Farm Girl

Kate attacked her ham sandwich with evident appetite. Allan smiled to himself, fetched bottled soda, potato salad, and a plastic container of grapes from the fridge, and loaded them onto the kitchen table.

As he laid out forks, napkins, and plastic cups, he said “Work’s pretty sparse these days.”

She nodded. “Not just here.”

“You’re not a New Yorker, are you?”

“Jayhawk.” She snapped off another bite of her sandwich, chewed and swallowed quickly. “The big outfits have taken over back there. They don’t have much use for local hands. They bring in their own crews. Mexicans, mostly.”

“It’s the same here.”

She nodded and shoveled up a monstrous bite of potato salad. He seated himself across from her, poured soda for them both, and steepled his hands before him.

“So how long have you been on the road?”

She swallowed, laid down her fork, and looked at him as if she were trying to gauge the sincerity of his interest.

“Been a few weeks.”

“No takers for an experienced hand in all that time?”

Her look of disgust was eloquent.

“So what do you think of New York so far?”

She scowled. “Not much. You don’t use what you’ve got. God gave us the land to grow something. To give life.” She took up her cup of soda and emptied it in a single long draught. “You folks don’t seem to realize that. Unless your neighbors are different from…what I’ve seen so far.”

“Religious?”

“Catholic.”

“Me too.” He hesitated. “Can I have a shot at changing your opinion of us?”

Her weighing, measuring stare returned at full force.

“What do you have in mind?”

He rose. “Come with me.”

Kate ran a hand caressingly along the tractor’s steel flank.

“This is a forty-seven Springfield. They don’t make ’em like this any more. All plastic and sheet metal nowadays.”

Allan nodded. “Think you can get it running?”

She chuckled. “Oh, I’ll get her running, all right. She’s a classic. Pure power, just waiting for the starting gun. When I’m finished with her, she’ll be able to pull your house off its foundation.” Her face clouded; she halted and swiveled to face him. “For what?”

“You want to grow things?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Do it here.”

She gaped at him.

“I don’t use the land. Why shouldn’t you?” He waved at the array of machines and tools, idle since he’d taken possession. “Stay here and work it. You’re welcome to do what you like with it. And keep the proceeds, of course.”

She gazed doubtfully at the tractor, plainly uncertain what she’d really been invited to do.

“Stay where?”

“I have a spare bedroom.”

Her eyes rose to his, challenging. “Is there lock on the door?”

“There is. You won’t be disturbed, I promise.”

“Lend me a few bucks for seed and fuel and stuff?”

He nodded. “Not a problem.”

“Corn?”

“Whatever you want.”

She pondered in silence for a long moment.

“Okay.”

Allan was overwhelmed by the fury of Kate’s attack on his offer. She rose at five the next morning, was showered and dressed by five-twenty, and out in the barn immediately thereafter without even a cup of coffee. The constant clanking, scraping of tools against parts, and occasional heartfelt profanity kept him aware of her labors throughout the morning. It took all his resolve to keep him inside so she could work in privacy. He peered out the kitchen window at the open barn doors more often than he’d care to admit.

Just before noon, there came a brief, rapid whirring, followed by the roaring of a powerful engine awakening from slumber. Moments later, the tractor rolled out of the barn, with Kate grinning triumphantly from the driver’s seat, and arrowed up the gentle grade toward his house.

Allan closed the back door behind him and stood on the landing as Kate halted the old monster a mere yard from his steps and killed the engine. Her smile was impossibly wide.

“Told you!”

He nodded. “Indeed you did. Get on in here.”

She frowned, but followed him inside. He gestured her to sit at the kitchen table, then laid a legal pad and a ball-point pen before her.

“Make a list of what you need.”

“Huh? I was going to—”

“No doubt you were. But it’s a fair drive to the best clump of suppliers, so I want to be sure we don’t forget anything.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You didn’t think you were going to carry a few hundred pounds of seed, fertilizer, and fuel back here, did you?”

“Well, no. But I was going to hitch Nellie up to the disc harrow and—”

“Nellie?”

“The Springfield. That’s her name.” She grinned. “All these years and you didn’t know?”

He groaned. “Okay, so I’m insufficiently inquisitive about my machines’ monikers.”

“Hey! Shorter words, please. I’m only a farm girl.”

He fixed her with a no-nonsense stare.

“You’re a farm woman.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and nodded. “Okay, whatever.”

“So make that list. I’ll fix us some lunch.”

“Okay.”

For the next three days, Kate didn’t let up. She put twelve to fourteen hours into the little farm each day: first tending the machines, then clearing away the debris of earlier years, then tilling the soil and readying it to receive seed. She paused only for meals, and at the end of the day to shower and retire to her room. Yet the grinding effort seemed to agree with her; she never complained, and she looked stronger and more assured with each day’s work.

Allan knew that, without assistance, Kate would have to limit her ambitions. She certainly wouldn’t be able to cultivate forty acres’ crops with no hands but her own. He kept silent, and waited patiently for her to disclose her plans for the season before her. It was Saturday dinner before she revealed them.

“Think I’ll plant four acres for trade,” she said between mouthfuls of beef stew, “and put asparagus on four more. Plenty of money in good asparagus. Won’t be worth a damn for at least two years, though.”

“Two years?” A gentle fluttering began in his stomach.

