"Are you purposely making your coffee shittier and shittier every day so I'll leave sooner?" asks Tommy as he dumps a gallon of some nasty flavored creamer in his coffee mug.
"No, but I noticed your suitcases by the door." The thought of him leaving right now has me wrestling with conflicting feelings. On one hand, he drives me up the wall and it'll be nice to have my house back without him in it. On the other, I need him as a buffer between me and Madison. I want to be her friend—I plan to be her friend—but if it gets too difficult to be just her friend, it would be nice to have Tommy around to handle most of the interactions with her. Despite how much it kills me to think of him spending any prolonged time with her.
"One of my boutique hotel clients in L.A. needs me on-site, like . . . yesterday. There was an issue with codes, and . . . anyway, yeah, I'm leaving."
"Today?"
"As soon as Madison shows up and I can go over a few things with both of you."
He attempts another drink and then clutches his throat, wheezing out a pained choking sound. "Seriously. Do you even have an esophagus anymore after drinking this every day?"
I sip from my mug like it's fine wine. "I don't need it to taste good. I need it to jump-start my body when I have to wake up at five A.M."
Truthfully, I just make it the way my dad has always made it: a can of Folger's dark roast coffee beans brewed strong and guzzled with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon before going out to open up the tunnels and greenhouses ahead of the rest of the staff arriving. Drinking this coffee is one of my favorite parts of the day, but it has nothing to do with the flavor, never has. I'm one sentimental son of a bitch.
Tommy, however, as someone who had no interest in working on the farm, didn't drink coffee at all while he still lived at home. In the summer he'd wake up around ten A.M. when my dad and I were already halfway through the day and pound a glass of milk and eat a Pop-Tart right from the wrapper before leaving to meet his friends.
I always wondered two things about Tommy: Why didn't he want to work on the farm? And why didn't my dad ever encourage him to like he constantly did me? Because here's the thing. Martin Huxley is a good man and a fantastic dad who wasn't the type to pick favorites—but sometimes it felt like he had by choosing me to run the farm. I asked him about it once and he said, Why would I force my son to work on a farm he hates? I hope he goes out and does big things with his life that make him happy.
He never said anything like that to me. Maybe because he didn't need to. Everyone already knew I loved it here. And I really did.
Still do, despite wishing I didn't.
Every week when my mom and dad call from their retirement village in Florida, I tell them the same thing: Farm's great, I'm great, and the green beans have never been better.
It's almost the full truth.
I look at the clock and note the time. "I'm not sure when Madison is going to be here but—"
"I just got off the phone with her. She'll be here in thirty."
Oh. Yeah. He'd know . . . because they talk. Madison has been communicating regularly with my brother, who she's had an enormous crush on for years. All because I asked Tommy to be the point of contact with her. Such a great decision. I'm not regretting it at all.
"Which, by the way," says Tommy, hopping up onto the countertop and then leaning over to dump his coffee down the sink, "I remembered Madison as the chaos tornado always cooking something in the kitchen with Mom. You did not tell me she has gotten superhot in her adult years."
She's always been superhot, is what I don't say because I'm smarter than that.
"Be respectful."
He smirks. "Touchy?"
"No. I just don't want you talking about my friend and chef like she's . . . I don't know . . . up for grabs." I wince, not liking the way I phrased that.
Tommy raises one of his eyebrows. "Is she not, though? Do you have dibs?"
"I do not have dibs. I have what's called human decency. You should try it out sometimes and not sleep with the women you work with."
He tilts his head. "But what if she wants to sleep with me? Hmm? What then?"
I shrug instead of kicking his teeth down his throat. "It's her choice. But I'm pretty sure she's smarter than that."
He shakes his head. "You're still not answering my question."
"I've answered it three ways. Should I do a handstand and repeat them? I'm fairly good at juggling. I could try that next."
"None of them were the answer I was looking for and you know it. Look me in the eyes and tell me you don't have feelings for Madison and I'm free to go after her. Because think what you will about me, but I'm not such a dick that I'd go after the woman my brother wants."
This entire conversation is making me uncomfortable for several reasons. I answer so I can get him off my back. "Like I said a minute ago, Madison is my friend. And my colleague. I respect her and her choices. You're free to go after her, date her all you want—I won't be in your way."
I set my coffee down (number three of the day) and turn to go get a shower before Madison gets here. I don't normally work on Saturdays but things have been tight lately so I've been taking over where I can when we're short-staffed.
