Page 104 of The Havenport Collection

Violet

“ W e’re not selling the farm,” I said firmly for the third time since this meeting began twenty minutes ago. I hated conflict. I was a pacifist. I believed that all problems could be resolved with some hugs and open minds. But I had hit my breaking point.

“This is not just my home, but it’s my children’s home, my nieces’ home, my mother’s home. My father is fucking buried here. Okay?” I was losing my patience and started pacing around the small, cluttered office that used to belong to my father.

Nick leaned back and held up his hands. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Violet.

I’m just making sure you have considered your options here.

I only want to help.” He reclined in his chair, propping his feet up on my desk.

I took a breath. He was so sleazy it made my skin crawl.

Nick was a few years younger than I was, and we had known each other our entire lives.

We had never gotten along. But his parents were close to my parents, and my father always liked him.

My parents had helped pay for him to go to college, where he had earned an accounting degree.

He opened his practice in Havenport a few years ago and had kept the books for the farm since.

I hated sitting still so I remained standing, my hands on my hips. “We’ve had a great summer. The store is doing more business than ever, and our wholesalers can’t keep our stuff in stock. How are things still this bad?”

“I’m just the numbers guy. Trust me, I want this place to succeed as much as you do.

I grew up here too.” And he had. Nick was the son of Bob and Patty, who had lived on the property since I was a kid.

Bob was the farm manager who oversaw all the day-to-day operations involving our produce and animals, and Patty worked for my mom at the farm store.

Generally, we didn’t really get along. He was a by the book, dot every I and cross every T person, where I was more a figure it out as you go along type.

Our working relationship was strained at best, mainly because he was constantly haranguing me about selling the farm, going on and on about how much the land was worth.

Since my father’s death, we’d had a few offers from real estate developers and others who would love nothing more than to turn our historic farm into some fancy condos for rich people who wanted to soak up the “charm” of Havenport.

It’s what happened to most of the other working farms in town.

We were the last one standing, and the oldest. Four generations of my family had worked this land and contributed to this community.

I was not about to end this legacy because things were tough.

And things were tough right now. I was thrilled to come home and take over the farm, I truly was.

It had been a steep learning curve, and I had a long way to go to fill my father's shoes.

But I was an optimist, and I truly believed that with some hard work and a great team, I could turn things around.

I just needed to wrap my mind around all the moving pieces.

“Do you mind emailing me some of the numbers you’re looking at? I think I need to take a closer look,” I asked.

“Violet,” he sighed, “we’ve been through this. It’s complicated. We are looking at years of mismanagement by your father and mounting debts.” I hated when he did this—glossed over the details like I was too dumb to figure them out for myself.

“But we are coming up on apple season,” I pleaded.

“Yes, and that hailstorm in July destroyed a significant percentage of the crop.”

“We will use the bruised ones for cider. Apple picking is huge for us every year. We can do some more marketing and try to scrounge up more visitors…”

Nick looked at me with pity. “Sure. That all sounds great. In the meantime, we need to figure out how to deal with some of these debts. If you don’t want to sell the farm, at least think about selling off a few acres here and there. It could put a dent in things.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to head off the headache I knew was coming.

I had hit my breaking point. I had been working nonstop for the past year, learning everything I could, doing multiple jobs at once.

Giving of myself seven days a week to this place to create a home and a future for my family.

And this ass had his feet on my desk while implying I wasn’t smart enough to get it.

Something inside me snapped. Normally I was the sunny, happy, look on the bright side person.

I never walked when I could dance or danced when I could cartwheel.

I ascribed to the “life is short so make it fun” philosophy of life.

But the past few years had beaten those impulses out of me.

I couldn’t remember the last time I did a cartwheel.

And today, I was feeling like doing the most un-Violet thing of all—throwing a punch.

Of course I wouldn't actually do it. “Nick, I think it's time for you to go. I have other meetings today.”

