“Green,” he answers, his voice low and solemn. “My favorite color.” His eyes lower to my lips but just for a moment. He takes a long step back, shakes his head as if coming out of a dream and jams both hands into his pockets.
“Sorry, I was out of line there. Not sure what came over me.” He looks everywhere but at my face. “Good night, Lettie. Thanks again for your work.” He practically sprints from the room. I’m left standing in the kitchen, completely bewildered. Is it my imagination, or did Liam Darcy want to kiss me?
She attracted him more than he liked. —Pride & Prejudice
3
The wind blows ice particles on my face as I walk through the orchard. I’ve never felt so alone. My dog whimpers. “I know, Fitz, it’s a cold one.” With my gloved hand, I ruffle his head before turning up my collar and pulling my coat tight around me. I walk the orchards most mornings. Our family owns far too much land to cover all in one day. When I need to inspect all of Pemberley properties, I fly over in a small plane. But I prefer the close view of the trees and the drip irrigation. So, each day, I tramp a few miles in one orchard or another. Today, I’m in the small private orchard off my parents’ sprawling estate. Crossing through rows of bare trees, I think of my father and grandfather. My dad always said, “Never forget, our wealth comes from the dirt.”
Over the last five years, I lived in the small farmhouse where I grew up until I was twelve by the old orchard, forty minutes from here. The first orchard Jean Baptiste D’Arcy planted in 1850. He left his home in Quebec for the gold rush. He didn’t find much gold but fell in love with the rolling hills surrounding Sacramento.
My family has been here for six generations, buying up more land with each generation. Originally, they raised cattle and pigs and apples but soon began to specialize in almonds, walnuts, and rice. Truth be told, the Darcy fortune was made by buying up water rights early on. This gave my family a critical edge during bad years.
This extra money set us apart from many of our friends and neighbors struggling to make a living. We’ve tried our best to use that money to help the community. My great-grandfather set up a credit union specifically for almond growers with the mission to be more reasonable than the banks. He would often grumble, “Banks only want to give you money when you don’t need it.”
The ethos of giving back to the community has continued with my father and his father, who both believed it was essential to have the head of Pemberley Almonds understand the hardships of almond growing. That’s why, after getting my MBA, I lived at the old farmhouse, working side by side with farm laborers on the ranch.
I learned so much that first year. When the early flowering trees were threatened by frost, we flooded fields and brought in wind machines. Several nights, I went without sleep, trudging through icy water, doing whatever I could to keep the frost from killing the delicate blossoms. When the cold snap was over, I felt so relieved that we had preserved the harvest. Only to watch in despair two months later as a spring hailstorm destroyed most of the baby almonds. Farming is all about the right conditions at the right time. So often, the elements do not line up, and the harvest is lost. But when they do, it’s beyond satisfying.
Our family has the deep wallets to survive a devastating season or two, but so many growers do not. And yet they keep at it, putting in grueling hours with no sure promise of a good harvest. They have my deepest respect. That’s why we source all our almonds from local small to mid-size family farms and do our best to give them the fairest deal possible.
The frosted grass crunches with each step. I let out a long sigh, and my breath forms clouds. Today is colder than February 3rd last year. That morning, my dad woke before the sun rose, determined to beat his personal record on his Peloton. When he started feeling sick, he stumbled back to bed, telling my mom he thought he was coming down with something. Not particularly worried, she got up and went about her usual routine. About an hour later, she came back to check on him. His face was purple, his eyes wide open. He wasn’t breathing. She called me immediately. “Your father!” she said breathlessly, then burst into tears. And I knew.
I had been walking in the orchard. I sprinted to my work truck.
“He’s not moving!” she gasped into the phone. I climbed in my pick up, turned on the engine, and before I even shut the door, I was on my way. “Oh, Liam, I’m scared!” my mom wailed over the phone.
“I’m hurrying, Mom. Call 911.” I sped down the dirt road and then onto the freeway to my parents’ estate in El Dorado Hills, nearly 30 miles away. By the time I arrived, he was already gone. Still, the EMTs continued to give him CPR. An hour later, they announced what we already knew. My father was dead.
It’s been a long, miserable year. I feel as cold and frozen as the ground beneath me. I want to curl up in some warm place and drift off to sleep, to doze until the sun returns, the almonds bloom, and I’m free of responsibility and worry. Though I’m not sure I’ll ever be free of worry again.
Even before my dad’s death, my sister, Georgie, was avoiding home. Desperate to run away from her problems, Georgie fled to Cornwall, England. She flew home for the funeral but went straight back and bought a cottage. “When I’m away,” she told me. “It’s easier for me to believe Dad’s still alive.” I wish I had that luxury.
