Page 49 of Heartland

“Sure is.” The trees are swaying on either side of the highway. Vermont is the kind of place where nature frequently reminds you that she’s the one in charge. “Griff said something about a storm.” But I hadn’t really been listening.

“Good thing we’re almost home.”

“Yeah. Just one more shop, right? And then one tomorrow? What time is that?”

“Nine thirty,” Chastity says.

She’s definitely the business manager, while I’m the chauffeur. I like my job, though. I’ve got Post Malone playing on the radio as I pull into the last stop on our agenda today—Rockie’s Gourmet in Williston, Vermont.

“How many boxes shall we give them?” Chastity asks as I shut off the engine.

“One,” I say firmly. “That leaves two for tomorrow, and a single box for us. We would have even more, but you let that guy in Montpelier talk you out of an extra.”

“He has two stores!” Chastity cries. “It was good for business.”

“Two stores, my ass,” I argue, teasing her. “He gobbled them down the second we left that place.”

She laughs, and I won’t deny that the sound of it fills in some of the hollow places in my chest. I’ve been so worried. I thought I’d wrecked our friendship.

But maybe we’ll be okay. It probably helped that I was the world’s most eager caramel maker this weekend. I did at least my half of the labor on Friday night. I stirred for hours. I scrubbed pots. I played music and made jokes and watched the candy thermometer as closely as you’d monitor a nuclear reactor.

Chastity seems happy with our progress. Yesterday we boxed all the caramels and stashed them in my truck, and today we drove all over hell dropping off our samples and chatting up store owners.

Griffin and Leah had primed the pump ahead of time, letting some of the store owners know that we were coming. Even so, the reception of our sample boxes was warmer than I’d hoped.

In other parts of the world, Sunday might be a strange day for doing business. But Vermont shops and restaurants are busy on the weekends and often close on Monday when the tourists go home.

That’s what it’s like to own a family business. You’re never off the clock. My family knows all about it.

Now I grab a box of caramels off the backseat and follow Chastity into the last shop of the day. After almost two dozen sales calls, we’re good at this now. She spots the manager—the gray hair at his temples probably gave him away—and by the time I’ve caught up to her, she’s already deep in conversation with him about caramels.

“…hand-made and hand-cut in our commercial kitchen in Tuxbury,” she tells him. “From organic ingredients.”

“Now the taste test,” I say, handing over the box. “That’s for you. This is our big box, but we’re also making a small one, too, for impulse purchases at the cash register.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” the manager says, opening the box. “Cute label.”

“Thanks!” Chastity says. “This guy designed it.” She hooks her thumb toward me.

I did a great job, too, if I do say so myself. We’d settled on the nameNannygoat’s Candies. I’d drawn a portrait of a floppy-eared goat with her face turned toward the viewer. And the font is blocky and subtly vintage. It’s very hipster.

The older man bites into a caramel, and his eyes light up. “Wow, kids.” He chews. “You can bring me samples any day.”

Chastity beams. We’re used to the praise by now. But we still don’t know how it will translate into sales. We’ve been scattering our order forms like cottonwood seeds in the wind, but if nobody gets back to us, then I don’t have a clue what we’ll do. Follow-up visits, I guess? More samples?

“This is our order form,” Chastity says. “But we’re happy to transact by email. Our first delivery will happen on November tenth, with weekly deliveries through the holiday season.”

“I like it,” he says. “And you’re related to Leah, right?”

“That’s right,” Chastity says. “We’ll probably combine our cheese and caramel deliveries. And the payment terms will be the same as Leah’s.”

“Good, good,” the man says, patting the order form on the counter. “Let me gather my thoughts, and I’ll email you when I’m ready. I get to keep the caramels?”

“Those are all for you,” I assure him before we go, leaving behind another satisfied (potential) customer.

The whole stop took only ten minutes, tops, but when we go outside, it’s become pitch dark. That’s late autumn in the north—nightfall is as sudden as a curtain drawn across the stage.

“Well?” I say, as we head up the road into Burlington. “I think we should make a bet. How many boxes do you think we sold so far?”