She nodded. “You have to invest the time if you want stuff that’s worth the money. The soil and the asparagus have to get used to one another.”

“So what will this year’s cash crops be?” he said.

“Scallions and rhubarb.”

“Hm?”

She grinned. “You expected corn? Why bother? The big guys grow enough corn to feed the whole world about five times.” She tore a chunk from her dinner roll, sopped up stew gravy with it, thrust it into her mouth, chewed and swallowed. “Small operators have to do specialty crops. I’m really good with rhubarb. You ever had a rhubarb pie?”

He shook his head.

“Then you haven’t lived. I promise you, nobody near here will be able to touch our rhubarb.” She nibbled at the roll. “The hard part will be selling the stuff. Are there any specialty markets around here we could approach?”

“A few. Feel like taking a drive tomorrow, making inquiries?”

She was silent for a moment. “Sure. So when’s Mass tomorrow?” she said.

The swerve hauled him up short. “I go to the seven-thirty. The church is on the other side of the city. You’re coming with me?”

She shrugged. “Of course. Why not?”

“Right.”

They drew more than a few stares in church. The seven-thirty Mass was populated by the most constant of congregations. Nearly all the attendees sat in exactly the same place every week. An unfamiliar face was sure to excite interest, and more than a little gossip. Especially since it was the face of a young woman, sitting by the side of a considerably older man who’d come to Mass alone for seven straight years.

Father Ray stopped them on the church steps.

“Do I have a new parishioner?”

Kate answered before Allan could compose a response. “For this season at least, Father.” She held out a hand, and the priest clasped it. “I’m Kate Morrell.”

“Welcome to Onteora parish, dear. I’m Father Raymond Altomare.” The priest looked an avalanche of questions at Allan, who did his best to maintain an expression of bland amiability.

“Father,” Kate said before the awkward silence could run too long, “would you know of any markets in the area that might take some specialty produce on consignment?”

The priest’s eyebrows rose. “Are you reviving Bellamy Farm?”

She nodded. “Maybe you’ll be calling it the Morrell Farm this time next year.”

Father Ray smiled. “Wait here.” He trotted off toward a knot of other congregants, animatedly exchanging words and gestures on the church’s front lawn, and returned moments later with a solid-looking man in a sport jacket and NFL-logo tie.

“Hello, I’m Jack Taliaferro. I run the local farmers’ market.” He held out a hand.

Kate shook the proffered hand but did not release it. Her voice dropped a full octave and became husky. “I’m Kate Morrell. Allan has hired me to turn his spread into a working farm again. We’ve put in several acres of champion-line scallions and rhubarb. Very high return per unit. But I’m only good at growing things. I’m hopeless at selling them. Do you think you might be able to help?” With that, she produced a smile of such dazzling power that Allan’s heart clenched in his chest.

Taliaferro’s mouth dropped open. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. His free hand went to his collar and tugged it away from his throat.

“I think I might,” he croaked. “Give me a moment?” He reclaimed his hand with some reluctance and beckoned to another congregant. “Solly? Come do some business!”

Presently Kate was chatting, laughing, and backslapping with the two merchants as if they were friends of twenty years’ standing. A few minutes later, she shook hands with both again and returned to Allan.

Allan took Kate gently by the elbow and steered her back toward the car. “How did you do that?”

The smile she awarded him was 200-proof innocence. “Practice.”

They went on that way, day after day and week after week. Kate would rise at five, if not earlier, and set to her labors at once. Allan, half an hour or more behind her despite his best efforts, would cook for them, clean for them, and provide the relaxation of small talk at their meals together. At seven each evening she would put away her tools, shower off the grime of the day, and sit quietly before the television with him until weariness compelled her to sleep.

Allan kept his distance with difficulty; Kate was too much the dynamo, too filled with life and the fire of enterprise. She electrified him even at her arm’s-length remove. She shone with the quality whose loss had impelled him toward an unusually early retirement: the simple joy of dedication, the ecstasy that comes from giving oneself wholeheartedly to work one genuinely wants to do.

She asked for nothing. He had to drag her away from the farm to drive her into the city for clothes, shoes, and grooming items. Her reluctance to allow him to spend on her made it difficult verging on impossible, but he would not relent. He used marketing and Mass as the rationales. If she wanted to sell her produce widely, he told her, she’d have to cultivate recognition and trust as well as her crops, by becoming socially acquainted with more of Onteora than just him. Besides, contemporary mores to the side, it was unseemly to attend church in stained jeans and work boots. She acquiesced, at first reluctantly, then with visibly growing pleasure.

It grew upon him over time that, while he had adjusted to being alone after his divorce from Marie, he had never come to enjoy it. He was not truly a solitary man. He’d been plagued by his sense of unworthiness and his awkwardness with others, and had come to prefer isolation to their torments. Yet in Kate’s company he could feel neither.

One June morning, she woke him by force, shaking him out of a dreamless slumber to the rising light of dawn. He focused with difficulty, blearily wondering what emergency could justify her unprecedented invasion of his bedroom. The clock on his nightstand made it half past five.

She insisted that he don a robe and follow her, and led him to the fields she’d cultivated. To his sleep-hazed vision, all appeared as it had the day before. She scampered a few paces into the field, squatted, and beckoned to him to join her.

