Right doesn’t always win.
“He hasn’t been making waves,” Greylin reminds our fierce friend, the one who battle cries before jumping into the fray every time Bart Simmons has decided to fuck with us and our business.
“No,” Mayer admits, her shoulders slumping slightly, “but my gut is telling me he hasn’t given up. Just because his son is with Greylin doesn’t mean shit, other than our girl is happy.”
“Being happy is kind of important,” I point out, only mildly unhelpfully.
“You’re not wrong,” Mayer pinches the bridge of her nose, “but you know what I mean. I have a feeling good ‘ole Bart is just biding his time. He’ll be coming up with something really fucked up to mess with us next. I’ll be keeping an eye on him.”
The way she says it, like a vow sealed with blood, has a shiver working its way down my spine. I hope Mayor Simmons lets it all go, but I have my doubts too. His whole vendetta is ridiculous anyway.
All because his ex, once upon a time, left him high and dry with two kids and went off to some hippie commune? It’s asinine, but people hold grudges for the strangest reasons.
What the man needs is therapy, not a pulpit. But here we are.
I know Mayer will deal with whatever happens next. Meanwhile, I need to get myself mentally prepared to interact with Rook. I seem to loseat least half my braincells every time I see the man. Talking to him is almost impossible.
Maybe this time I won’t embarrass myself. At least not too badly. Hopefully.
CHAPTER 2
ROOK
Even though I’m surrounded by people, I don’t think I’ve ever felt more alone. Today marks the loss of the last of my blood family, at least the family that was worth a damn. Now, all I have left is a father who never cared about me or my family’s land.
I’m so glad I had my grandparents because I have no idea who I would be right now if not for them. I was devastated when my grandmother passed away; I can still feel her loss. It made it very real that I would be right where I am now but knowing it then doesn’t make today any easier.
Everything in me wants to run away from this moment. Being here makes it real. Being here means my grandpa is never coming back. I won’t have the opportunity to prove to him that shifting to a cannabis grow,with a focus on boutique strains and concentrates, is the right path for our family’s farm.
He was skeptical from the moment I brought him my idea. It’s not like I can completely blame him either. I came to him straight out of college with a big idea, a degree in Agricultural Economics, and just enough knowledge of horticulture to be cocky.
After barely settling back into the house after graduation, I went to Grandpa. I was practically vibrating with excitement. He could tell something was on my mind and he smirked at me while leaning back in his chair on the porch, the one he had sat in for decades.
“I can see you practically overflowing with ideas,” he said while rubbing his jaw with his calloused hand.
It was those hands that showed me how the farm worked, how to nurture the land and crops, and how to fix the things needing to be fixed. My grandparents didn’t have to open their home to me; but they did, and then they gave me more than a roof over my head. They gave me a purpose as they showed me the connection I have to the land.
My belly was filled with nerves as I lowered myself into the chair next to him, the one my grandmother occupied before her passing. The only regret I had with going off to college was missing out on time with my grandmother. But I also know how proud of me she was.
“I think we have an opportunity here,” I told him, choosing my words carefully. “I know how hard things have been, and you’ve experienced the highs and lows of traditional farming.”
Grandpa let out a wheezing laugh. “You say traditional farming like there’s another way.”
His words made me pause, not because I expected a different reaction from him, but because I wasn’t sure how to approach what I wanted to propose.
“There are other ways,” I gently pointed out. “I’m interested in trying a hydroponic grow set-up.”
Heblinked at me a few times before a grin split his face. “Next you’re going to tell me you want to grow that wacky tobacco since it’s legal now.”
Even though he expected me to laugh or tell him I would never bring up growing cannabis, I couldn’t. Because that was exactly the plan I came home from college with. I knew it was going to be a hard sell.
Still, I wasn’t expecting his flippant dismissal. It was naïve of me.
As the quiet stretched between us, he leaned toward me, his eyes narrowing while studying my face. “Well, shit,” he huffed out and sat back while making a motion with his hand for me to continue.
That’s when my ideas spilled out of me like a broken faucet. I have no idea, even now, years later, if I made any sense during our first conversation. I’m fairly sure it was a stream of consciousness free-for-all.
I ended with, “I want to curate a business, from the product to the clients. The goal would be to create something smaller and work with local dispensaries but do it the right way and have an artisan feel. We wouldn’t need to use a large part of the land at first. Still, there will be plenty of room for growth.”