He watches me for a second like he’s measuring something I can’t see.
“Whether you’re planning to stay long enough to harvest anything.”
Why does that feel like it’s about more than vegetables? The way he said it definitely affects me, but I shrug like it doesn’t matter.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
That’s the honest answer. Part of me wants this to work. Part of me is already calculating how fast I could sell if it doesn’t. Troy studies me for a moment. Then he takes a slow sip of coffee.
“If the soil feels like concrete,” he says, “you’re digging too shallow.”
I blink.
“I haven’t dug anything yet.”
“That’s the problem.”
I stare at him.
“You lost me.”
He sets the mug down.
“Mountain soil needs depth,” he says. “You break it first. Then you work it. If you plant shallow, nothing lasts.”
Something about the way he says it makes my stomach do a weird little flip. Not because I suddenly care deeply about gardening. But because I get the strange feeling he isn’t only talking about dirt.
Millie returns carrying two plates piled with biscuits and eggs. She sets them down and glances between us.
“You two look like you’re solving the mysteries of the universe.”
“Just soil,” Troy says.
“Well,” she says, “when you figure out how to fix stubborn ground, let me know. I’ve been trying to do that with men for forty years.”
I laugh. Troy just shakes his head. Millie pats my shoulder again.
“You’ll be fine, honey,” she says.
Then she walks away. I pick up my fork.
“So,” I say to Troy, “hypothetically speaking… if someone bought a cabin with soil that behaves like a parking lot…”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Yes?”
“…how hard would it be to fix?”
He studies me for a long moment. Then he says calmly,
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re willing to dig deep.”
And just like that, I have the strange feeling my impulsive mountain purchase might have come with a very opinionated guide.
