close quarters of his workspace.
The physical proximity was intense. In the narrow gap between the concrete walls, the desk was a small island of warmth, and he could hear the rhythmic sound of her breathing over the low hum of the ventilation system.
"You've been on the move since four o'clock this morning," Micah noted, his voice gentle. When he saw the surprised look on her face, he added, "I saw the bakery schedule on your chalkboard. You can't keep pushing yourself like this."
"I have managed this harvest for years after my husband died," she insisted, her chin rising with that defiance he had come to respect. "I know how to pace my energy. I don't need anyone to manage my schedules."
"Managing is different from surviving," Micah countered, holding her gaze as he leaned forward.
"I'm not questioning your strength. I've seen what you do for this farm, and it's incredible.
But you're carrying the weight of everything on your shoulders, and you're trying to do it without letting anyone see that you're tired. "
She looked down at her plate, her fingers tracing the smooth handle of her fork as her rigid posture finally began to soften. In the warm light of the desk lamp, he could see her drop the armor she always wore.
"If those deeds are fraudulent, the farm is at risk," she whispered, her voice dropping so low he had to lean closer to hear her over the hum of the fan.
"I thought we just had taxes to worry about.
But everything we built here, everything we worked so hard to save last year is in jeopardy.
I can't let it slip away because I was too careless to protect it.
I promised my mother I would keep things going. "
"We're going to find the truth," Micah promised, sounding absolutely certain. "But tonight, you're going to eat some of this stew, and you're going to let yourself rest for thirty minutes."
A reluctant smile touched her lips, the first real crack in her defensive shield as she finally took a small bite of the warm bread. "You're a very stubborn public official," she murmured.
"It's a job requirement," Micah agreed, his green eyes reflecting the soft glow of the lamp as he smiled back at her. "Especially when dealing with a very stubborn farmer."
The hum of the ancient radiator in the corner of the office was a rhythmic companion to the soft clink of forks against ceramic plates.
Junie settled back against the wooden chair, her fingers tracing the embroidered edge of her linen apron.
The rich aroma of the tart cherries and buttery pastry now competed with the lingering scent of rosemary stew, creating a comfortable bubble that seemed completely removed from the cold concrete walls of the archives.
Junie watched as Micah polished off the last bite of his pie, his expression one of relaxed satisfaction. He leaned back and let out a soft sigh.
"The pastry was perfect," he noted, looking at Junie across the corner of the oak desk. "The tartness of the cherries is exactly what a traditional New England pie requires. I stand corrected about the state of local baking."
He wondered if she had baked the pie just to prove him wrong. Or worse, if she in some way felt obligated to him.
As if she could read his thoughts, Junie replied, "It was merely a matter of using up the freezer stock.
" She reached across the desk to clear his plate.
She stacked it neatly beneath her own, her fingers moving with a practiced efficiency to wipe away a stray crumb of crust with a damp cloth. "But I'm glad it met your standards."
"You don't have to keep cleaning," Micah urged, his hand resting on the polished edge of the desk blotter, his thumb tracing a groove in the wood. "Sit for five minutes. The paperwork won't disappear, and the cleanup can wait."