"So to be crystal clear. You don't want her?" he asks again, but this time all the humor is gone from his voice.
I turn back. "I don't want her."
What I feel toward Madison is more than want. Want implies lust. Implies something fleeting and satiable. What I feel for Madison might dull with some work, but it's never going away. It's a need I have to learn to live with. It's complicated and covered in bickering nuances. It's annoying and always there, and most of the time I think she might be the answer to my search for happiness. But I'll never find out.
"One more question," says Tommy.
"How many times do I have to tell you? Your shoulders will never fill out like mine. They're made from a special blend of tilling the ground and the coffee you refuse to drink."
He's undeterred. "Are you ever going to tell Madison just how much this farm needs her restaurant to succeed?"
I don't like his taunting tone. "No. And you can't either."
"Says he of great moral integrity. Where's your human decency now?"
"It would put too much pressure on her," I say, anger coating my words and making my heart race. "She needs some time to get her feet on the ground."
"She needs to know that she signed on to run a restaurant that was created to save your farm . . . and if you have to close the restaurant's doors in a year, it's not because of her." He pauses and shrugs. "Or . . . it could be because of her, I guess. Either way, she should know."
My head spins a little. "I swear, Tommy, if you tell her about this . . ."
"You'll what? Fire me?" He's delighted by that prospect. "Go ahead. I'm the one connecting you to the funding for this whole shit show, anyway! Because no one listened to me when I told y'all to sell this damn farm years ago, and now it doesn't have any money."
"Things aren't that bad yet."
He laughs, but it's pitying. "It's pretty damn close. And you risking the entire future of this farm on the success of the restaurant might be what actually dooms it."
My nostrils flare, knowing where he's going with this. "Don't suggest—"
"Take the offer."
"No."
"James, I swear to god." He grits his teeth, shooting his hand through his hair. "Anderson Food Distributions has offered you a five-year contract and you are—"
"—not going to take it! I didn't ask for you to reach out to them on my behalf anyway!" He did it last week, and I've been furious with him ever since. Kind of like how he sent me the résumés of several chefs he thinks I should hire over Madison. He's repeatedly told me that I'm making a mistake since I declined to even entertain the idea of any other chef.
"Why? Give me one good reason you won't take it!"
"Because it's not what's right for Huxley Farm," I practically shout.
But his voice booms over mine. "Great, then I'll put that on your tombstone right next to the rest of the men who took the pride of this farm to their graves."
"What the hell, man?" I've never heard Tommy say anything like that before.
Whatever fire was there a minute ago is doused just as quickly as it flamed.
He sighs then hops off the counter, composing himself while adjusting his pleated trousers. Quieter, he adds, "You need to tell her sooner than later. And while you're at it, tell Mom and Dad too. Or I will."
"Tommy, I swear if you—" I cut off when a wave of dizziness swamps me. My body rocks to the side and I slam my palm flat against the counter to steady myself.
"Whoa . . . what was that? Are you—"
"I'm fine," I say when things level out. I point my finger at him. "Don't say anything to them. Okay? They don't need to worry about this." My dad's doctor was very clear about that. "The restaurant is going to succeed."
And maybe then I can walk away for a few days and not think about harvest schedules, payroll, or whether the kale is curling too soon. One day I'll get to rest. But today is not that day.
Tommy meets my eye, and I don't see any hope mirrored back. "Maybe. Or maybe it'll just make the collapse hurt worse. What I do know, that contract would give you more than a fighting chance. It would give you cushion and stability. It would give the restaurant time to grow into something great."
Yes, to someone like Tommy who knows so little about the farming world, he would see it as a straightforward solution. But ever since I was a kid, I've listened to my dad and grandfather before him discuss the faults of taking a contract with a large food distribution company. The mission of Huxley Farm has always been to sell directly to consumers, putting the best produce directly into our neighbors' hands. We care about the community, how we run our land, and growing for quality rather than quantity.
If I take this contract with AFD, I would be selling out. Something my dad and grandfather managed to avoid while the farm was in their hands.
"Since when do you give a shit about the well-being of this farm? I didn't see you showing up when you were living at home, or even after Dad's heart attack." My voice has a quiet, menacing edge.
He's silent.
"Right. I'm going to go get my shower. When Madison gets here, don't start the meeting without me."