Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (9 page)

“You heard something today about a boy?”

“Your surrogate boy.” Phoebe no longer danced as she walked, no longer held my hand. She spoke of facts learned from estate gossip that flowed like water in a rainstorm. “Grandpa says he could be my stepbrother. It’s too bad we couldn’t have another girl. I’ve got two brothers already.”

I hoped I heard acceptance of the Smithson boy and envied her ease with the whole question, realized she’d had more time in her day to think about Andrew, a possible new sibling, than I, his possible mother.

“I’m not quite ready to talk about him until I know all the facts, Phoebe. How did you hear this story?”

She walked away, bending to pick a volunteer bachelor’s button growing in the orchard path. “I don’t remember. Somebody was talking this morning. Then you didn’t come to lunch.” She handed me the flower. “Race you to the school?”

The sweet thrill of childish play still sounded in her invitation, although the pace she set suggested the competitive drive I saw in her evening soccer game with the older girls. Only my daily running kept me ahead of her as we neared the building. Inside she still moved quickly, but now with the confidence of a scholar. This was her favorite place at Ashwood, both a haven and a place of joy. An amazing student, she led me through her review drill with competence and intensity.

We left the school building before the sky turned dark, unexpectedly finding Lao and Terrell on their way to the main residence.

“Well, Ms. Anne Hartford, aren’t you looking fine.” Not much had changed about Terrell in the five years since he left Ashwood. He stood tall and athletic, his drooping eye a bit more closed, shaved head shining from the glow of a light hanging from the crab apple tree. “And what you have done to this place. Feels like … like a home.”

He opened his arms and I laughed as I walked into them to be hugged to his strong chest. “That’s what it is, Terrell. Welcome home.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “You’re the best thing to happen to this place in many months.” I stepped back, inspected him more closely, knew he was doing the same before he looked around me.

“This can’t be baby Phoebe. This pretty little thing is tall like her daddy and has her mother’s amazing hair.” He extended a hand. “Cook Terrell. I don’t know if you remember way back when we spent some time together in my kitchen.”

She extended her arms, toddled from side to side, humming some old nursery tune. “I remember the song!”

“Well, I’ll be. They say women never forget special men in their lives.” He tipped his head her way and she curtsied in return. “I suppose your brother is just as smart as you, Ms. Phoebe.”

“Which one? Noah or Adam?” A sly look crept into her smile. “Or maybe the one who may be coming?”

“Quick mind, quick tongue. I was waiting for your mom to tell me about that,” Terrell murmured as he turned once more to the residence. “What did you do to my kitchen? Our morning coffee window looks like it’s been bumped out and those gnarly bushes you hated are gone.”

“You were right that the old floor plan wouldn’t expand to keep up with food management needs.” I hooked an arm through his. “About three years ago Lao and I hauled out your drawings and redesigned the whole space. I think you’ll like your new domain.”

We entered the residence through the workers’ entrance, Terrell glancing around like a kid returned home from college and sniffing the air as a true cook would for traces of the day’s meals. Amber, the only remaining child worker from his earlier stay, surprised him with a card she’d made.

“This can’t be Amber so grown up. What are our friends Lana and Ladd doing?” he asked as she straightened from her bow.

“Lana’s studying nursing and Ladd left college to become a marine.” Her sleek dark hair still moved in its smooth bob as she tilted her head to one side. “Ms. Anne and Director David were not happy with his choice.”

“They were about your age when I got here.” He looked around the kitchen, his eyes moving over an elevated ledge on the giant island in the heart of the room. From where he stood he could see a row of stools stashed under the ledge. He nodded and smiled. “Hard to believe those two are launched out into the world and little Amber is my right-hand worker.”

“You’re lucky to have Amber—she’s smart. The workers respect her direction, and she can tell good jokes.” She laughed, a sweet, low sound that gave me a few minutes of easy happiness at the end of a tough day.

“If I could have a sister, I’d want one like Amber,” Phoebe added, while taking Amber’s hand.

