All Summer Long (Fool's Gold #9)

Clay parked and got out of his truck. One of the old guys waved and started toward him.

“You must be Clay,” the man said. He was eighty if he was a day, all wrinkles and bright, alert eyes. His coveralls were threadbare but clean. His boots were probably as old as Clay. “I’m Bernard. That there is Ernie.” He grinned as he motioned to his equally geriatric friend.

“Okay. Nice to meet you. How can I help you today?”

Bernard guffawed. “A nice way of asking what the hell we’re doing here, right? Well, I’ve got a grandson-in-law who lives down in Bakersfield and Ernie’s youngest is in Stockton. We heard what happened and put out a call.” Bernard motioned to the trucks. “Best topsoil money can buy.” He winked. “I got a real good deal for the insurance company, not that they deserve it. But I’m old-school. Why pay a dollar if you can get it for a dime, I always say.”

Clay looked at the trucks. “You brought me dirt?”

“Topsoil.”

Bernard slapped him on the back. Clay nearly went flying. The old man was stronger than he looked.

“You need to get something planted before winter, son. Ernie had a strain of legumes we’ll be putting in later. They’ll do fine over the cold months. Come spring, you plow ’em under and give them a season. Next fall, get your alfalfa planted. It puts you behind, but trust me. This way your land will be good as new.”

Clay had been doing research and talking to some agriculture experts at UC Davis. But he hadn’t been able to rent the equipment he needed. Fall was a busy time in the farming community and he hadn’t gotten his order in soon enough.

“You’re with the insurance company?” he asked.

“Hell, no.” Bernard’s mouth straightened into a disapproving line. “There’s not enough money in the world for me to work for the bloodsuckers. I have an orchard on the other side of the vineyards. Ernie has the farm on the west edge of town. We’ve been working the land since God was a boy.”

Bernard glanced at the clear sky. “We’ll get a good day’s work in. Trust me, son. By the end of the week, you’ll have a plowed and planted field.”

Clay didn’t understand. “If you’re not with the insurance company, why are you doing this?”

Bernard slapped him again. This time Clay was able to brace himself in time. “You’re one of us. Okay, you’re a slick city kid, but that’ll fade. In a few years, you’ll be able to tell anyone who asks that you’re a farmer. Salt of the earth.” He gave a wink. “Saying you’re a farmer makes the ladies hot. Trust me. I’ve been milking that line for years.”

“Good to know,” Clay said, a little confused by Bernard and his folksy wisdom. “Just to make sure I understand, no one asked you to help? You’re just here?”

“Sure. Look, kid. There isn’t one of us who hasn’t had to deal with the same mess. You’ll be fine. Ernie and I can answer any questions you might have about whatever it is you want to grow. In the meantime, how about I teach you to drive that baby there.”

He pointed to the large piece of equipment. It was the size of a small house and looked complicated. Clay grinned. “I don’t know what it’s called, but I want one.”

“That’s the spirit.” Bernard waved at Ernie. “Let’s make the magic happen.”

* * *

NINE HOURS LATER, Clay walked toward the house. He was exhausted. Bernard and Ernie had worn him out. They were still going strong, talking about some movie they were going to watch on pay-per-view, joking with each other and coming up with some surprisingly dirty limericks. He wanted to be just like them when he was in his eighties.

He stopped at the back door and pulled off his boots. He’d been calf-deep in mud as he’d learned the ins and outs of prepping a field and then planting.

Still in his stocking feet, he walked into the kitchen to find Mayor Marsha, a couple of the old ladies from the city council and Dominique milling around. There were cakes and pies on the counters, a pot of coffee going and plenty of laughter. The latter came to a stop when he walked in.

His mother greeted him with a quick hug. “They showed up just after lunch,” she whispered. “We have casseroles in the refrigerator and freezer. There’s a guy watching the news who wants to talk to you.”

He started to say he had no idea what she was talking about when the mayor moved toward them.

“I have some names for you,” she said, handing over several business cards and a sheet of paper. “Contractors, mostly. A man who does restoration work and two companies for the pool.”

Clay took the papers. “What pool?”

The mayor smiled. “We were thinking it would be nice to have another community pool. We’ll need to work out the details, of course. But we can coordinate it. Share the expenses. We’ll provide the lifeguards and insurance, if you’ll take care of maintenance. That sort of thing.”

“A pool?”