Page 2 of Till The Cows Come Home
“Sage,” his voice trailed.
“How long?” I repeated.
“We’ve had a realtor putting feelers out for a few weeksnow, but we have an offer contingent on a successful showing tomorrow.”
I couldn't help but cringe at the burning betrayal I felt creeping up alongside the sob that escaped my throat. The farm wasn’t just for sale; it was as good as sold, and in less than twenty-four hours a simple deal would strip me of everything.
Chapter Two
Sage
Present Day
My involvement in the world of agriculture dwindled until it became almost nonexistent, my hiatus rapidly evolving the moment I walked off the farm for the last time. My parents purchased a small renovated farmhouse on the outskirts of the town, but I settled into an apartment as close to the heart of Lox as I could, a conscious choice made out of spite to be as far from my roots as possible. Unfortunately for me, though, nothing could halt the circadian rhythm ingrained into my very being. I still woke at five every morning, rising to the smell of coffee, but instead of feeding cows, I fed strays, which I shamefully bribed into companionship. All the time I used to spend doing chores was now spent working at the library. It wasn’t an even exchange by any means, but it was all that I had.
Jane had been the town librarian for as long as I could remember, and she offered me a spot under her literary wing when she heard of my displacement. She was your typical mid-seventies librarian, crotchety, but in an almost endearing way,and without her I’m not sure where I’d be now. Through toddler birthday parties and teen breakups, she was there, whether it be handing out cake or a book to cry to, so it only made sense that she also showed up when my life fell completely apart. But having a boss that cared for you deeply had its downfalls, the major being that she prohibited me from working myself to death, strictly capping my hours at forty each week.
But idle time was not a friend of mine, which is how I ended up at the farmers market after boycotting it for the last three years. I had avoided it like the plague, dodging the embarrassment I thought I’d face showing up to a place I used to thrive, but after a few too many empty weekends, I couldn’t stand the quietness of my apartment any longer. I knew how good it would feel to be surrounded by the world I grew up in and after some drawn-out internal deliberation, I spoke it into existence, which then damned it to fruition.
Before I knew it I was parked next to the center of town waiting for Ruby, who pulled in next to me five minutes past our meeting time. Quite honestly, this was no surprise. I swore the woman scheduled her tardiness, but she was my best friend and I loved her, nevertheless. She also happened to be the one person who continuously urged me to surround myself with the lifestyle I left. I think deep down she could sense the grief I carried despite my efforts to bury it, and a part of her believed the only way to heal was to face the life I ran away from. When I mentioned the farmers market earlier in the week, her eyes lit up immediately. The excitement was palpable, but she feigned indifference to our weekend plans, nonchalantly agreeing while simultaneously attempting to hide the extent of her enthusiasm. This morning she chose no such thing.
“Good morning, Sage Baker!” she sang as she exited her car. “Are you ready to market your ass off?”
I rolled my eyes, but in reality, Iwasreadyto market my ass off. The smells in the air had my mouth watering and the thought of fresheverythingmade me giddy.
I linked my arm with hers and we crossed the road together, entering the hustle and bustle at the beginning of the familiar loop, and as we looked forward we could see the vendors strategically arranged in the same circular pattern that always wrapped around the center of town on Saturday mornings. The space was carefully curated to funnel patrons into a makeshift tunnel, guided only by the constant force of traffic moving everyone forward. I had spent every weekend here with my family and when we moved on, I not only lost a part of my routine, but also access to the products we produced. Store-bought milk just wasn’t the same, and I found common dairy products lackluster to where I oftentimes chose to just go without.
“Before we get too far,” Ruby said, momentarily pausing us in our tracks, “there may be someone new in your old spot. I haven’t been in awhile. Sometimes it’s empty…but sometimes that’s where the newer vendors are. Just so you’re not blindsided.”
“Thanks, but I think I got this.”
“You do. You really really do.” She smiled, relinking her arm with mine.
I smiled back at her, but as we rounded the curve, I couldn’t stop my heart from quickening. Scenarios flooded my mind, and I half heartedly imagined my parents would be there, smiling proudly as they conversed with patrons. They’d claimed that spot for as long as anyone could remember and I had a hard time imagining it without them there.
The breath left my lungs, time seemingly standing still as the stall finally came into view.
That motherfucker.
Ruby walked past me, stopping to turn to me when she realized I was no longer movingwith traffic.
“What's up?” she asked, and when I didn’t respond, she followed my line of vision until she, too, unearthed what I was staring at.
A man our age was running the booth, standing behind a table smiling as he did business with the people passing by. I blinked aggressively as if the collision of my eyelashes could erase the image in front of me, but the only thing it accomplished was clarification. In front of the table proudly hung a banner with a name that no longer belonged.
Baker Farm.
“He didn’t even change the name,” I whispered, shock coursing through me as my mind pieced together the information in front of me. I’d never met the buyer, choosing to be as far removed from the process as possible, but I didn’t expect him to be so young, and I surely didn’t expect him to operate under our name. I was supposed to be the one who proudly accepted the baton from my parents, running the homestead when they became too old to do it themselves. Instead, I stood eerily still, ignoring the pressure of the bottlenecking tunnel behind me, stuck as my body forced me to endure the scene.
“Let’s go,” Ruby whispered, shooting a sympathetic glance at the people stuck behind me. She tugged at my forearm, attempting to steer me away from the chaos I was creating, and thankfully after a moment my feet released the hold they seemingly had on the ground, propelling my body forward away from the whispers of the people behind me.
“No,” I muttered. “Let’s just keep going. I want to see Beth before we leave.”
Ruby gave me a questioning look as if she was going to argue my decision, but after the years I spent rebuilding my life, the farm was no longer a topic of discussion, and especially not criticism. We began our shopping, and I ignored the concerned glances she kept sneaking as I browsed my options. My feet had no longer failed me, stopping only when the tangof yeast and cinnamon flooded my senses, and as if she was expecting my arrival, Beth emerged from behind her booth, searching my face to see if I too had noticed the newest addition to the market.
“I saw.” I sighed.
“I made you your favorite cheddar jalapeño sandwich loaf as an apology for not warning you. I didn’t know what to say, sweetheart.”