The scallions had sprouted. Green shoots about an inch long had penetrated to the air and sunlight. He looked from them to her, and found in her smile a joy that words could not capture. Instead of speaking, he raised her to her feet and offered his hand in congratulations.

She stepped past his hand and wrapped him in an embrace of crushing power. He returned it hesitantly. Twin streams of tears dampened his shoulder.

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“She’s radiant,” Jack Taliaferro said.

Allan nodded. “I wish we had more occasions to doll her up for.”

Kate stood at the far end of the Taliaferros’ great room, a glass of white wine in her hand. She held court among a group of older wives, all of whom were doing their best to pump her for her antecedents without seeming to pry overtly. Her relaxed, confident poise and amused smile were more of a comment on their efforts than anything she might have said.

It had taken all of Allan’s persuasive powers to get her into the black satin cocktail dress and high-heeled pumps she wore. Yet once she’d donned them and glimpsed herself in their bedroom mirror, her eyes had filled with wonder and tears. When he produced the diamond necklace he’d purchased for their anniversary and fastened it around her neck, she’d plastered herself against him, sobbing from sheer joy.

“We can fix that,” Taliaferro said. “How did you do it?”

“Hm?”

“Bag her.” The produce magnate’s wry grin expressed an envious incredulity. “She’s less than half your age and a damn sight better looking.”

Allan chuckled. “Wasn’t my idea, Jack,” he said. “I was sitting on my porch, minding my own business, and suddenly there she was.”

“Not a client of yours?”

“Huh? I don’t have any clients.”

Taliaferro’s eyebrows rose. “I took you for a professional of some sort. Doctor or lawyer. What do you do to pay for groceries?”

“Well,” Allan said, “I used to be a lawyer. I gave it up when I moved out here.”

That got him Taliaferro’s full attention. “What sort?”

“General commercial law,” Allan said. He sipped at his highball. “Occasionally a little civil practice.”

“Did you hear about Ted Guillory’s death?”

Allan shook his head.

“He handled most of Onteora’s commercial clients,” Taliaferro said. “Very highly regarded, he’ll be greatly missed. There’s a vacuum there now. Are you still admitted to the New York bar?”

Allan nodded. “I’ve kept in good standing.”

Taliaferro’s eyes twinkled. “If your touch is as good with the law as it is with beautiful young women, it might be time for you to think about going back into the trenches. I could use you myself.”

Allan started to demur, stopped himself, and pondered.

Do I miss it at all?

Would Kate mind?

Kate chose that moment to excuse herself from her companions and saunter across the room to him. She slipped an arm around his waist as she smiled up at Jack Taliaferro.

“Mr. Taliaferro—”

“Jack, please.” The produce magnate’s smile threatened to amputate his lower jaw.

“Thank you for having us, Jack. It’s a delightful party.”

“As it happens,” Taliaferro said, “it’s for you.”

“Hm?”

“Everyone I know has been dying to meet you two.” Taliaferro waved inclusively at the gathering. Nearly fifty people strolled the generous spaces of his great room and the huge deck beyond it. All of them were persons of substance or the spouses thereof. “Nan Ormandy was about to bug your house out of sheer curiosity.”

Kate squinted in cordial bemusement. “What’s so intriguing about us?” She squeezed Allan, and he dimpled. “We’re just a farm couple trying to scratch a living out of the soil.”

Taliaferro laughed. “If you’d wanted a life of anonymity, you shouldn’t have started going to the seven-thirty Mass. A couple of parishioners are still grumbling about it.”

“Hm? Why?”

“Because you took—” Taliaferro made hooks with his forefingers—“their pew!”

Kate laughed and rested her head against Allan’s shoulder. “We’ll have to look them up and offer apologies.”

“Seriously, though,” Taliaferro said, “welcome to what passes for society around here. I hope you won’t turn back into strangers after this. Especially this big guy,” he said, indicating Allan. “I’ve got plans for him.”

A little of the pleasure seeped out of Kate’s expression. She canted to look up into her husband’s eyes. Allan felt his face grow red.

“Oh.”

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“Jack’s a cagey sort, isn’t he?”

Allan chuckled. “I haven’t heard that expression in years. Yes, he is. He led off by saying he could use my services. That didn’t work, so now he’s sent Legal Babe.”

Kate stared straight ahead and said nothing. The television droned on, unwatched.

“Kate?”

“Hm?”

“You’re not worried about this, are you?”

She turned to face him. “Lawyers work a lot of hours, don’t they?”

He nodded. “That’s part of why I gave it up.”

“I can’t manage the farm alone, Allan.”

“What makes you think you’ll have to?”

Her eyes probed his, questioning.

“Kate, this is likely to cost me a half-dozen meetings and a few hours reviewing legal documents. If it has me away from the farm for three full days all told, I’ll be really surprised.”

She nodded and started to turn away. He caught her chin and compelled her to remain facing him.

“Is that the only thing you’re worried about?”

Unreadable currents passed over her face.

It’s the woman. It has to be.

“Sweetheart, I’ll be working alongside you tomorrow morning till ten. I’ll be home by two PM at the latest. I might have to take the same sort of leave a few more times, but I swear to you, on my wedding vows, that I will not allow this, or Jack Taliaferro, or Schuyler Clarke to drag me back to the practice of law. I left it for good reasons, and I have even better ones to be here with you. Believe me? Please?”

