Cal was quiet for a long moment. “And today's sales won't help much.”
“Today's sales are a drop in the bucket.” I laughed, but it came out hollow. “I need to figure out how to make more money, fast. Walt always managed to keep things afloat. I thought if I just worked hard enough, showed up, did everything right?—”
“You thought it would be enough.”
“Yeah.” My throat tightened. “Stupid, right?”
“Not stupid.” Cal's voice softened, just slightly. “But you can't expect to match forty years of built relationships and reputation in a month.”
“I know that. Logically, I know.” I pressed my palms against the table edge. “But that still doesn't pay the bills.”
Cal looked at me, and I could practically see the wheels turning in his head. He was going to offer to help. Or tell me to call Walt. Or suggest something perfectly logical that I'd already thought of and dismissed.
“I do have some ideas,” I said quickly before he could start problem-solving for me. “I've been researching goat milk products—lotions, soaps, that kind of thing. People pay good money for handmade stuff, especially if it's natural and locally sourced.”
Cal tilted his head slightly. “How much time does that take?”
“To make?” I shrugged, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “I'm not sure yet. I've never done it before. But there are tutorials online, and Walt's got all the equipment I'd need. How hard could it be?”
The silence that followed told me exactly what Cal thought of that logic.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You're giving me a look.”
“I'm not giving you anything.” But his jaw tightened. “You're already stretched thin running the farm solo. Adding a new product line on top of that?—”
“Is exactly what I need to do.” I crossed my arms. “Unless you have a better idea?”
Cal was quiet for a beat too long.
“That's what I thought.” I grabbed an empty crate, stacking it with more force than necessary. “I appreciate the concern, but I've got this handled.”
“Rosie—”
“Really, Cal. I'm fine.” I softened my voice, gentling the edge. “I promise. I just needed to vent for a second. But I've got a plan. It'll work out.”
He looked like he wanted to argue. His mouth opened, then closed again. Then, instead of speaking, he reached for his wallet.
I watched, confused, as he pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.
“What are you doing?”
“Buying flowers.” He held out the money.
My stomach dropped. “Cal, no. You don't have to?—”
“I want to.”
“You've already helped me today.” Heat crept up my neck. “You don't need to pity-buy my flowers because I'm having a rough week.”
“It's not pity.” His voice stayed level, matter-of-fact. “I need flowers.”
“For what?”
“Does it matter?”