My chest tightens. Hank's been farming this land for thirty years. His tomatoes are legendary. His squash wins ribbons at the county fair. If he's hurting this badly, others must be worse.
"The seed program can float you a loan," I say. "Interest-free."
"Appreciate it." He sits back on his heels. "But I'd just be robbing Peter to pay Paul."
"Then what are you going to do?"
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded brochure. Glossy paper, full color photos. A logo I don't recognize.
"Developer came by last week," he says. "Made an offer on the land."
“What kind of offer?"
"The kind that clears my debts and sets me up for retirement." He hands me the brochure. "Fair market value plus twenty percent. Cash deal. Close in thirty days."
I unfold the brochure. Photos of modern townhomes, manicured lawns, families smiling in front of identical porches. The tagline reads:Pine Hollow Commons: Where Community Meets Comfort.
"You can't be serious."
"I'm seventy-three, Ivy." His voice is tired. "My knees are shot. My back's worse. I've got no kids to pass this to and no savings to speak of. What am I supposed to do?"
"Keep farming." The words come out sharper than I mean them to. "This land produces half the town's tomatoes. Your heirlooms are irreplaceable."
"Heirlooms don't pay for hip surgery."
I open my mouth. Close it. Because he's right and I know it and there's no good answer that doesn't involve money I don't have.
"Who else has he talked to?" I ask quietly.
Hank looks away. "Miller. Jensen. The Rodriguezes. Maybe others."
"And?"
"Miller's thinking about it. Jensen already signed."
My heart rate spikes. Jensen's farm borders the bistro property. If that land goes to development, the whole corridor opens up.
"When's he closing?"
"End of the month."
Three weeks.
I fold the brochure. Tuck it in my pocket. My hands are shaking and I press them flat against my thighs to hide it.
"There has to be another way," I say.
"If you find one, let me know." Hank picks up the wrench. "In the meantime, I've got a tiller that won't fix itself."
I stand. My legs feel unsteady.
"Don't sign anything yet," I say. "Please."
He doesn't answer. Just turns back to the transmission housing, shoulders bent under weight I can't lift.
I walk back to my truck in a daze. The brochure burns in my pocket.
Pine Hollow Commons. Comfort and community.
