on the farm but she doesn’t like it. She’s funny, she loves the farm—she wants the fresh food, wants to snuggle the new lambs—but our Peyton, her majesty, does not shovel shit. She’s what we call a gentleman farmer—wants the land and animals, wants to pet the animals and eat the food, and other people have to do the work.”
“Can’t you be a farm girl and not like killing chickens?” she asked.
“The cycle of life is important on a farm,” he said. “You grow it, eat it, grow some more. We’re a commercial farm. It’s not just about fresh eggs for breakfast, it’s a business and has to support a lot of people. It has to support the land, too. We can’t deplete and not replenish or it will be a one-generation farm.” He paused and silence hung between them. “I’m sorry, I’m boring you.”
“No! No, you’re not. I’m really interested, believe it or not. I probably don’t have any intelligent questions to ask but I like hearing about it.”
“But you’d like to see the chicks or new lambs?” he asked.
She sighed. “I would love that. Maybe I’ll visit my parents on a weekend when that’s happening and I could come by the farm on my way back to Thunder Point. If that’s all right?”
“It would be great. You have to eat, however. No one comes to the farm without eating something.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose...”
“Didn’t you notice how much my family loves feeding people? Not everyone enjoys it, by the way, but it’s possible Scott married my sister for the food.”
“Tell me about the classes you teach.”
“I just guest lecture in the biology department. I usually talk about either plant biology or animal husbandry. I can lecture on the biology of the farm, the microbiology of soil. The students love talking about cloning and two-headed sheep. We’re making great progress as a biological as opposed to organic farm because we still use small amounts of chemicals and we immunize the sheep, but we’re cautious. We fertilize mostly with chicken manure, kill pests on the trees organically, stick to nature where we can.”
“Sure,” she said. “You have to take care of the fruit...”
“We have to protect the bees. If we kill the insects and the bees disappear, we’re doomed. The balance is delicate and the health of the plants and animals and consumers is... Am I putting you to sleep?”
“No!” she nearly shouted. “I never thought of farming as a science...”
“It is indeed a science. Paco is not a scientist but his experience and instincts are flawless. Everything he taught me holds up scientifically. Almost everything, at any rate. It is not true that if you put a statue of Saint Isidore the Farmer in the yard you will have a good crop year.”
“Is there a statue of the saint in the garden?”
“My mother has one in the garden, yes. Also Saint Maria and the Virgin. Not overwhelming in size, but obvious. And her garden is plentiful.”
They were quiet on the phone for a moment. “Matt? Why did you really call me?”
“Peyton asked the same question.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her there was a special bonding moment when I groped you and you knocked me out...”
She laughed almost uncontrollably for a moment.
“Really,” he said. “It’s because you felt like a friend. Strange as it might feel to you, I think we somehow became friends. I hope you’re okay with that.”
She smiled. “Everyone can use a friend.”
* * *
Ray Anne had a sweet little hideaway on top of the garage, a deck. From there she had a great view of storms rolling in over the bay. Or, when it wasn’t storming, just starlight so deep and wide it was otherworldly. She and Al dragged out the bean bag chairs, he had a beer and she had a glass of wine. They reclined together, talked about their week, he told her about the boys and she reported on Ginger, who seemed to be doing better all the time. They kissed and fondled and made sneaky love under a blanket, then talked some more. It was almost eleven when Al carried down the bean bags and blanket and Ray Anne carried her glass and his bottle. They stood in the kitchen for a moment, safe in each other’s arms, reluctant to say good-night.
There was a sound in the house, a soft lilting coming from the bedroom. They both froze to listen.
“Oh, God, that’s Ginger!” Ray Anne said. “She’s crying!” She turned to go to her.
Al grabbed her hand, stopping her. “Ray,” he whispered. “Listen!”
She froze and listened. With their arms around each other’s waists, they moved closer to the bedroom door.
“She’s laughing,” Ray Anne whispered. “She’s talking on the phone and laughing!”
Al smiled down at her. “I don’t think she needs rescuing.”
“Who in the world is she talking to? Laughing with?”
“Maybe if you’re very sneaky, you can worm it out of her.”
Matt had talked with Ginger for over an hour and he’d congratulated himself that he’d been right—she was a genuine person who could be a friend with no agenda to redesign him. She wasn’t a woman who wanted to sleep with him and then change him into at least a boyfriend, at best a husband. They didn’t talk about it, but it was implicitly understood they were both too vulnerable to take on new partners. Ginger, like Matt, was in recovery from her own short, extremely disappointing marriage. And yet they had so many things in common. More than Ginger realized. No doubt she thought it was just their divorces. That was enough.
But Matt, who had dated half of Portland, knew it was more. It was as though it balanced with his loss somehow. She’d wanted a family and fate had cruelly snatched it away from her. He wanted a family and hadn’t had a chance at that.
They might never talk about these things, he realized. He really didn’t want to tell her or anyone how selfish and cruel his ex-wife had been.
But here was Matt with a new friend and he felt very tender toward her. He wasn’t about to get involved, but she had already changed everything. He was going to stop fucking everything that moved, for one thing. That hadn’t worked for him and he’d probably hurt people in the process. He was going to clean up his act, show gratitude for friends and family and carry on in a much more chivalrous manner. He’d done a few insensitive, careless things himself—he wasn’t proud of that. Somehow Ginger reminded him that at his core he was a good man. He would at least behave in a way that wouldn’t shame his mother and infuriate his father.
Matt already had an idea of where he’d like to build a house, if Paco agreed. On the far side of the orchard, just within sight of his parents’ home, there was a perfect spot. From the front he would see the grove, from the back, the mountains, to the west the big house. He’d have to grade a road. He tried sketching out a floor plan. He had inherited many of his father’s ways, but living lean to the bone wasn’t one of them. He was frugal but he intended to have plenty of bathrooms in the house and an indulgently big master bedroom and bath. He’d be more than happy to extend the use of those extra bedrooms to the family who showed up at shearing and harvest to help them. Even though he didn’t watch a lot of TV, there would be at least two in his house. And they would be large.
Later in the week, he called Ginger again. “I’ve taken to sketching out a floor plan that I think I like and I’ve learned something important.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Architects are geniuses. Do you have any idea how hard it is to string a bunch