He’s standing beside his silver Airstream, which looks more like a bullet than it does a camper. Bill claps a hand against the metal side. “I’m ready to go live the jam band dream.”
A hearty, soul-cleansing laugh lifts from my throat. Bill’s a good guy. We’ve known him for years—he was one of Dad’s best friends. After he died, Bill became like a second father. He had lost his wife a few years earlier and understood the pain of losing someone who’s vital to your life.
In the months following Dad’s burial, Bill would drop in to see how we were holding up. He helped around the house, brought us supper. It was a couple years before he and Mom started dating, and when they did, I was glad for them. Really, truly happy thatshewas happy again.
Mom smiles brightly. It’s a fake smile, the one she puts on when her world’s crumbling into an ash heap. “Rowe, you’ve got to smell this new tangerine candle I made.”
She plucks a glass jar off the counter and pops the lid. Inside, hardened orange wax climbs the walls of the container as if it’s trying to break free. My mom loves to make candles, though the final product often turns out messy.
She lets me sniff, and it does smell good—citrusy, homey, like a kitchen on a spring morning.
Mom hugs it to her chest. “I burned it during my meditation, and the scent put me in the zone to receive blessings, Rowe.”
“Sabra,” Bill says sternly to Mom, because she is clearly stalling.
Her face crumples and she shakes her head. Okay. So she’s not sick. Does that meanBillis?
“Bill, are you okay?”
He pats the air. “I’m fine, Rowe. This doesn’t have anything to do with me. This is something your mom needs to tell you.”
She slumps back on the stool, and I can’t help but feel pity for her because of everything she’s been through these past few years. But still, whatever it is, she needs to just say it.
“Spit it out, Mom. I’m already done with today, and it’s not even lunch. So whatever you’ve got to tell me, spill it. Yank off the bandage, because you’re not doing me any favors by keeping quiet.”
“Go on, Sabra,” Bill says gently.
He has a very understanding but firm presence—what comes to mind when I think of what a man should be like. Quiet but kind.
He reminds me a lot of my father, and I’m grateful for that.
Mom mutters behind her hand, “Meer woosing de furmmm.”
“I don’t speak German, Mom. What did you say?”
“Sabra,” Bill scolds. “We’re leaving in an hour, come hell or high water. I’m loading up the last of my things in a minute, and then I’m heading your way. We’ve got to get on the road if we’re to reach Orange Beach in time for the concert tonight.”
Mom inhales deeply. “Okay. Here it is. Rowe, you know that ever since Dad died, things have been tough. That we’ve had bills.” A bitter laugh slips from her mouth. “What am I saying? Of course you know. You left school because of the cancer.”
Just thinking about it makes my throat knot up. I’d been an English major, but when Dad got sick, Mom needed extra help around here. Everything happened at once—the cancer diagnosis, people not buying piggycorns (which, to be fair, had been rapidly declining for years). It was one thing after another, all of it compounding so that by the time he died, she was using all their savings to pay his medical bills.
The farmhands were let go, and I never returned to school. I was simply too heartbroken from losing both him and Luke to muster up the energy to get my degree.
Plus, it wasn’t like I could abandon my mom in her time of need. Leaving her alone in this big old house with the piggycorns and Buster the Cat didn’t seem right.
So I stayed.
“You were only going to be here for six months,” she reminds me, her eyes full of sorrow. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Hey.” I swing my arm like it’s no big deal, like I’m ready to give life the good old college try. “I wouldn’t trade the time that I’ve spent here for anything else. Besides, I’ve done just fine. I’ve managed to get some side gigs designing landscapes.”
All the extra money I’ve brought in has gone directly back into the farm—food for the pigs, paying bills.
She licks her lips. “Right. About that. When Dad was in the thick of his illness, I took out a second mortgage to pay for the chemo. The thing is, since no one’s bought a piggycorn in a while—well, we’re struggling, Rowe.”
My heart breaks for her. She’s so worried, but it’s all gonna be fine.
I rub her arm in reassurance. “I know that. But I don’t want you to worry about this place. I’ve got a little money in the bank. While you’re gone I’m gonna fix up the farm, make it so shiny and new that for the first time in years, we’ll be real competition for Sally Ray.”
Her gaze drops. “I’m afraid ...”
She trails off, and Bill sighs quietly. “Just tell her.”
“What, Mom?” She’s very quiet. Deathly quiet. Now I’m getting worried. “What is it?”
My mother swallows loudly and lifts her gaze, and when she pins it on me, sorrow brims in her eyes. “Rowe, we’ve already lost the farm. It’s in foreclosure.”