“So why are you doing it at all?” she said.

“It’s an ethical obligation.” He stroked her cheek as he cast about for the right words. “Ted Guillory’s passing left a few people with unfinished work. They’ve paid for it, they deserve to have it completed, and it seems I’m the only guy around who can see to that. If they’d been my clients, and my death had left them high and dry, I’d certainly want someone else to step in and finish what I’d started. So I have to do this.” He swallowed. “To be a good Christian, if for no other reason.”

She nodded and fixed a thousand-yard stare on the television.

It’s not the farm, and it’s not the law. It’s the woman. But she’ll never say so.

He rose. “I have to make a quick trip into town. I’ll be back in an hour or so, okay?”

She nodded without looking at him, and he left.

Evenings To Remember was, thankfully, still open. Allan had never entered it before. He knew of it only from a conversation overheard as he left church. But if there was any establishment in Onteora that might sell what he sought, that would be the one.

He pushed open the door tentatively, uncertain what he might see. The interior of the shop was pleasantly lit, and the arrays of goods were approximately what he expected to find there: erotic lingerie and shoes, vibrators, bondage devices, and assorted other bedroom playthings. Though there was no concealing the nature of the place, nevertheless he found it more tasteful than he’d expected. He cast a quick glance over the racks without finding the specific item he needed.

A beautiful young woman in leather garments and high heels came out from behind the counter and ambled toward him, smiling pleasantly.

“Good evening and welcome to Evenings To Remember.” She held out a hand. “I’m Martine. May I help you with something?”

He took her hand and shook it gently. “Hello. I’ve never been here before, and I’m not sure you carry what I need.”

“Well,” she said, eyes twinkling, “that depends on your definition of ‘need.’” She waved at a card table in the corner, set with a china tea service and a plate of small white cakes. “Care to chat over a cup of tea?”

He shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

She pulled him gently toward the little table and seated him, took a seat for herself, and poured each of them a cup of tea. He sniffed it and smiled in appreciation.

“Earl Grey?”

She nodded. “My favorite. It goes really well with these cakes. Try one.”

He took a cake from the plate and nibbled off a corner. An exquisite blend of sweetness and spice, like a Christmas confection but with a subtle undertone of sensuality, spread through his palate. “Mmm! Your recipe?”

“No, taught to me by a friend.”

He smiled. “Hold onto that friend.” He finished the little cake with two more quick bites. “These are delightful.”

“Thank you. Now,” she said, reaching across the table to take his hand again, “what exactly is it that you need, and why would you think I might not carry it?”

Her eyes went wide as he told her.

Allan picked up his sport jacket, paused to ponder whether he should buff his shoes a second time, and dismissed the thought as he glanced out the bedroom window. Kate was still laboring over the rhubarb, her back to the house. She’d said hardly ten words since they’d risen that morning.

She’ll come around. She has to. Oops, almost forgot.

He went to Kate’s dresser, picked up her key ring, and carefully slipped two small keys onto it.

For the love of God, don’t lose these, Kate.

Twenty minutes later he knocked at the door of the late Theodore Guillory’s office suite. A moment later, Schuyler Clarke, as smoothly turned out as the previous evening, let him in.

“Good morning, Counselor.”

“Good morning, Miss Clarke.”

She smiled. “Please, call me Schuyler. Or Sky, if you prefer.” She led him to the inner office where Guillory had presumably held private meetings. The oaken desk, barrister’s bookcases, guest chairs, and small conference table were straight out of a legal supplies catalogue.

He chuckled. “Okay. Is Mr. Campbell on his way?”

She nodded, bade him be seated, and sat in one of the guest chairs. He lowered himself gingerly into the high-backed leather swivel chair. A folder labeled Campbell, A. lay on the desk before him.

“Been a while since I last sat in one of these.”

Her gaze was tinged with subtle amusement. “Like coming home, isn’t it?”

“No, not really.” He shifted back and forth, seeking a comfortable perch. “Actually, I don’t, ah, sit much these days. Farm work never ends, you know.”

“Like legal work, then.”

Yes and no. “Well, the work we’re here to do will see its end soon enough.” He opened the folder and bent to study the contents, watching her covertly as he did so. He could not miss the current of displeasure that crossed her features.

A few minutes later he looked up and smiled. “This will go easily enough. Have you finished the paperwork?”

She nodded and indicated a folder in his in-box.

Not my in-box. Guillory’s in-box. Never my in-box. Keep that straight, moron.

A moment’s perusal of the forms she’d prepared was all he needed. “We’re ready to proceed.”

“Very good,” she said. A knock sounded against the door of the suite, and she rose to answer it.

Allan rose as Clarke escorted Aaron Campbell into the inner office.

Let’s make this march.

“Mr. Campbell,” he said as they shook hands. “I’m Allan Fitzgerald. I think we have your compliance reports completed. Shall we review them and get back to our regular lives?”

Schuyler Clarke scowled.

Clarke watched Allan’s face as the door closed behind Aaron Campbell. He smiled and carefully resumed his seat at Guillory’s desk.

“Why didn’t you charge him?”

“I’m not his lawyer, Schuyler. I’m just a pinch hitter. When you take a client’s money for a service, a bond forms. Expectations get set. I don’t want those expectations. I’m only doing this so you can close Ted Guillory’s accounts.”

