“Dad, did you ever think that we could use the money you have earmarked for the new cherry pickers for something else?”
Dad crosses his arms, and Bray shoots me a look that says,What the fuck are you doing?
“Like what?” Dad asks.
“Like investing in a small freezing operation. I know things look like they’re okay now, but it gets more and more difficult every year. We’re going to have to think about changing the menu of the cafeteria next year. Or shutting it down completely. And that’s in the short term. In the long term, things could get worse. We might have to fire some full-timers. Maybe even try to apply for planning permits to develop some of the land into housing.”
Dad snorts. “Over my dead body.”
The room rattles with silence. The fact is, Dad isn’t going to be around forever, and if this farm is to survive, we’re going to have to make changes.
“You can do what you like when I’m gone,” he says. “But until then, no one is selling off bits and pieces of this farm.”
“I’m not saying wewantto do that,” I say, in that same voice I used at fifteen when I wanted a sleepover. “But if we keep going the way we are, there will come a time where we’re going to be forced into doing something we don’t want to do.”
“If we don’t have cherry pickers, we can’t pick the fruit.” Dad raises his eyebrows, daring me to disagree with him.
“Dad,” Bray says, his tone a warning. “You know we don’t need brand-new cherry pickers.”
“They’re more reliable,” Dad says.
“Getting a new truck every year would be more reliable, but that doesn’t mean it’s the right thing to do. We can get the cherry pickers properly serviced or refurbished and save a ton of money.”
“And buy a freezer?” he asks, as if he thinks the idea’s ridiculous.
“We could invest in a small freezing operation, yes,” I reply. “We can rent some of the equipment. And I found logistics companies that can transport the stock to retailers. We wouldn’t have to have our own trucks.”
Dad shakes his head. “Our fruit is fresh. We’ve always prided ourselves on it.”
“But we’d freeze stuff the day it was picked,” Bray says. “People would actually be getting it fresher than if it was delivered fresh.”
“He’s right, Dad. And anyway, Bray had a good idea about approaching other farms who produce more exotic fruit and freezing that. We could buy it from them and then freeze it and sell it on.”
“That’s insane,” Dad says. “We’re a fruit farm. We want to be selling fruit, not buying it.”
“But what if we could be both?” I ask. “Frozen exotic fruit would give us a chance to develop a brand so people on the street, in the grocery store, would know Wilde’s Farm quality and could pick it for themselves.”
Dad fiddles with his cap. “It’s too risky,” he says. “Bray needs to focus on business here, not be hightailing it to wherever the hell they grow exotic fruit. We need all hands on deck here.”
Bray slumps his shoulders—defeated.
And any optimism I felt dives into my shoes. I hadn’t realized it until just then, but the idea of the freezing business brought with it so much hope. Not because it was Jack’s idea. Or becausethe freezing business would mean the end of any financial worries. It gave me hope that things could be different. That the future wouldn’t be the same as my past. And maybe Jack could have been a part of that.
TWENTY-NINE
Jack
Most of the workers have headed out already, but I’m going to stick around until Iris is done for the day, so I take a seat on the Adirondack chair by the packing barn.
The day in the late-September sun was just what I needed. It doesn’t hurt that I know Iris is in the office and I can picture her through the barn walls, studiously making sure every penny is counted and every spreadsheet perfected. Being close to her, even if I can’t see her, is something I’ve come to crave.
I close my eyes and chuckle to myself at how alien my internal thoughts would be to New York Jack. The Jack who brunches and goes to the ballet.
My cell rings. It’s my mother again. I don’t want to speak to her. Not today. Not now in this perfect moment. I should change her ringtone so I don’t even have to check caller ID.
While I have my phone in hand, I scroll through some emails. There’s the usual stuff. Things I can deal with tomorrow. But nothing much is happening until the annual meeting of the trustees in two weeks. I’ll have to go back to New York for that. During those couple of days, a full analysis of my family’s moneywill take place. What’s been earned compared to various other indices. What’s been spent. What needs to be spent next year. Then we’ll go through all the charities we’re supporting and how we’ll support them in the future.
My father will lead the meetings. I won’t speak much. It’s the same old, same old. I’m there to learn the ropes—even though I know the ropes inside out.