“Your old rooms are available, or you might want to share a small house with Teacher Jason. The residence is noisier now than you remember.” There would be time to tell him about Lana’s success in school and how Ladd tossed away a scholarship for the quick money promised by a military recruiter.

“Well, at least there’s no babies crying,” he teased Phoebe and winked as she giggled. “I’ll take my old rooms. I got a bit of arthritis in my back, so walking up that path in the winter isn’t appealing.” He placed his hands on one of the stainless steel countertops. “I’m gonna like being back in this kitchen.”

“It’s where you belong,” I said. “I wish David was here.” Paul and Sarah joined us. “You remember David’s parents, Paul and Sarah Regan. They live with us here, and Sarah is a whiz in residence management including the kitchen. She can give you a thorough report on inventory and such tomorrow.”

A stretch of annual pandemics in the past decade kept most people from shaking hands, but the long-standing residents of Ashwood, hearing of Terrell’s arrival, joined us in the kitchen with hands extended, if not arms opened, to welcome him back.

John and Noah, already in their pajamas, came to my side. “This is the man who kept me healthy while all of you were babies,” I said. “And made all your baby foods.”

“Phoebe, these two guys will always keep you safe,” Terrell said as he shook their hands. “I watched out for my sisters until they were all grown up.”

“Now it’s time for bed for all the Regan kids. I’m looking forward to coffee together in the morning.” I gathered my three for reading and bed.

The children’s rooms had eastern exposures which helped with early-morning wake-ups part of the year and provided a calm, muted end-of-day light. Bright blue quilted blankets covered the boys’ bunks, the same kind of beds slept in by Ashwood’s workers. Unlike bedrooms of my youth, these spaces were designed for sleeping, dressing, and storing personal items, with precious little area for playing or studying. A soccer ball, cleats, books, and a box of construction blocks littered the room’s limited open space.

We walked around their messy pile without my usual reminder to pick up their stuff. On this warm night, the open window helped cool the room. I folded covers on both beds, helped settle white sheets over their shoulders.

“Where’s Dad tonight?” Noah’s eyes followed me as I rubbed John’s back. “Does he have a bed to sleep in?”

“He’s in Paraguay, sweetie.” I kissed John’s cheek. “That’s all we know.” I kissed Noah. “But you know Dad can sleep almost anywhere.” They both giggled. “Good night.”

As I turned off the boys’ light, I felt hopeful about managing Ashwood through another possible economic downturn with Terrell, a strong strategist, at my side. It wasn’t until much later that night as the moonlight showed Phoebe’s small silhouette on the pillow where David should sleep, when her sweet girl smell of sunshine and homemade soap teased the air, that I returned to the original puzzle of the day, my possible son: this boy named Andrew. I knew if he was mine, I wanted him here. With David and Paul and Sarah and our kids, he would have a family. I fell asleep without thinking about what I would do if he wasn’t my son. That decision could wait.

Phoebe stirred next to me about two hours after she fell asleep. She sat up, removed our cover, and swung her legs to the side of the bed.

“Honey, are you okay?” I asked, assuming she needed to use the bathroom.

She said nothing as she lowered her feet to the floor, and in the quiet of the room I heard her teeth clench, grind, and release; clench, grind, and release, An awful sound suggesting illness or fear.

“Phoebe, are you awake?” I rolled myself out of the bed as well, moving to her side with as little noise as possible.

Her eyes looked somewhere, certainly not at me and not at the wall of cabinets she faced. Raising one hand, Phoebe dragged at her hair. Teeth clenching and grinding, she moved steadily toward the wall then lurched toward a set of drawers. I worried about waking her. Willing my hands to be as gentle as handling a fragile newborn, I brought my arms around her slender body. “Shhh, sweetie, you need to wake up.”

She uttered nonsense sounds in tones as guttural as a child can make. We stood in the dark room, her nightgown damp with sweat, her body stiff in my arms, and rocked. Maybe fifteen seconds passed, maybe thirty, as I curved myself around her small rigid frame and wished I could ease away this night’s terror.

When her body drooped, Phoebe groaned. “What happened?” she whispered, sounding parched.