He sighed and stood up, blatantly checking me out as he did so.

When the door closed, I kicked the aging desk chair and looked around.

Piles and piles of papers, seed catalogues, and various farm tools cluttered the small space.

The desk was an ancient steel tanker that I had bought at a flea market.

I had planned to refinish it to its mid-century glory, but of course that never happened.

I had one rickety bookcase, and there were no curtains on the two small windows.

I needed to clean this place, organize everything, and make it my own. I needed to come up with some kick-ass ideas, and this dusty room on the second floor of the old barn was not going to cut it.

I pulled on my lucky yellow wellies and headed downstairs.

It was Friday, which meant we had to prep for the farmers’ market tomorrow.

Havenport had the largest weekly farmers’ market in the region, and we did a ton of business there every weekend.

Picking, sorting, bunching, and packaging was a full-day affair, and I needed to help the farm staff get ready.

It was already August—we needed to keep crushing it to carry us through the winter.

I stopped by the farm store to check in with my mom. As always, it was bustling and bursting with seasonal produce and locally sourced goods. After saying hi to Brenda at the counter, I grabbed a locally brewed kombucha and headed up the stairs to my mom’s office.

The door was open, as always, and Mom was sitting in her desk chair, staring at something on her computer screen. As always, she was clad in all black, with a chunky statement necklace. My mom was a city girl at heart—she and my dad had met in Boston when they were students.

My dad was a drummer, attending business school to appease my grandparents and playing in underground clubs every chance he got.

And my mom—she was a chic city girl who had never stepped foot on a farm or in an underground rock club, for that matter.

Yet they fell in love, and somehow, against all odds, my dad managed to talk her into moving back to Havenport to run the family farm.

She still wore all black and kept her auburn hair styled in a sleek bob.

She and my dad built their empire together, each leaning into their strengths and complementing each other along the way.

My dad was the type who perpetually had dirt under his fingernails and had to be forced into wearing a tie.

They fought, mostly when he tracked his muddy boots through the house, but we used to catch them slow dancing in the kitchen after we were supposed to be in bed.

My mother was the no-nonsense one, and my dad was the dreamer. Together they raised the two of us and loved and supported us and let us be ourselves. And they managed to keep this place going for the next generation, so that my kids would have the privilege of growing up here like I did.

“You okay, Mom?” I asked gently.

“Oh yes.” She placed her glasses on top of her head. “Just doing the scheduling.”

I handed her the kombucha, and she smiled.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“Mom, you are supposed to be taking things easy,” I urged.

Breast cancer treatment was no joke. We had a few months until the surgery, but I know all of this had taken a toll on her.

We were lucky it was just stage 1, and our family friend Grace Larsen was a world-renowned breast surgeon in Boston.

My mother was getting the absolute best care, but that didn’t mean that everything was fine.

She needed to slow down and focus on her health.

She ran the store like a corporation, her organizational skills were excellent, and she took great pride in the awards we had won over the years.

What was once a roadside produce stand grew into a multi-story emporium of local goods.

Groceries, gifts, a bakery that churned out cider donuts every hour on the hour.

An entire section of books written by local authors.

You could grab dinner ingredients, a hand-knit scarf, and some lavender oil soap and then stay for a wine and cheese tasting or a book club meeting.

Mom was always on the lookout for new vendors and partners, wanting to champion local small businesses and give others a chance.

She shot me a look. I know she hated being treated like a patient, but I was worried about her. She ran her fingers through her sleek auburn bob and sighed. “I appreciate it, Violet. But I have a lot of work to do here.”

She sipped her kombucha and eyed me suspiciously. “What’s wrong, sweetie? You seem off today?”

“Mom, I worry I’m fucking it all up.”

“Don't say that. I have total faith in you, Violet. Things are good. We’ve had such a busy summer, and apple season is approaching and then obviously the Christmas trees will start arriving. We are in a good place. You’ll see.”