Ronnie was the one who’d found the farm and brought them all together. When she talked, the collective listened. Bethie held her breath, waiting for Ronnie to speak up and save her again. She watched as Ronnie, whose face was wrinkled and whose brown hair was mostly gray, got to her feet and said, “The only constant in the world is change.” She put her hands on Bethie’s shoulders. “Maybe Blue Hill Farm isn’t your place anymore.”
“What do you mean, this isn’t my place?” But, even as she was asking, Bethie knew the answer. She could feel the truth, in Ronnie’s hands, in Jodi’s pointed finger, and in Philip’s sullen stare. Maybe the status quo was okay for the rest of them, but she was tired of living in a house where the hot water ran out after the third person’s shower; tired of the old-fashioned kitchen with its tilted floors and tiny sink and its temperamental oven. She was tired of every decision having to be made by consensus, tired of lentils, tired of tofu, and, yes, tired of wiping herself with cheap, scratchy toilet tissue. She’d been reborn here, she’d thrived here, she’d made peace with her own flaws and failings here; she’d found work, direction, meaning. Now, maybe Ronnie was right. She could hardly believe that she was even thinking it, but maybe it was time to go.
She’d left a week later, with permission to use the Blue Hill Farm name and recipes, and with Rose of Sharon, who’d decided that she’d also had enough. Rose of Sharon subletted a friend’s apartment in Five Points, and Bethie moved into the rooms above the shop. In sixth months’ time, they’d gotten more customers, hired two clerks, leased a larger kitchen. Now it was time for the next step, trying to secure a small-business loan. Phil had told Bethie he’d meet her there, but by ten-fifteen, Phil hadn’t shown, and the secretary outside the bank’s vice president’s office was giving her the stink-eye, so Bethie rose to her feet.
“I’m ready, if Mr. Jefferson can see me now,” she said. The woman outside of Mr. Jefferson’s door looked at Bethie’s dress and hair and sandals, gave a brief, displeased nod, and led Bethie into a plushly carpeted office, fitted with bookcases and an imposing desk. Behind the desk, in a suit and tie, with his close-cropped hair starting to gray at the temples but his uptilted eyes, and his smile just the same, sat not just any Mr. Jefferson, but Harold Jefferson, late of Ann Arbor and Detroit.
“Why, Harold!”
He smiled at Bethie, the grin that promised fun and trouble and put his white teeth on display. Bethie’s heart leapt. “Well, well, well,” said Harold. “I saw the name Elizabeth Kaufman on my schedule, but I wasn’t sure it would be you.”
“Where have you . . .” Bethie felt breathless, flushed and light-headed, like she’d been lifted by a hurricane, spun all around, and dropped into Oz. “You’re a banker?”
“I am. Now. I was in the army after college.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t known that Harold had been in the army. “I should have known that. I could have written.”
“I wouldn’t have said no to letters.” Harold’s smile faded, and Bethie bowed her head, feeling her eyes fill with tears. “Aw, c’mon, I’m not that bad, am I?”
Bethie gave a kind of gasping combined sob and giggle.
“No,” she said, and shook her head. “You’re not bad at all.”
“So what can First Bank of the South do for you today?” Harold asked. Twenty minutes later, their line of credit secured and their business concluded, Harold offered her his arm and walked her to the bus stop and asked if he could see her Saturday night.
* * *
“So,” Bethie began. “Tell me everything.”
“Everything,” Harold repeated, and gave her a wary smile. He’d arrived at her place in a blue-and-yellow plaid sports coat, a white shirt, a dark-blue tie, and polished loafers, carrying a bouquet of yellow roses, and Rose of Sharon, who’d come over to do Bethie’s nails, had stared at him as if he’d just stepped off a spaceship. “This is Harold,” she said. “We went to high school together. He’s an old friend.” Harold drove a Chevrolet, and he’d taken Bethie to an Italian restaurant called Nino’s for dinner. Bethie had worn her best dress, light-blue silk with short sleeves and a long skirt, and a draped neckline that showed the very tops of her breasts. She felt, or imagined that she could