Currently, I’m the interim CEO of Pemberley Almonds. I have one more year to prove myself to the board of directors. So far, so good; profits are up and employees are happy. My mom and sister, however, are struggling. Right after my father’s death, my mom begged me to move back into the big house so she wouldn’t feel so terribly lonely. The move was convenient for me, since the farmhouse I’d been living in was nearly an hour from our corporate offices. But it didn’t really help my mom much. I hoped she would become more involved at Pemberley, but she said it was too hard; all the business stuff reminded her too much of Dad. I can’t say how painful it has been to watch my mom retreat inside herself. She has always been so capable, so confident, so brave. And now she walks about as if she’s in a trance. I suppose we all feel that way. It didn’t help that my dad’s death came just a few months after Georgie’s crisis. That whole experience left my mom a shell of herself. She felt she failed as a parent. When she visited my sister in England last June, she decided Georgie was on to something. Apparently, it’s much easier to deal with grief across the ocean. So now it’s up to me to run the house and the business.
In addition to leading the company, I’m expected to carry on the tradition of throwing Pemberley Parties. Last year, we canceled Blossom Days since that event happened in early March, only a few weeks after my dad’s funeral. But in July, Clarence, the foreman at the almond milk plant, said it would boost morale if we continued the tradition of the Pumpkin Hunt. This event, like all Pemberley Parties, was something my mom normally orchestrated with lots of input from my dad. But with her out of the country, the planning fell to me. I did what any good CEO would do: I delegated. And that’s how I first heard of Lettie Benson.
When October rolled around, I found I didn’t have the heart to attend. My dad loved the Pumpkin Hunt so much. Everything about it reminded me of him. It was often held the weekend of his birthday. I had planned on attending and even making a speech honoring him. But the closer the day came, the more I dreaded it. I made a lame excuse and went out of town. I didn’t know at the time, because she didn’t tell me, but Reynolds was sick that weekend. I really left her in a bind.
The following week, more than one employee told me how spectacular the Pumpkin Hunt had been. Janet from accounting asked me if I could get the recipe for the vegan chili served at the party. My mom also received messages from old friends praising the event. When I asked Reynolds about it, she told me that a young woman from Bennet Parties single-handedly saved the day. She sent a sick Reynolds home to bed and kept the party running. Feeling truly grateful for a stranger’s hard work that helped me through an emotionally trying weekend, I sent her a thank you note with my favorite chocolates. I knew I couldn’t skip the holiday party, even if I still didn’t feel much like celebrating. Reynolds promised to hire the same competent employee who made the Pumpkin Hunt a success.
The icy rain turns to snow as I take long steps through corridors of wintering almond trees. Snow is rare here. But this is the second snow this winter. It has been raining a lot, too, which bodes well for the harvest. As long as it doesn’t dip below freezing after the trees bloom, and there’s no raging hailstorm or mite infestation. There are so many things that can go wrong. Farming requires relentless hope. And right now, I don’t have much. Fitz scampers ahead of me, a happy dark whirl in a world of white. I’d be lost without my dog. If it weren’t for his buoyant affection, I think my heart would have frozen over completely.
When I turn the corner, the house comes into view, perched on a snow-dusted slope surrounded by trees glazed in ice. The wintery scene makes me think again of Lettie and the holiday party. Lately, everything makes me think about her. I don’t know... something about her casual confidence combined with her understated good looks. I phrased that wrong, just like when I called her tolerable. That was not my best moment. I only said that to get Bingham off my back. Lettie is so much more than tolerable. She is exactly my sort of pretty. That’s probably why she looked so familiar when I first met her, standing under the arch wrapped in Christmas lights. Her heart-shaped face shone in the tunnel of light as her bright eyes fastened on me. I felt a tug of recognition. Something about her felt strangely familiar, like déjà vu or coming home.
Funny thing is that my mom wanted to set me up that night. Caroline had been jilted by her longtime boyfriend. And after my lonely year, I was more than willing to see if anything was there. Caroline is indisputably hot, even if I’ve always found her a bit grating. So, when my mom suggested that I use the party as a chance to get reacquainted with her, I agreed. Partly because I was so happy that my mom had come home for a few weeks. Partly because I was so lonely, I was willing to see if we could finally find some chemistry. Sparks flew that night, just not with Caroline Bingham.
I stomp my boots on the doormat outside the kitchen door. My mom sits at the table, sipping her tea, watching the blizzard.
“Morning, Mom!”
She doesn’t answer, simply stares out at the trees, their skeletal branches swaying in the storm. She slides a thick, creamy envelope across the table to me.
I read:Mr. and Mrs. William Darcy Jr.It pains me to see this invitation addressed to my dead father. I glance at my mom and notice her red-rimmed eyes. She’s been crying. Again.
“Don’t worry. I’ll go with you.” I abhor such galas, but I’d do anything for my mom.
“I’m not going this year,” she says, still watching the flurries outside. “What I want... what I need is something to look forward to. Please, Liam, take a date. You need to get back out there.”