“You had a bad dream.” She leaned against my ribs, sweat dampening her nightshirt, a slight shakiness beginning. “Would you like some water or to use the bathroom?”

I had to lean close to hear her say, “I want to lie down. I’m cold.”

“First, let’s get you out of that damp night gown and put you in one of Dad’s clean T-shirts.” She lifted her arms, eased out of hers. I pulled David’s shirt over her body. We returned to bed and Phoebe returned to sleep. I held her, barely dozing to keep useless watch for an emotional villain.

Chapter Ten

On a typical morning, intellectuals and their families living on estates slept hours after the laborers began their day. At Ashwood we were all early risers—adult laborers often dressed in the dark on summer mornings, with child workers eating at six-thirty or seven depending on their assignments. Before five on Wednesday morning, Terrell and I stood in the kitchen, drinking his strong signature coffee and having our first planning discussion. 

“What time does your family want breakfast?” In the kitchen’s strong light, I could see the subtle signs of aging in my friend’s face. “Jeremiah’s notes don’t tell me a thing about how the Regans like to be fed.” Easy slang talk disappeared as he built understanding of how the estate, far larger and more complex than when he left, now functioned.

“David and the kids usually eat in the family dining room at the same time as the later workers.” I relaxed as we talked, proud of the estate. “You remember that Sarah and Paul are still farmers at heart who wake up with the sun. They make coffee in their own quarters for a little private time, and usually have breakfast in the big dining room with the early crew.”

“You are aware that Ashwood’s storage is down to about a seven-week supply of staples?”

The news blindsided me. “Jeremiah estimated twelve weeks.”

“He may have been counting on fresh produce to stretch what’s been preserved.” Terrell drew out his data pad. “What’s almost empty is the stuff we need to buy in the market—flour, spices, and such. Preserving the harvest won’t be possible with what’s in the pantry. Inflation is ratcheting up prices almost daily, so I’m preparing a large order.” He leaned back against a counter. “If the estate can afford to make a small investment, we could mill our own grains. Magda and I discussed it last night, and we’ll have a proposal ready in a few days.”

“Jumped right in, Terrell. I thought we might relax with a cup of coffee and catch up on each other’s lives this morning.” I smiled, knowing we both were better in our jobs today than on our first morning in this kitchen.

“We’ll have that talk with some of your mother-in-law’s iced tea on the porch tonight.” He straightened up and gave directions to Antwone, who carried a pile of plates with about as much concentration as a pillow might demand. “Does seem to me that there is laziness in this kitchen crew. According to Magda, my predecessor wasn’t the best supervisor.”

“She’s right. He and I had a number of talks about making this staff more efficient and disciplined.” We both watched Antwone as he slipped a breakfast bar into his pants pocket. In another part of the kitchen, Amber noticed as well and walked out of the room with the boy. “Not that I want to return to old Bureau of Human Capital Management protocol, but these kids need to know what will be expected if their training takes them to another setting.” I yawned and tried to cover it with a throat clearing.

“Annie, you look tired. Thought so last night and know so this morning.” The man who fed me through the first years of estate management and motherhood still paid attention to the details.

“A few nights without regular sleep are harder as I crawl toward the end of my thirties.” My hands tightened around the coffee mug. “Actually, Phoebe suffers from night terrors. She’s had a few rough nights. Add that to David’s departure, and, yeah, I’m feeling tired.”

“You know kids. Would you call Phoebe high strung?” He offered more coffee. I placed my hand over my cup.

“She’s smart and caring and funny and athletic and intense about everything.” Talking about my girl brought a smile.

“Like her biological mom?” He asked as if looking for clarification instead of stamping an imprint on Phoebe.

“Hard to know.” I soft-pedaled back from an opinion. “I know a bit about how gifted kids are put together emotionally, and I’m not convinced she’s a little Tia. But we all worry about her in a way we don’t about Noah.” I put down the coffee cup, tired of its warmth on what looked like another hot day. “Mostly I want her to be able to go to bed and to sleep without fear.”