No frost, no drought, no catfacing, no scab. As a result, thousands of juicy peaches hung from the trees like Christmas ornaments, glowing gold with deep red blush, throwing off waves of mouthwatering sweetness.
But unless she could pull off a miracle, much of this beautiful fruit would rot, unsold, in cold storage. Because this year, this perfect year, was also the year her biggest buyer had gone bankrupt. The other retail outlets were already contracted with other growers.
Except for a few little mom-and-pop stores, and a bunch of roadside stands, she had nowhere to sell her crop.
Zander came up beside her, panting, his bulky form already sweating, though a chill still hung in the air. It was that kind of morning, when no one moved slowly. Every morning for the next three months would be like that.
“Snap out of it,” he said, handing her one of the drop-bottom bags. “Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to get the peaches picked.”
“I know. But look at those trees. They’re all going to look like that this year, from the Rios to the Dixielands. All five hundred acres, all twenty-five varieties. What are we going to do if a new bulk buyer doesn’t show up in the next few weeks?”
He shook his head. “Beats me. Right now all I care about is getting this fruit off the trees. You going to help me or not?”
She smiled. “Yes, sir.”
Adjusting her hat and squaring her shoulders, she scanned the workers, who were pouring out of the makeshift office, where they’d been issued their gear. Male and female, old and young, they began to filter into the rows of dawn-lit trees, ladders and bushel baskets in hand, laughing and talking.
By the time the sun hit the treetops, Susannah knew, only the superfit would still be laughing. The rest would be sweating and silent, aching from shoulder to toe.
Most of her workers each season were regulars, college students and teachers on summer vacation, as well as whole families of migrants who knew the rhythms of nature so well they magically appeared the day she needed them.
But this year she’d hired at least thirty extra pickers to cope with the bumper crop. Many of them were newbies and would need a lot of supervision, just to be sure they didn’t manhandle the fruit or pack it so deep she ended up with box after box of peach mush.
Where the peaches would go after they’d been picked and packed, Susannah had no idea. She was still making calls, exploring options, searching her brain for new ideas, but mostly she was just praying for a miracle. She even dreamed once that a new grocery chain began building a store downtown. In her dream, she’d grabbed a hammer and nails and joyously leaped on a scaffold to help.
She watched the workers, eager to begin, none of them wondering where it would end. “Do you think maybe we could add another couple of roadside stands?”
“We’ve already doubled what we had last year.” Zander tucked his thumbs into his belt loops and sighed. “I did as you said and got Eli supervising the deliveries to the roadside stands. Trent offered to oversee the pick-your-own acres.”
Susannah shot him a hard look. “Shouldn’t Trent be at the Double C?”
Zander shrugged. “He said he could spare the time.”
“Still, he doesn’t know anything about peaches—”
“Ms. Susannah, follow my logic. He offered. We need him. I said yes.”
Her chest tightened. Though Zander was right, she was reluctant to take any favors from Trent. She didn’t want to owe him any more than she already did.
Plus, just knowing he was around would be distracting. They hadn’t spoken since yesterday afternoon, when Missy had called him at the Double C. He had come straight home after finishing up in the nursery. It had been a difficult day, just spending so many hours around Chase and Josie. Susannah was happy for them, really she was. But their uninhibited joy made her think about things that were better left forgotten.
Things like how, once upon a time, she’d truly believed that she and Trent would be sharing such newlywed bliss. Laughing and kissing, and touching at every opportunity.
Even…someday…decorating a nursery of their own.
The dream had exploded eleven years ago. She’d swept it into the corners of her mind. It shocked her yesterday to find that the broken shards still retained the power to slash and tear her heart.
By the time he came home that night, she was already in bed.
Like a fool, she lay awake for hours, thinking he might come up to talk to her, to try to explain Missy’s call. Or, perhaps, to insist on another…whatever you could call that episode in the cellar.
Sometime during the long hours of last night, waiting for the knock that never came, she had a disturbing revelation. He didn’t need to come to her again because, for him, the cellar encounter hadn’t been about sex. It hadn’t been about passion, or desire, or even leftover yearning from the old days.
It had been about power. She thought about how he had prevented her from touching him. Of course. It made sense now. He hadn’t needed any sexual release. All he had needed was to demonstrate that he was in control. That she was a puppet, and he held the strings.
So no. She didn’t want him around all day, didn’t want him pitching in, as if he was just another one of her friends. She was comfortable with her anger, and she intended to hang on to it. This ricocheting around between emotions—fury, desire, hope and back to fury—was exhausting.
Zander hitched his jeans, clearly irritated by her silence. “What’s the problem? We haven’t hired anyone to run those acres yet. If Trent takes over, we can open them today.”
Practicality warred with emotion. She couldn’t deny it would be a help.
Other growers made lots of money with pick-your-own acres, but Everly had never offered the feature before. Her grandfather had thought it would cheapen the orchard’s name.
Susannah couldn’t see how it could cheapen their name any more than covering half the county in the stink of Everly peaches rotting on the pallets. So she’d decided to try it with a few acres of Gold Prince, one of the few early-ripening semiclings that actually sold well for anything other than canning.
“All right.” She tried not to sound ungracious. Zander was doing everything he could to help unload the peaches. At least the pick-your-own acres were on the other side of the property. “Do you think his stitches are healed enough? He’ll be up and down ladders all day, helping people.”
Zander snorted. “He’s fine.”
“Did you check the new ladders?”
Immediately after Trent’s fall, she’d replaced all the old ones on the property—about half of everything they owned. The expense of the new ones pinched, but she couldn’t risk letting someone else get hurt. Trent might laugh off stitches in his usual macho way, but the next tumble might leave someone truly injured.
“Checked ’em all. Old and new. They’re as safe as aces.” Zander shook his head. “I don’t know what the heck happened to Trent’s ladder. I had used that same one just the day before to get to the garage shingles. I didn’t break the step, and I’m
