Page 19 of Apple of My Eye
Chapter Fourteen
Nick
WEEK THREE
There’s a current of emotion I can’t quite place when I sit down for dinner on Monday.
I can’t tell if it’s nervousness because I have to ask the Parkers if they’ll film a video, excitement because I’m starting to really want this to work in a way I haven’t felt about my career in a long time, or relief that my hands have finally stopped hurting.
I have open blisters on both palms and cracked skin along the backs of both my hands from helping Eloise in the field.
Even though I lift, I’m not used to carrying these types of tools for so long each day, and my skin definitely isn’t used to the dust. I wasn’t trying to hide the state of my skin, but I also didn’t want to give anyone more reason to think I was just another city guy that couldn’t tough it.
I didn’t think anyone noticed until Eloise wordlessly produced a small tin from her pocket before going into lunch today.
‘For your hands,’ she said simply, her clear blue eyes shining in the afternoon sun.
When I reached out to take it, our fingertips brushed and I swear I saw her stand up a little straighter. So it isn’t just me that thinks it’s unbearable to not be touching each other? ‘Thanks,’ I managed to say, opening the plain aluminum capsule to find a clear gel-like substance.
‘Apples have really high water content. They’re hydrating.’ She shrugged, like the gesture was no big deal. ‘My mom makes it.’
It’s only been a few hours but the state of my hands has improved tenfold. I’ll have to thank her and Hazel tomorrow night at dinner.
Betsy clears her throat, bringing my focus back to the kitchen table.
Summer produce is in full swing at the farm and Betsy tends to a mean garden.
Tonight, we’re eating freshly picked zucchini and tomatoes bursting with flavor.
I showed Betsy a trick to slow cooking tomatoes that she can’t stop making. Joe loves it.
‘I would like to film a video of the two of you,’ I announce.
Joe starts. ‘No way,’ he says quickly. ‘I am all for you doing whatever it is you think you need to do, but I don’t want to be wrangled in front of some camera.’
I try to keep my posture relaxed, my face nonchalant.
‘It’s no big deal.’ I shrug. ‘I think it’ll take a second, we can do it tonight even, when we sit out on the porch.
I’d like you two to be the first thing people see.
’ I desperately need to go live on socials ahead of the farmers’ market this weekend, and this is the last piece of the puzzle.
There hasn’t been a buzz around any farmers’ markets yet because the produce hasn’t been ready, but there’s some early harvest and some canned goods to sell this weekend, so the Parkers are excited.
We’ve been sitting on the porch every night to watch the sun dip behind the hills. The sun is setting earlier and earlier as the days shorten and fall approaches. It’s relaxing to sit outside with them. The world feels so slow. It’s the perfect backdrop to an introductory video.
Joe grunts.
‘I’ll do it,’ says Betsy. ‘It’ll be fun.’
I want to wait until golden hour, so to waste time I cycle through the photos I’ve taken so far.
I’ve been capturing the Parkers without them knowing in the mornings before I head over to see Eloise, and in the afternoon when the slanted sunlight hits the kitchen just right.
I flip through photographs of Betsy sitting on the porch swing doing her crossword, stirring something on the stove with her apron crisscrossed around her waist, and one of her smiling towards the fields, where Joe was headed to work.
Joe has been more difficult to capture, but I managed to get some good shots of him pulling up weeds, driving a tractor, and one of him in a squat, with a handful of soil slowly draining through his fingers towards the earth.
I’m no photographer, but I think these photos have a special quality I don’t see on social media anymore—they’re real.
I’m startled when Betsy appears on the porch, the door creaking loudly to announce her arrival. My heart melts when I see that she’s changed from her usual flannel and T-shirt to a plain cotton blue dress. Her hair is combed back from her face a little neater than usual for this time of day.
Joe beams when he sees her, and I instinctively snap a photo of his face upon seeing his wife. I’ve just lowered my phone when he turns to look at me. ‘I guess this means we’re doing it,’ he grunts.
