“Are they farmers too?” In my head I imagined a couple that looked like Auntie Em and Uncle Henry from the Wizard of Oz.
“No. I mean, I think Pete does work on the farm but there’s another brother who runs things. Georgia and Pete are both chefs, actually.” She cocked her head. “Or they were. But a lot of this I’m getting second-hand through Quinn, so you’ll definitely want to read the New Client form they filled out, which I just emailed to you this afternoon. That has more info.”
“Will do.” I closed up my laptop and tucked it into the case, then switched off the lamp behind me. “I’ll keep in touch with you while I’m there, and I’ll definitely be calling to consult with you.”
“Sounds good.” She stood up, a mischievous grin on her face. “I’ll be trying to picture you on a farm. Milking a cow. Riding a tractor. Maybe a cowboy.”
Rolling my eyes, I breezed past her. “The only thing I’m interested in riding is maybe a horse. I have zero interest in tractors or cowboys.”
“You never know,” Jaime said following me out of my office. “Maybe a roll in the hay with a strapping young cowboy, all big burly muscles and country drawl, is just what you need to get out of that dry spell.”
Halfway down the hall, I turned around and parked my hands on my hips. “I’m going up there to get a job done, Jaime. Then I’m going to hide out and just breathe for a while, and I don’t need any man, muscled or otherwise, to help me do it.”
She clucked her tongue, a glint in her eye. “You’re a scone cold bitch, you know that?”
I turned for the door so she couldn’t see the smile on my face.
I made it to Lexington shortly after seven that night, having made only one wrong turn on my way there, which I saw as a victory. Like all Thurber women before me, I have zero sense of direction. I seriously don’t know how any of them got around before GPS. “It was called a chauffeur,” says my grandmother.
The property manager had said to call her when I arrived and she’d come over with the key. While I waited for her, I wandered around the side of the quaint shingled cottage down to the beach. It was warm and windy, waves rolling in briskly over the rocky shoreline. Holding my hair off my face, I slipped off my sandals and wandered to the water’s edge. The water felt icy cold on my bare feet.
I breathed in the damp air, smelling lake and seaweed and something being grilled nearby. My stomach growled. Had I eaten lunch? I couldn’t even remember. But whatever that was smelled delicious.
“Hello?” called a voice behind me. “Ms. Lewiston?”
I turned and saw a stocky, middle-aged woman wearing a hat and sunglasses waving at me, keys dangling from her hand. Heading up the beach toward her, I decided I’d ask if there was a grill at the cottage. I’d never actually used one, but I was sure I could figure it out with a little help from Google. It was time to step out of my comfort zone, anyway.
Without throwing things.
The manager, Ann, gave me the key and showed me around the cottage—not that there was much to show. Bedroom and bathroom at the back, one big living room with a kitchen over to one side, and windows along the front with a view of the lake. But it was clean and bright, newly decorated with a beach theme, and almost had a little Cape Cod vibe to it. I felt at home there.
After settling in, I went to the little market I’d seen passing through town and picked up some groceries. There was indeed a small grill on the cottage’s patio, but Ann said she had no idea if there were instructions anywhere. “But it’s just a standard charcoal grill,” she remarked, as if that made any sense to me. “There might even be some charcoal and lighter fluid in the utility closet.”
Lighter fluid? Good God, for cooking? Sounds dangerous. I thanked her and said I’d look around, but figured I’d better stick to what I knew how to do in the kitchen, which was basically hit buttons on the microwave, boil water, and spread peanut butter and jelly on bread.
I ended up eating the prepared chicken salad I’d bought, but I did manage to cook some green beans, which I’d picked up on a whim because the sign said they were local, and they were delicious. Same with the peach I ate for dessert with some vanilla ice cream. I wondered if the vegetables or fruit—or even the chicken—had come from Valentini Brothers Farm, and thought how strange it was that I’d never, not once in my life, considered where the food on my plate had been grown.
But then, that would be part of my challenge, wouldn’t it? To make people like myself more aware of where the foods I ate came from? Convince them it matters?
I thought about it as I ate, and then later I went through the file and learned as much as I could about the farm and the family that owned it. I read the New Client info sheet Jaime had forwarded, researched terms like “certified organic” and “sustainable agriculture,” and googled Valentini Brothers Farm.