Page 9 of Nashville Lights

My biggest problem with this project is that the farm this guy wants to turn into an overcrowded hell-hole of a development is right next door to Sugar Mountain.

At four hundred acres, ours is a big farm by Tennessee standards. Over the past ten years, I’ve worked my guts out, along with the rest of my family, to turn it into a seriously profitable piece of land. My dad died of a sudden major heart attack that killed him before he even hit the ground. I was seventeen. He’d been in poor health for a while, but it was still a shock to all of us, that he could suddenly just be gone like that. Especially for Ma. Our father was a hard worker, but he’d been stuck in his ways and refused to embrace any of the changes that would have helped him get out of some serious debt.

We’ve turned all that around. But it’s taken a shitload of hard work.

I walk into the meeting room without knocking.

Four suits stand up.

One steps forward, looking nervous. “Mr. Boone, good to see you. Julian Fuller. Thanks for coming.” He’s even greasier in person than he was on screen. He holds his hand out and I shake it briefly. His hand is weirdly cold. And soft. Which doesn’t help my mood and in fact makes me feel like punching him in the face.

Jed, damn it.

“Nate, these are my business associates, Wesley Crane, Everett Olsen and Darren Smith. Gentlemen, this is Nathan Boone.”

I shake the other men’s hands and each one has me feeling more like walking out of this meeting than the last. I already know this is a waste of time. And I fuckinghatewasting time. Especially when Daisy is waiting for me.

All four of them are pale corporate types who’ve probably never stepped foot on a farm in their lives. Hell, they look like they’ve never even seen the sun. I’m easily half a foot taller than all of them. A strong wind could probably blow them over. I’m tempted to suggest we go down to the local steakhouse and order them up some red meat.

“Julian tells us you have some reservations about taking this project on,” the one named Everett begins. “But also that you’re the best, most reliable developer in Tennessee. We’d like to try to change your mind about whatever your reservations might be.”

“Please, Nathan, take a seat.” Julian motions toward the chair at the head of the table. I pull it out and sit, glad for the small distance from their clusterfuck of paperwork, spread out in neat little piles.

They all take my lead, taking their seats. “We’re very impressed by the developments you built in Taylorville and East Grove last year,” one of them says. “We’ve heard nothing but good things about your company. We’re interested in having you spearhead seven new high-density developments we’re currently in the process of getting consent for, all within an hour of Nashville. The first one is local to your own property, Julian mentioned.”

I look the guy in the eye. And I take my time. “Everett, is it?”

“Yes.”

“Everett, did you know that there are more than seventy thousand farms in Tennessee?”

“Uh. No, I didn’t realize it was that many.”

“Did you know that the average farm is family-owned and somewhere between a hundred and two hundred acres, some of which have been in families for generations?”

“Uh…sure, but?—”

“Did you know that almost forty percent of the land in Tennessee is farmland?”

“Um, no, I don’t have all the statistics?—”

“You should. And did you happen to know that the number of farms and farmers is decreasing at a rate that’s alarming to a lot of Tennesseans?”

“No. No, I didn’t know that. But?—”

“Did you know that more than 360,000 people in Tennessee are employed in agriculture and forestry?” Of course they don’t. They don’t know jackshit about anything. They don’t know what the Tennessee rain feels like on your work-dusty skin. Or the smell of fresh-cut hay on a hot August afternoon under the Tennessee sun.

Everett looks uncomfortable at this point.

I don’t wait for his reply. “Did you know that the collective production values of those seventy thousand farms pumps more than five billion dollars a year into the economy of Tennessee?”

“No, but Mr.—”

“These numbers are important to Tennessean farmers, Everett.” I pause to make sure I’m not about to lose my temper and throttle one of them. “Tennesseans, including me, are invested in preserving as many of the family farms as we can. We think about our kids and our grandkids and we want to make sure Tennessee isn’t completely bulldozed into parking lots and strip malls before future generations have a chance to experience it like we have.”

Julian exhales an uneasy chuckle, like this is some kind of fucking joke. “We definitely understand all that, Mr. Boone. But progress means change. We currently have seven hundred clients interested in buying small land parcels in Tennessee.Seven hundred,” he repeats. “With more people—Californians, in particular—signing up every single day. These are people willing to pay top dollar for a partial acre of land.”

“And be squeezed into the countryside like sardines,” I point out gruffly.

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