I instruct them to sit in their rocking chairs like normal.
Eloise has been dropping hints about fitting into small-town life while she’s been teaching me about farming.
She warned me how proud farm folk can be, how I should be careful not to step on toes.
I need to make them feel like what they were doing was already the right thing to do before I suggest they change.
‘Eloise,’ I pointed out, ‘you know that isn’t just farm folk, right? Nobody wants to be told they’re wrong.’
She pulled a face at me. ‘Didn’t I just tell you not to tell farm folk when you think they’re incorrect?’
Soon Joe and Betsy are set up in their chairs.
I take a few videos from the POV of someone walking up to their porch for the first time, then one of Betsy opening up the front door and welcoming me in.
I don’t have to rewatch them to know that with a couple edits they’ll be gold—exactly what people want to watch when they’ve finally clocked out of their desk job at 8 p.m. and are ready to disassociate from the day.
I can hardly wait to show Eloise tomorrow.
She seems skeptical, always emphasizing that ‘you can’t control nature’ and ‘farming is unpredictable,’ but what she hasn’t come around to yet is that people are predictable, and you can sure as hell control a lot of aspects of farming by harnessing marketing power.
As a bonus, maybe this will help me thank her for the salve—driving business to the Parker’s farm will mean more business to the Anderson farm too.
On Tuesday morning the thunderclouds roll in quickly, building up a powerful line across the distant hills.
One moment and the clouds are white and fluffy and the next time I’ve looked up they’re looming on the horizon like an angry gray army.
It doesn’t storm a lot here, but I’ve heard that when it does, it’s bad.
‘Shit,’ I mutter under my breath. Eloise was specific—we have three more rows to go before we’re finished for lunch.
She never cuts corners, never wants to turn in early.
I admire that about her—her dedication. It’s how I feel in class, wanting to go the extra mile, not take the easy way out like Isaac would.
‘We’d better hurry,’ I call over to her.
She’s on her hands and knees a couple trees over, inspecting the trunk for fungus or rot.
‘Oh no!’ she exclaims when she looks up, following my gaze. ‘We gotta finish the three rows,’ she yells.
‘Like I wasn’t already doing that,’ I shout back.
I wish she was this easy to predict in other areas .
.?. sometimes her gaze lingers on my arm or snags on my face when she thinks I’m not looking.
Sometimes her jokes edge into flirtation, but just as quickly she’ll pull back into being serious again, as if she’s embarrassed she tried to be anything else.
There’s something making her hesitate, that much I can tell, and I’m almost one hundred percent confident it’s the fact that I’m moving.
And if she doesn’t want to waste her time with someone who can’t stick around, I can’t very well fault her for it.
We work as fast as we can, but we aren’t done when the first raindrops hit us. They’re fat and powerful, thudding against our clothes. We have two more trees to check.
Eloise holds up a hand, making a visor against her face. ‘You game?’ she asks, pointing to the last two trees in the line. ‘You take left, I’ll take right?’
I nod. We get to work as the rain turns the ground around us to mud. It only takes us a couple minutes, but it’s a couple minutes too many and when we both straighten up it’s pouring, with thunder cracking in the distance.
‘Come on,’ Eloise grabs my hand, ‘let’s get inside.
’ She leads me to the nearest barn, one I haven’t been in yet, crisscrossing through the orchard, dodging between trees until we arrive, breathless and soaking wet, crashing together under the overhang.
The rushing is so chaotic that I don’t have time to enjoy how right it feels—Eloise’s hand nestled in mine.
The sound of the rain is relentless and loud against the roof.
As soon as we’ve squeezed inside, she pulls out her phone to text her dad, letting him know she’ll be late for lunch. ‘We can wait out the storm in here.’ She stops, glancing at me. ‘If that’s OK with you? Or I can ask Dad to come pick you up, but—’
‘I’m happy here,’ I interrupt her, knowing she’s about to start rambling in an effort both to make sure I’m comfortable and cover up any potential awkwardness because we’re alone.