Meanwhile, it was enough to set Secret Service on edge. They have an RV parked in the Woodleys’ yard as a mobile command center and always have at least one agent on duty.
Stella once asked Elliot for a protective detail, and he told her no, and not to ask again. That if she wanted private security, she could hire it and have one of her “benefactors” pay for it.
Far as I know, that’s the last time she asked.
But the detail on the property is how we know for certain Elliot’s parents are home—because they’ve been alerted to our arrival and asked not to tell his parents. Before we head there via motorcade, Elliot and I change out of our suits and into jeans and sneakers. I’m wearing a button-up under my denim jacket because it feels chilly to me today. Elliot’s wearing a Cornhuskers hoody over a charcoal Henley.
I watch him as we speed down two-lane roads, rolling past miles of pastures and fields in diverse stages of growth. It uncomfortably reminds me in some ways of where I came from, and I try not to compare the fields I’m seeing to the ones from my youth. While my parents weren’t farmers, we lived in a farming community. Plus, my father’s job was farming-adjacent, so I know enough to be dangerous.
“I’ve been trying to talk him into switching to hops.”
I’m not sure I heard him correctly. “Sorry?”
“Dad.” Elliot shifts his body so he’s facing me. “Corn is getting harder to make a living with on a family operation their size. US soy market’s still in the shitter. I looked into it. The type of soil they have here, he could grow hops. Even if he didn’t shift all-in on it, he could plant fifteen or twenty acres of it on a trial basis. Hook up with regional craft and microbreweries. Or, he could shift into growing specialty and heirloom crops for seed. There are viable alternatives to growing corn.”
I sense…something. “What’s going on?”
“They’re struggling. They’vebeenstruggling. For years. They’re not getting any younger, but no way will Dad sell out. His family’s raised corn for generations. Farm’s been in the family for over a hundred years. I’m tired of him and Mom always stressing over how they’re going to pay the mortgage.
“I don’t make enough money I can bail them out if they fail, and you know damn well I won’t take lobbyists’ money.” A dark glare flashes across his expression before my placid boy returns. “Their note’s held by the same bank Grace Martin’s father runs.”
“Oh.” Again, while I don’t hail from a farming family, I remember discussions my parents had with friends of theirs who did own and run farms.
Now I understand why, when Elliot told me about the farmer who snapped, I sensed a darker undertone to the story.
It’s personal.
“Yeah.” He nudges his glasses up his nose, because I had him take out his contacts after the event. It’s one less thing he has to deal with and worry about. “I’d love for them to be able to pay their bills with farming, and not need to rely on subsidies and crop insurance every year. But trying to talk Dad into a new way of thinking is impossible. He sure as hell won’t sell out and retire. You might as well set him on fire.”
“I take it you’ve shown him the potential numbers?”
“Yeah. I did everything but make a PowerPoint for them.”
“What about your mom?”
“She won’t challenge him on this. The irony is she has an acre and a half right around the house that’s just hers, right? She grows nearly everything she puts on their table, preserves a lot of it, and she even sells some of it up a little farm stand by the road, because she grows it organically. She’ll pull in several hundred dollars a week in season, and that’s just from neighbors and their friends at church. Sells some to local wholesalers, too. During the season, she’ll earn their grocery money and then some just from what she takes care of herself.”
“Can I ask a stupid question?”
He smiles. “Sure.”
“Doesn’t everyone around them have their own farms? I mean, I get how someone in New York state can run a farm stand and make money from tourists and locals passing through, but how is that possible somewhere like here?” I wave toward the window, indicating the miles of rolling farmlands. “Not like Disneyworld’s in their backyard and attracting folks.”
“Many do have their own farms. Not everyone grows small plots like hers. Some people are running large operations and don’t have time. If you need tomatoes, and you don’t grow your own, would you rather run all the way into town, to the grocery store, or stop by your neighbor, who you’ve known for years, and pay roughly the same price, for a better product, and be able to gossip for a few minutes?”
“True.”
“When we were kids, Stella used to hate the fuck out of working in the garden. I didn’t mind it, because it wasn’t nearly as boring as spending hours on a tractor or a combine.”
“Why didn’t you switch jobs?”
“Because Dad banned her from farm machinery.” He laughs. “He gave in to her whining when she was twelve. She was on a tractor for five minutes before she fucked up what she was doing and Dad was screaming at her. He tried her on four more pieces of equipment, and she either screwed up, or broke something. He then told her she’d be lucky if he even let her get her learner’s permit to drive before she was eighteen and he couldn’t stop her.”
“Wow. Bet she hated that.”
“Absolutely, she did. I think she thought I was a suck-up, because I never minded the little garden. Time alone, no one bothering me. Got to eat what I was growing. Mom even let me help her pick what to plant every year.” I see an evil grin sparking in his eyes.
“Let me guess—you picked stuff Stella hated?”
