Jake blinked, surprised. Then he straightened, stepping naturally into the role. “Alright. Miguel, you and Charlie take the chainsaws to the north fence. We need the perimeter secure. Tucker, use the plow to push the debris in the lot to the burn pile. Chuck, set up the food in the kitchen so Henry can supervise. Brody, you and Wes take the handsaws to the smaller stuff.”
“Aye aye, Captain,” Tucker saluted with a wink, moving immediately toward his truck.
The farm came alive—the sound of chainsaws revving replaced the silence. Wood smoke and the scent of burnt resin soon permeated the air.
Wes watched Jake directing traffic, pointing at a precarious limb near the barn. He wasn’t an outsider anymore. He wasn’t alone. He was part of the pack.
The Hawthorne House
Wednesday, December 24
10:00 AM
The power had flickered back on late Tuesday night, bringing the modern world rushing back in with a symphony of appliance beeps.
Jake sat at the antique desk in his room at the Hawthorne House, his laptop open. He was wearing his suit jacket and a crisp white shirt, but seeing as the camera cut off at mid-chest, he had on jeans and wool socks underneath.
On the screen, Harrison looked polished and remote in his Atlanta office.
“I received the waiver,” Harrison said, looking at a document on his own screen. “Signed and notarized, right on time. I didn’tthink you’d make it back down there with the ice storm. We were watching the news. Looked like a disaster zone.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t easy, but I made it,” Jake said, not offering the slightest of details.
“That must be someone special you met down there.”
Personal comments from Harrison were rare. Jake immediately suspected an ulterior motive for the call.
“He is. We’re spending Christmas together,” Jake said, then added, “... and New Year’s.”
Harrison offered the slightest of head tilts, then continued as if unfazed: “Right. Well, we want you back. First of the year. We’re opening up a VP slot in Rural Recovery. It’s yours.”
Jake took a breath. This was it. The corner office. The salary bump. The life he had spent ten years building.
He looked out the window. The sun was melting the last of the ice, sending glittering streams of water down the glass. He could see the roof of the bakery on Spoon’s town square. He thought about Main Street beyond, heading to Hwy 68, and then Holiday Pines, where Wes and Henry waited for him.
“I want the job,” Jake said. “But I can’t do it from Atlanta.”
Harrison’s face scrunched with disbelief. “Excuse me?”
“I can’t save these farms from a glass tower in Midtown, John. I need to be on the ground. I saved the Dalton account because I was here. The same with Crawford and Whitlock because I understand the local logistics.” Jake leaned in. “I want to pilot a Rural Recovery satellite office. Based here. In Spoon.”
“Spoon? It’s three hours away.”
“Which puts me within striking distance of fifty percent of our agricultural portfolio. I’ll come in for monthly meetings. But I stay here.”
Harrison stared at him. The silence stretched.
“A satellite office,” Harrison mused. “Low overhead.”
“I’ve already found a space above the bakery. Cheap rent. High visibility.”
Harrison sighed, tapping his pen. “Six-month trial. If the metrics dip, you’re back in the tower.”
“Deal.”
“Merry Christmas, Jake.”
“Merry Christmas.”