“You moved through it as if you had a train to catch.”

He smiled. “I do. Kate’s waiting for me at the farm. There’s too much work for one person. She’s used to having my help.”

“No time to have lunch with your paralegal?”

She’d pulled the guest chair up to the edge of the desk. One arm was draped casually across its surface, with the hand invitingly palm up. Beckoning.

“Sorry, no. When’s the next appointment?”

She recoiled, plucked her Day-Timer from her handbag, and flipped through it. “Cecily Mattison, Thursday at ten AM.”

“Paperwork all finished?”

She nodded, and he rose.

“Till Thursday, then.”

He strode steadily to the exit, feeling the pressure of her gaze the whole way.

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Allan parked and locked his truck, immediately went around the house to the fields, and found Kate in the barn, laboring over their tractor, doing something incomprehensible to an assembly he couldn’t even name.

“Nellie not well?”

Kate looked up, startled. “Oh!” She set her tools down delicately, ran to him and wrapped her arms around him. “No, she’s okay. I was just resetting the valve gaps and the timing so we could run her on cheaper fuel. Costs about five horsepower, but for what I use her for, that’s okay.”

“Why bother? We’re not hurting for money.”

“So we should spend it unnecessarily? What kind of farm boy are you, sweetie?”

He swallowed and dropped his eyes. “A sterile one.”

He heard her breath catch, felt her arms tighten spasmically.

“No doubt about it?”

Allan shook his head. “None. No treatments for it, either.”

She buried her face against his chest.

She wanted babies so badly. What will this change? Will she stop wanting to be with me? Stop loving me?

“It doesn’t matter.” The words were muffled against his chest.

“Hm?”

“It doesn’t matter!” She tilted her head back to look into his eyes. “We have the farm. We have what we grow. We have each other. That’s enough for me.” Her jaw tightened visibly. “Is it enough for you?”

He stroked her back and shoulders. “Kate, you are the only thing in this world I really, truly need. I’d have loved to give you children. I wanted them just as much as you. But if you can bear this, as hard as I know it must be for you, then I can do it easily.” He ran his fingers through her hair and laid his palms along the sides of her face. “As long as I have you.”

She stared hard into his eyes, and he grew briefly afraid.

“Oh, you have me, all right,” she whispered. “It’s a good thing that’s okay by you, ‘cause I’m the one thing you can’t get rid of. You could burn the house down and salt the ground, and I’d stand by you. You could bring home a second wife, and I’d stand by you. This little disappointment is nothing compared to how I love you.”

She nudged him out of the barn, slid the door closed, and pulled him up the incline toward their house.

“And I mean to make you feel it right now.”

[Explicit scene omitted from this WordPress-ready edition.]

They were lounging before the television, Kate snoring faintly against his side, when the knock on the door came.

Allan carefully shifted his wife aside and went to answer it. He found Nat and Cal Compton, the teenagers from across the road, standing on his porch. Both tall, lanky Nat and chubby, still-awaiting-his-growth Cal were wet-eyed and confused.

“Mr. Fitzgerald,” Nat said, “we need some help.”

Allan’s brow furrowed. “What’s up, Nat?”

“Pop’s dead.”

Cal’s young face convulsed. Tears immediately coursed down his cheeks.

“My God,” Allan said. “Come in, come in!”

He ushered them into the living room, where Kate was reluctantly emerging from slumber. Her eyes lit on the Compton kids and flashed immediately to Allan’s. He bade them be seated and turned to his wife.

“We’ve lost a neighbor.”

“Huh? Who?”

“Art Compton.”

“Oh my God.” She leaped from the sofa, went to the bereaved teens and bundled them immediately in her arms. “I’m so sorry, boys!” Presently they were all crying together.

Art and I were barely well acquainted enough to use one another’s first names. We got along, but I probably know the mailman better than I knew him. I’d have thought Kate knew him even less well than that. But she’s the one crying and offering his boys comfort. Is it a male-versus-female thing, or is it a flaw in me?

When a semblance of possession had returned, Allan said, “When did he pass?”

Nat was still sniffling against Kate’s shoulder. Cal looked up and said, “Just before dinner time. The sheriff only drove off a few minutes ago.”

Kate became alert. She dried her eyes on her sleeve. “Have you boys eaten anything?”

“Uh, no, Ma’am.”

She rose, pulling them with her. “Come in the kitchen.”

Silence reigned as Kate set the table, Allan defrosted leftover stew in the microwave, and Kate put out glasses and soda. The Compton boys sat motionless, obviously unsure of the protocol of the situation. When laden bowls had been set before them, the boys made to attack their dinners, but Kate held up a hand.

“First things first.” She made the Sign of the Cross, steepled her hands, and bowed her head. The teens followed suit.

“Lord,” she murmured, “we give thanks for the bounties You have granted us. Even in the midst of tragedy, we give thanks. May You bless and keep those we love, especially those who have gone to their eternal rest. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” She raised her head and smiled. “Have at it, boys.”

They ate with obvious appetite. The Fitzgeralds waited in silence.

“So how can we help?” Allan said as they finished.

“Well,” Nat said, “the sheriff told us there’d be a lady from Child Welfare tomorrow.”

“Oh. You’re—”

“Sixteen in two months,” Nat said. “Cal turned thirteen last week.”

