“There’s no guarantee, but I have to try.”
Just like that, the spell was broken. Wendell dropped the shovel in the wheelbarrow and headed to the last post hole. “Julia, I’m going to that meeting. But it’s because your attorney, Ms. Aldeen, called and asked. I don’t want you to read into this any more than that. I’ve told you how I feel about your request.”
Julia kept her eyes trained on the ground as she trailed him to the last post. “I know, I know.” But it didn’t mean she’d stop trying. She’d never stop trying.
Twenty-FourWendell
He had always prided himself on honesty, and every time he saw Candace Lancaster and thought of the horse he was hiding in the barn behind his house, he felt like a liar.
Wendell was a man of his word not just from his National Guard training; his own parents had raised him as such, long before his days in the military. He understood the value of a person’s trust. If Candace asked about the horse, he would tell her the truth, even if it meant losing his job or ending Julia’s secret visits to his house. There were good reasons he’d done what he’d done. But there was also good reason to face the consequences of your decisions. That was life.
He hadn’t been in the main utility barn for more than a few moments that morning when he heard his name called from outside. But it was not Candace. Geoffrey Banks stepped out of his car. Wendell hadn’t seen him since the meeting up at the house two weeks earlier.
“Good to see you again,” Geoffrey said, extending his hand. “Do you have a moment?”
“Of course. How can I help?”
“The surveyors have completed their work, and I wanted to goover the maps with you. Candace would like to identify them for prospective buyers.”
Inside the barn, Wendell invited Geoffrey over to a sweeping worktable. Geoffrey paused, looking up at all the tools hanging on pegboards, the equipment covered and stored in the corners. He ran his hand over the worktable surface before unrolling a large white survey map. “This space is better kept than my office.”
“Thank you. Alan took a lot of pride in taking care of things around here.”
Geoffrey scanned the barn interior appreciatively. “And you still do. So, here’s the update. The engineers have subdivided the estate into eleven different parcels. As such, Candace’s broker will be showing each of the separate lots to interested clients. But ultimately, she’d prefer to sell to one developer.”
Wendell scanned the map. The estate had indeed been divided. What Geoffrey did not know, and could never understand, was that the divisions on paper represented something entirely different to anyone who knew White Pines. Wendell knew the land intimately, as one vast parcel from forest edge to waterline. From the rise of the orchard hill to the dip of the wetlands. The only divisions he knew were natural: watercourses, elevations, rock formations. The tree line that jutted out against the horizon. The depression of swampland where beavers and egrets and old mother snappers made their habitats. Those were the divisions of the land that he worked with and worked around, respectfully. As his gaze left Geoffrey’s pointed finger and followed the topography and elevation markers, he recognized every nook and cranny of White Pines. It was the land he traversed by footstep and measured by stride. The only divisions were made by Mother Nature, by habitat and by season. He worked his tongue around his mouth in silence, taking it all in. Reluctantly, Wendell’s gazefollowed Geoffrey’s hand tracing the subdivision. A gold signet ring flashed on his pinkie finger in the narrow band of sunlight slipping through the barn window, as unnatural and vulgar as the subdivision it traced.
Geoffrey stabbed a finger at the largest parcel in the northeastern corner of the map. “Over here, we have what will likely command the largest price. It’s got a great view, or so I’m told.”
“That’s the peach tree grove.”
“Is it? Well, it’s going to have to come down, for whoever buys it. Best view on the estate. Candace wants the buyer to have a three-hundred-sixty-degree sightline.”
“She wants it cut down?” Wendell’s stomach turned. “That orchard is almost a hundred years old. Her grandfather started it in the thirties.” In all his years on the estate, Wendell had worked hardest and longest on the peach orchard. Since he began, he’d already turned over and replanted half of it. Alan had loved not only the knotty crooked trees that defied orderly rows but also the fruit. The scent in August. The honeybees attracted by the peaches and the shady view beneath the branches. How many times had Wendell spied the family under those boughs, enjoying a picnic lunch? It was the stuff of children’s storybooks and old movies. And now they wanted to dig it up to build a structure that would likely jut out garishly against the natural backdrop, a stain against the bow of terrain and flush of fauna.
“That depends on who the buyer is.”
Wendell could picture it: an unimaginative boxy neighborhood, with alternating colors, vinyl-sided with faux chimneys and composite shutter. Attached two-car garages on each construction. Wendell stepped away from the worktable. “How does this change my management of the property?”
“Candace hired a broker. They’ve decided to attempt toattract a developer first.” Geoffrey pointed to several proposed driveway locations. “The broker feels it’s important that we visually mark the property divisions so potential buyers can envision the actual lots.”
“So they can imagine their yard. Where to put the trampoline or swimming pool,” Wendell muttered.
Geoffrey looked confused. “Right. Anyway, our idea is to add to the existing stakes laid by the surveyors. Candace would like it if you could walk the property lines and mark the proposed driveway entrances with different-colored tapes. The broker has lined up showings in the coming days.”
“Days,” Wendel said. But it would take mere hours for the backhoes to come in and desecrate the peach trees. He imagined the wildlife habitats, undisturbed in their present state, being knocked down, dug out, filled in. He ran his hand roughly through his hair, shaking his head. “Alan would have hated this.”
Geoffrey glanced down at the map, then at Wendell. “I know. But Alan is no longer with us.” He looked truly sorry, and Wendell could hear the empathy in his tone, but it did not change the fate of White Pines or what he was asking Wendell to do. Geoffrey put a hand on Wendell’s shoulder. “So, are you on board?”
Through the barn window, Wendell caught the wild flash of greenery over the shoulder of Geoffrey’s suit jacket. “I’ll start today.”
For the rest of the day, he drove the Gator around the property, marking the proposed driveway entries for each lot on the map. Wendell was not an engineer or surveyor. What he felt like, standing back and looking up at the colored lines of tape fluttering against the fields, was an executioner.
Finished with his grim work for the day, he was locking upthe lower barn door when he heard voices floating down from the house. He glanced up. Candace was talking to a woman in the driveway, but she was hidden from view behind the family car. No matter; he’d seen enough that day, and it was time to go home.
Wendell was about to climb into his truck when a VW Beetle rolled down the driveway and pulled up beside him.
“Ginny?”
