Bet The Farm - Staci Hart Page 0,22

the farm and the quandary I faced. It’d been in mild decline when I moved to New York, but at some point in the last few years, the drop-off had been dangerously steep. I didn’t know why yet, and I wouldn’t until I met with Ed, the accountant. Fluctuations in the price of milk maybe, thinning livestock, upkeep of the farm. Farmers were rarely rich folk, and farms did not run cheap. Even the slightest economic shift could have a serious impact on us.

What I did know was that we needed money. And to get money, we needed more business.

That I could do.

Once I was clean, I dried off, scrunching my hair in an old T-shirt—again on behalf of my curls. A blob of curl cream was the extent of my styling, a bonus of farm life. No blowouts, no eyeliner. There was no point in spending an hour straightening the mess that was my hair if it was going to get hay or mud or who knew what else in it. And the heifers didn’t care if I had mascara on, so why should I?

A few minutes later, I trotted down the stairs in a pair of jeans and a white V-neck in search of my boots. But on a cursory scan of my dump zones for such things, I found nothing.

“Kit?” I called, hinging at the waist to look under the coffee table. “Have you seen my boots?”

“Those pristine pink things?” she asked. “Out on the porch.”

I gave her a look. “They’re gonna get spiders in them.”

She waved a hand. “You’ll live. I cleaned the mud off them.”

“How come? They’re just going to get all mucked up again.”

“Well, I know that, but they’re so shiny and new, and I wanted them to stay that way,” she rambled, her cheeks flushing and a dish towel twisted in her hands. “Plus, you know how I am. I can’t stop doing things or …”

“I know.” We shared a long look. “I want to hug you, but I’m afraid we’ll both cry.”

At that, she laughed, tears already shining in her eyes. “Then you’d better get out of here quick.”

So with a smile and a stinging nose, I headed off in the direction of the porch.

My boots sat proudly right next to the front door. They were so cheerful against the white siding and the whitewashed planks of the wraparound porch that I had to take a picture. Phone in hand, I walked down the steps to get the boots closer to eyeline, kneeling on one of the lower steps to line up the shot. An idea struck.

The flower garden.

With a spreading smile, I flitted toward Grandma’s garden, which now was just an overgrown patch of anything and everything with a path cut through it. Every season, Pop would go out there with a variety of seeds he’d mixed up and spread them across the patch inside the white picket fence. Another sprinkling—this time of manure—and in a few weeks, with a bit of rain, the garden would teem, spilling out of its confines in abundance.

He always used her favorite flowers, and this time of year was when the peonies bloomed, which was exactly where I headed. The little open shack next to the garden housed a few tools, so I grabbed the gloves, glancing inside dubiously, imagining a mama spider next to an egg sac in their depths. But in the end, I shoved both hands in without getting bitten, picked up the shears, and trucked into the flower bed.

It was an explosion of color and scent and texture so intense, one didn’t know where to look. Wild roses wound through sunflowers and dahlias and foxgloves. Honeysuckle climbed along the fence, occasionally reaching into the bed to mingle with the other more delicate stems. There was no rhyme or reason to it, just beautiful chaos. Pretty to look at but not easy to find what you were looking for, should you be looking for something specific.

Peonies in every color of pink caught my eye, the fuchsia plants first. Their blooms sagged, too heavy for the long stems to keep upright. The one unchanging feature of the garden was Grandma’s peony bushes in creamy peach, soft pinks, rosy petals, and into the deeper shades until they hit this crazy hot-pink.

I leaned in and lifted a bloom, bringing it to my nose for a deep breath of heady perfume. And with an outrageous smile on my face, I began to cut stems until I