“Mr. Fitzgerald,” Cal said, “we don’t want to go anywhere.”

Kate reached for Allan’s hand and gripped it tightly.

“Then you won’t,” she said.

“Kate—”

She turned a gaze of steel on him.

“Can you handle disposing of their farm?”

The teens’ eyes went simultaneously wide.

Huh? “Well, yes, but you know it’s not going to be—”

“Easy to deal with the CWP bureaucrats,” she said. “Yes, I know. You leave that part to me.” She turned to the boys. “Have you had your fill? For the moment, at least?”

Nat looked uncertainly at his younger brother. “Yes, Ma’am, we have.”

She rose. “Then let’s get to work. Allan, may I have the keys to the truck?”

He fished them from his pocket and passed them to her without speaking.

The boys didn’t have much. Their clothes and their few amusements took only one trip to bring across the road. Kate installed them in the two unused bedrooms without any hesitation. It was as if she’d already planned for the eventuality and was merely carrying out a procedure established long before. Allan assisted as she directed, without offering comment on either the arrangements or the wisdom thereof.

When all was settled, and the boys had closed their doors to sit in the privacy of their new rooms, Allan pulled Kate into the kitchen, seated the two of them, and took her hands.

“How are we supposed to pull this off?”

She shrugged. “We’ll manage.”

“And when the CWP busybody comes calling?”

“Do you think she’ll come here, Allan?” She smirked. “I doubt she’ll think of it. I dealt with those folks in Kansas. They’re barely bright enough to pee without assistance.”

“And if she does think of it?”

“Fourth Amendment.”

“Huh?”

She frowned. “Aren’t you a lawyer? Doesn’t she need a warrant to come onto our grounds without our permission? Or are you opposed to making Nat and Cal part of our family, now that they have none of their own?”

She stared hard into his eyes. Her resolve was clearly unbreakable. She’d weighed the rights and the wrongs, had decided on her course, and wouldn’t yield even before overwhelming force.

He’d never loved her so much as in that moment.

“Kate,” he said, “I’m with you on this. The problem isn’t ‘should we,’ it’s ‘can we.’ The CWP gal won’t be prepared to find them gone, but she won’t stay stupid forever. She will come here. And when she does, I’m going to have to do some fancy stepping to prevent her from finding the boys. If I can’t, our next visitor will be the sheriff, with a warrant.”

She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and released it slowly.

“Allan,” she said, “we have to do this. It’s basic. It’s Golden Rule stuff, just like with that dead lawyer you pinch-hit for last year. Besides, these are two innocent kids. Farm kids. They’re good kids, you can tell they’re good kids just by looking at them. The foster-care system treats kids like tokens. Like little counters you can exchange for monthly checks. They don’t deserve to be shoehorned into that. It would ruin them, and I will not permit it.”

He recoiled from the anger in her voice.

She rose and paced irregularly around the kitchen. Allan did his best to stay calm and let her think. Presently she stopped and looked him full in the eyes.

“How many men are there in the sheriff’s department?” she said.

“Hm? I don’t know. I doubt it’s very large, since Onteora doesn’t have a prison or reformatory.”

“Would the police assist the CWP bitch?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out. I have some errands to run.”

She strode out of the kitchen.

It was nearly eleven PM when Kate returned to the house. She did not return alone. Accompanying her was a tall, broad-shouldered man of middle years with a mop of red-brown hair, a pleasant, open face, and a Smith & Wesson revolver belted at his hip. His shirt bore the legend Integral Security in tasteful embroidery.

“Allan,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Kevin Conway. He runs the best private security force around here.” She smiled hopefully up at Conway. “I brought him here to discuss what we can do to make ourselves…safe.”

Conway held out his hand. Allan took it.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“Likewise,” Allan said. “Tell me please, how do you know Kate?”

Kate’s face turned dark.

“We met at Jack Taliaferro’s office,” Conway said with no trace of hesitation. “My people provide security for his market.”

“Ah. Of course.” Allan beckoned the big man into their living room and bade him be seated. Kate remained standing a little way off.

“Mr. Conway—”

“Kevin, please.”

“Very well, Kevin. Please call me Allan. Has Kate told you about the specific hazard we’re worried about?”

Conway nodded. “In detail, Allan. There are a few complexities, but I think we can handle the matter. If you’ll allow us, that is.”

Allan’s eyes moved to Kate. She stood with arms crossed over her breasts, her expression stony.

“Are you conversant with the legalities, Kevin?”

Conway nodded. “CWP does need a warrant to enter your premises. More, since you’re not related to the Comptons, they’d have to show extraordinary cause to get a judge to grant one.”

“What if they see the boys out in the open, say from a low-flying helicopter?”

Conway’s mouth tightened. “That would probably constitute sufficient cause, by current standards. Do you have a reason to think that might happen?”

“I can’t keep them indoors all the time, can I? And what about when school starts? Isn’t that pretty soon?”

A flicker of uncertainty passed over Kate’s features.

Conway nodded. “That would pose a problem, if your legal arrangements aren’t concluded by the time school resumes…and if you allow them to return to school.”

“If?”

“There are alternatives, Allan,” Kate said.

Allan started to expostulate, halted himself.

“What near term measures do you have in mind, Kevin?”

