Page 29 of Love is an Open Book
“He says it’s not my place to tell you, but I think you should know.” His mouth pulls to the side. “They’re selling the farm.”
It takes a second for his words to sink in. Mom started teaching college courses after the divorce, but she still has a hand in operating the business side of the tree farm. “What about the house?” They built it together, on ten acres of land that has since expanded to more than fifty.
“That, too. Dad’s moving.”
I shield my eyes with a gloved hand, wondering if he’s messing with me. “Where?”
He dodges my glance. “There are some nice town houses near us. He wants to be close to the grandkids again.”
Dad’s moving to Colorado and didn’t bother to mention it? “He wouldn’t just give up on the business. He’s barely sixty.”
“Not like he hasn’t had offers,” Scott says. “He could’ve retired a few years ago.”
I can’t imagine Dad not running the tree farm. He’s poured himself into that place, heart and soul, my whole life. “Never mentioned wanting to.”
“Not to you.”
That stings. Dad and I are close. Have been ever since my parents’ divorce. Mom moved to Madison, and I stayed at the farm. Didn’t want to leave my friends, the house I grew up in. The land.
Scott seems to notice my sense of betrayal and hops down from the truck, tailgate hinges squeaking in protest. “Mom and I wanted to tell you, but he asked us to keep it to ourselves until he could talk to you in person. He didn’t want to pressure you.”
“Into what?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“Taking over. What else?”
“C’mon. He doesn’t expect that of me.” But he has in the past. Why wouldn’t it come into play now, if what Scott’s saying is true?
“Maybe not, but he should,” Scott says. My father neverunderstood my decision to make a life in Illinois, but he’s come to terms with it, mostly. Scott hasn’t. “You run the garden center, and Faye and her husband, Dale, aren’t even family.”
They’ve become like a second family, but that isn’t what keeps me there. “Run it, don’t own it. I get to clock out at the end of the day and not worry about keeping the lights on.” Working alongside Dad would’ve consumed my time. After college, I was tired of being his confidant. Tired of him pouring all the regret he harbored into the farm instead of rebuilding his life.
Scott squints against the midday sun, like he’s trying to figure me out, and for once, I wish he’d really listen. “I love the work,” I tell him. “But Dad’s whole life is the farm.”
“Not anymore,” he says.
“He’s got a buyer?”
He pulls the last paving stone off the truck. “Don’t think he’s in a rush. But he’s taking steps.” Slyly, he says, “He’d let you have the land for cheap.”
I’ve known that since he tearfully hugged me at graduation and told me he always knew I’d be the one to take over. Right before I told him I’d taken a job near Chicago.
“He deserves what it’s worth.” I pull the tarp off the truck bed, brick dust catching the wind, then roll it up and head toward the backyard, ready to put an end to this conversation.
Catching up, Scott says, “Shit, Gavin. Why’d you get your horticulture degree if not to run the nursery someday?” Here we are again. As if I haven’t explained myself often enough. How I want to work to live, not live to work.
But a lot of that stemmed from knowing I’d be the one Dad leaned on, his excuse to keep hiding from life. Awful as it sounds, without him, running the farm might not be so bad. “You don’t want it, either,” I tell him.
“I’m not the one working at a garden center.” Scott never liked outdoorsy stuff. He had his share of chores, same as me, butwhenever he could he’d take a shift at the register or filing receipts. “And our life is in Denver now. We can’t uproot the kids.”
“I’d never expect you to. But my life is here. And I don’t want to pull up my own roots any more than you do.”
He glances around. “You’ve got what, a quarter acre? The shed alone takes up half your backyard.” It might not look like much, but I own a home in a town I love. “One of Dad’s seedling greenhouses is bigger than your whole property,” he adds. “Think what you could do with all that land.”
“Grow trees,” I say dully. Sell them to subdivisions and commercial developments. Dad does most of his business with developers, and I can’t get excited about the cookie-cutter plots. I like to get to know the clients I work with and tailor the designs to their property.
“And the gardens back home? You’re fine letting those go to a stranger?” He knows I can never stay out of the gardens when I visit. Always advising Dad on what fertilizer to use and when to divide the hostas. But it hasn’t been home for a long time. Not for Mom or Scott, either. And soon, it seems, not for Dad.
“I have my own gardens.” They’re not as showstopping as the ones at our childhood home, but it’s only a matter of time. “To be honest, I’ll miss the cabin the most.” My dad and uncle built it on the small lake on the east end of the farm back when I was a little kid. Mia’s even used it as a writing retreat a handful of times.