Conway looked at Kate with an expression of abashed amusement.

“They were actually your ideas, Kate.”

She nodded.

Allan rose and faced his wife squarely. “Well?”

She told him.

“The window of vulnerability closes,” Conway said as he rose, “when the next-of-kin sign off on everything. As an attorney admitted to the New York bar, Allan makes a suitable guardian ad litem until then. The one and only thing you must not do is display any personal interest, pecuniary or otherwise, in the disposal of the Compton farm.”

Allan smiled. “Easy enough. We have none.”

Conway nodded. “And the boys?”

“Leave that to me.”

“Then I’ll have two men here in plainclothes tomorrow morning at eight.” Conway grinned. “Don’t expect any farm work out of them. It’s not their skill set.”

Allan chuckled. “Not a problem.”

Conway shook hands with Kate and Allan in turn. Kate showed him out, bade him good night, and closed and locked the door behind him. As she returned to the living room, her shoulders slumped in undisguised fatigue.

Allan could see how much a successful conclusion to the affair would mean to his wife. What he struggled with was why. It seemed unreasonable that Kate should be so protective of two teenagers about whom, before that evening, she’d known little beyond their names.

She says it must be. I mustn’t doubt her. She didn’t doubt me when our positions were reversed.

She might be a better Christian than I am. God knows, she’s a better neighbor. But how are we going to deal with two teenage boys and all the work of the farm at the same time?

He sat next to her and laid an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his embrace.

“Your job starts tomorrow,” she said.

“Hm?”

“You have to track down the next-of-kin. At this point, we only know them by their relations to the boys. And once that part is out of the way, you have to establish a homeschooling claim with the district.”

He reeled, tried not to show it. “We’re going to educate them ourselves?”

“Why not? Abe Lincoln got by with less. Who’s better qualified than a lawyer and a farm wife?”

“How do we do that before the rest of the arrangements are in place?”

Her eyes flashed. “You want your part to be easy? Sorry, Allan. It’s going to be tough all around.” She rose and faced him. “I’m going to have to deal with CWP creeps and sheriff’s deputies. With mercenaries for security. Want to change places?”

“Kate…”

“Time for bed, Allan.”

The drive to Cattaraugus was arduous. Allan had little idea where he was headed, the Compton teens had been there only once before, and the roads could be considered marked only by a considerable extension of courtesy. There were several stretches of road that could hardly be distinguished from the grasslands around them. Worst of all, the truck was never meant to seat three, much less three as large as Allan and the Compton boys.

Six spine-abusing, kidney-bouncing hours later, some three hundred miles from Onteora, Allan pulled into the driveway of a clapboard bungalow whose curbside mailbox said Compton in letters he’d had to stop and squint to read. A battered Buick of ancient vintage was parked there. Fields that appeared to have been cultivated years ago, but had been allowed to lie fallow since, stretched in all directions, up to tree lines impenetrable to the eye. As the truck came to a stop, a tall, stooped figure in overalls emerged from the little house and strode up to the driver’s side. Allan rolled down the window and forced the tension out of his features. The boys remained silent.

“Who might you be?” There was little welcome in the weathered face and less warmth in the words.

“Mr. Compton,” Allan said, “my name is Allan Fitzgerald. I’m a neighbor of your cousin Arthur, in Onteora. These are his sons, Nathaniel and Calvin. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”

Compton’s expression softened fractionally. His eyes flicked to the teens, who held their tongues, and back to Allan.

“Best come inside, then.”

He turned and strode back to his door without waiting for them to dismount.

Elias Compton bowed his head over his folded hands. Allan and the teens followed suit.

“Lord,” he said, “may his soul rest forever at peace in Your arms, and may we who loved him, however imperfectly; always remember him in the fullness of his strength. In Christ Our Lord, amen.” He raised his head and straightened up. “What’s next?”

Allan sat forward on the battered old sofa. “Well, sir, we have a couple of matters to get squared away. The first is Art’s farm. By law, since he died intestate, that would pass to the boys as his next-of-kin, but since they’re underage, they could hold title only under the supervision of a guardian of legal stature. Until certain…matters in progress are resolved, I’m that guardian. But I have to tell you, the boys are in some legal danger themselves, so it might be best to arrange an immediate property transfer to your name. I’ve brought the necessary forms with me.” He glanced at Nat and Cal. “Should you sell the farm before they come of age, it would be proper to share the proceeds with them.”

Compton nodded.

“The greater problem,” Allan said, “is the boys’ permanent residence and guardianship until they come of age. New York law allows you to assume guardianship as their godfather and Art’s nearest blood kin. They would then come to reside with you, and you would become responsible for their upbringing and education.” He watched Compton’s face closely, caught the microscopic flinch, and braced himself. “But it also allows you two other options.”

“Go on.”

“The first, which I don’t recommend, is that you abrogate your custodianship and turn the boys over to the state’s Child Welfare and Protection service. CWP would assume immediate custody, place the boys in state facilities, and begin the hunt for families to foster them. Whether their placements were immediate or delayed, quite likely they’d be separated and kept that way until Cal has turned eighteen. That’s a rough row to hoe for any child, sir. For boys as well bred and behaved as these two, it would be a tragedy of the first water. The second, which I exhort you to consider strongly, is a private fostering arrangement with a family you trust to see to their well-being until they’ve reached their legal majorities.”

Compton sat silent for a long moment. His eyes never left Allan’s face.

“I expect you have a family picked out for this burden, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

Allan swallowed. “I do, sir. My own. My wife Katherine and I operate a small farm of our own. It’s right across route 231 from your late cousin’s spread. We would be honored to have Nat and Cal come to live with us, and we would accept complete responsibility, legal, financial, and moral, for their care.”

Compton rose, ran his fingers through his shock of gray-blond hair, and went to the west-facing window to stare at the fields and the trees beyond. The afternoon was well worn, but the sun was far from setting. Allan wondered whether he had any chance of making it back to Kate before midnight.

How is she doing with her end of things? Conway seemed capable enough, but I hate it that so much is happening with us so far apart.

“Mr. Fitzgerald,” Compton said, “are you a religious man?”

“I am. Catholic.”

“And your wife?”

“The same.”

It appeared to satisfy Compton. “I have to do something first,” he said.

“Sir?”

“You seem decent enough, for a lawyer,” Compton said, “but this is something that deserves a spot of reflection.” He looked at the teens. “Mind if I take these two off by ourselves for an hour or so? You’re welcome to my hospitality meanwhile.”

Allan rose. “Nat, Cal, please accompany your uncle. I promise I’ll be here when you get back.” He smiled. “Really.”

The teens rose. “Yes, sir,” Nat said.

Compton packed Nat and Cal into his Buick and rattled off to the west, with the sun dipping ever lower as Allan watched.

It was more than three hours later that the old Buick pulled back into the driveway. Throughout the interval, Allan had rigidly refrained from thinking about what was transpiring. His cell phone refused to connect him to Kate. When he heard the rumble of the ancient six-cylinder engine, he opened the bungalow’s front door and stood there watching as it came to a stop and its passengers emerged. Nat and Cal stood by the car waiting for one of the adults to issue directions.

Elias Compton rose to the occasion. “Boys,” he said, “go on in and freshen up. There’s apple juice in the fridge. Glasses are in the cupboard over the sink. Mr. Fitzgerald, might I have a word with you out here?”

Allan nodded. “Certainly, sir.” He stepped down onto the packed-clay walk and moved aside to let the teens past.

He and Compton waited silently for the boys to shut the door behind them.

“They’re nearly men,” Compton said.

“They are, sir.”

“Call me Elias, Mr. Fitzgerald. I’m not one for formality.”

“Then I’m Allan, if that’s agreeable.”

“It is.” Compton’s gaze moved to the expanse of fallow field to the east. “You’re a Navy man, aren’t you?”

“Hm? I mean, yes, I was. For four years. How’d you know?”

“The look.” Compton grinned. “That thousand-yard stare. A sailor never quite loses the look, no matter the years. Which vessel?”

“The Roosevelt.”

“A worthy boat,” Compton said. “Mine was the Kennedy. Spent a couple of seasons in Hell painting, cleaning cannon, and patrolling the eastern Mediterranean. You?”

“Southeastern Pacific. China Sea duty, mostly.”

“Protecting the Chinese from the Chinese, eh? God’s little joke on America.” Compton cocked an eyebrow at him. “The boys think well of you. They’re practically in love with your wife.”

Allan grinned. “Can’t fault their taste in women.”

“Got no problem with that?”

“None. Kate can handle them. She’d better be able to. She’s the reason for all this.”

“Her idea, eh?”

“Yep.”

Compton nodded. “Women are like that. Just as long as you’re okay with it.” He waved at his house. “I can’t keep ‘em. I’ve got no room, and I live on about five bucks a week. We’d drive one another crazy before Hallowe’en.”

“I understand. So what’s it to be?”

“The way you said.” Compton faced him squarely, arms crossed over his chest. “I’ll take Art’s spread and hold it until they’re of age. Any liens on it?”

“None.”

“What about property taxes?”

“As long as it lies unused, minimal. Anyway, I’ll be happy to cover them until you sell it or the boys are grown. If you sell it, I’ll expect to be paid back.”

Compton’s eyebrows rose. “Got the papers for a fostering agreement with you?”

“I do. Are you sure you want to do it this fast, Elias?”

“Fast? You got here four hours ago.”

Allan chuckled. “That’s all you need to be sure of me?”

“Allan,” Compton said, “what do you think we were off doing? I took us to church. I kept us on our knees for over an hour. Then I took the boys to town and put burgers and malteds in front of them. I let them chow down, and then I grilled them.” He shook his head wonderingly. “I can’t quite grasp it, but I can’t doubt it either. What you want is what they want. To make a family with you.”

Allan felt himself relax all over. The tension he’d endured had been so pervasive that he nearly collapsed as it dissipated.

“Shall we make it official,” he said, “so I can get us back to my wife?”

“We shall,” Compton said. “You hungry at all?”

“I can wait. And by the way, Elias,” Allan said, “you’re welcome at our place whenever you choose to visit, and for however long you choose to stay.”

Elias Compton’s expression didn’t change in any way a photographer would have been able to capture. But Allan could swear that the weathered features had begun to glow.

“You should be careful about extending open-ended invitations like that, Allan.”

“I am, Elias,” Allan said. “Always.”

He put out his hand, and Compton took it.

[Explicit scene omitted from this WordPress-ready edition.]