Bitter Harvest (24 page)

“I’m in charge of keeping the paths clear. There are people who visit their loved ones no matter what the weather.”

Now that she looked, Meg could see that there were several paths that had been recently shoveled, although mainly in the more modern section. Meg knew from past visits that there were no paved paths leading among the eighteenthcentury tombstones. “I can understand that. But what I’m looking for is pretty early, so I guess I’ll have to wait until the snow melts.”

“Feels like it’s warming up—maybe a couple of days’ll do it. I’ll get back to work, long as you’re all right.”

“I’m fine, thanks. I’m going now.” She put the car in gear and continued along the road again. Meg watched in the rearview mirror as John remained observing her, until she turned a corner at the end of the road.

She shook herself. Here she’d wanted Art to take her seriously about all these maybe-threats, when she wasn’t doing it herself, even after Seth had lectured her about it. What on earth was she thinking, stopping by a deserted cemetery on the spur of the moment? When nobody knew where she was? If there was a stalker—still an “if”—she couldn’t do things like that. Okay, she’d met someone she knew, but it could have been anybody. What if it had been someone who wanted to do her harm? She shivered. Murdered in a cemetery—what a tale that would be!

In a chastened mood Meg hurried on to the market.

Meg returned home restocked with supplies, and after stashing them in the kitchen, she sat down and checked her e-mails. She didn’t expect to hear from Mercy before Monday, but Gail had replied, and her e-mail read, “I think I’ve got Violet’s marriage record now. She married Abiel Morgan, but I don’t have access to my records right now. There aren’t a lot of Morgans in Granford. I’ll confirm in a day or two and get you a photocopy.”

Hurry up and wait, as usual
, Meg fumed. She did some mental math: if Violet had been born in 1786, she would have been in her sixties in 1850, which was the first year the federal census had listed all family members and not just the male head of household. So if she looked online for a Violet Morgan in Granford, she might learn a little more. She clicked through to the appropriate Web site and held her breath as she entered the information. Bingo! There was a Morgan household headed by one Abiel Morgan, with wife Violet, in 1850. No children listed in the household, but they were probably long out of the house, and Meg didn’t feel like wading through all the other Morgans in town just to satisfy her own curiosity. She pulled up the 1860 census and found Violet living alone, so Abiel must have died in the intervening years. In 1870 she was living with another family, with a different surname—a married daughter? Had there been sons? She couldn’t tell from the earlier censuses. In 1880 there was no sign of Violet, which wasn’t surprising. Gail had already said that she knew Violet had died before the Warren sisters who had owned the house were born.

At least Violet had lived a long life, unlike the rest of her close family. Abiel was listed as a farmer during his lifetime, as were most people in Granford in the nineteenth century. Meg felt obscurely pleased: now at least she knew who she was looking for the next time she visited the cemetery, whenever the weather permitted.

She was surprised to see Seth’s van pull into the driveway, followed shortly by the pickup truck she recognized as John Taylor’s—he was certainly getting around today. But John wasn’t alone: she could see someone else in the passenger seat. Meg ambled out to say hello.

Seth and John were talking when she approached. “Hi, John,” she said. “We meet again.” When Seth quirked an eyebrow at her, she explained, “I drove past the cemetery on the way to the market, and John stopped to make sure I was okay.”

Meg was amused when John hung his head and kicked at the snow. She almost expected him to say, “Aw, shucks, ma’am, it weren’t nothin’.” Instead he said, “We don’t get too many people passing along that road, except the ones who live there. I didn’t want you to get stuck.”

“Hey, I appreciated it. But if you take care of the cemetery, you’ll probably see a lot more of me there. I’ve got plenty of ancestors buried there.”

“We do get a lot of people looking for ancestors, but mostly in summer,” John said. “I’m not interested in all that family history stuff—don’t have the time.”

A woman with a baby climbed out of the truck and called out. Meg guessed she was in her thirties. She was dressed for the weather, although she wore no hat and her fine blonde hair was pulled back carelessly. “You gonna be long, John? Eli really needs a clean diaper.”

“Almost. Hey, Jenn, come over and meet Meg—she’s the new owner here.”

Jennifer didn’t look too excited about the idea, but she came over, balancing the baby on her hip, and stuck out a hand. “Hi, I’m Jennifer, John’s wife. And this is Eli. I guess we’re neighbors.”

Her tone wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, Meg thought. “Nice to meet you, Jenn,” Meg said. “I’ll probably be seeing more of John, if he’s working with Seth. Hi, Eli.” Meg waggled her fingers at the baby.

Meg was no expert, but Eli looked to be no more than two. He was blond like his mother, and he regarded Meg with a blank stare. Meg smiled at him, but Eli didn’t return the smile.

“You have kids?” Jenn asked.

“No. It’s just me and my housemate, Bree. Have you met her, John?”

He nodded. “Jamaican girl, right? I’ve seen her, but not to talk to. She works in the orchard, doesn’t she?”

“She
manages
it,” Meg corrected him. “I’m kind of new to farming and orchards. I can’t pay her what she’s worth, so I give her free room and board, which is why she’s living here.”

“John, come on,” Jenn whined, jiggling the baby.

“Okay, okay. Seth, you want to go over the schedule for the week?”

“Sure. It’s inside.” Seth led John into the barn extension that held his office, leaving Meg and Jenn standing awkwardly in the middle of the driveway.

“How old is Eli?” Meg asked.

“He’s one. Well, sixteen months,” Jenn said curtly, and didn’t volunteer anything more.

“You have other kids?”

“No.”

Meg gave up trying to make conversation. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Jenn. I’ve got some things to do inside.”

Jenn didn’t seem heartbroken by her departure. From the kitchen window Meg watched as Jenn climbed back into the truck, then honked the horn several times. She certainly was impatient. Hadn’t Seth said that John had lost his job? Jenn should be happy that he was finding even odd jobs at the moment. Maybe she was just stressed out, or embarrassed. John and Seth emerged from the barn, and John joined his wife in the truck and did a k-turn before heading off down the road away from town.

Seth knocked at the back door, and Meg went to let him in. “Was it something I said?” Meg asked.

“You mean Jenn’s attitude? Don’t take it personally—she’s having a hard time. But John’s a good guy, and a hard worker.”

“Didn’t you tell me their child was sick?”

“Yeah. Poor Eli. It’s some kind of neurological thing. They don’t talk about it a lot, and I don’t like to pry.”

Maybe that explained his lack of responsiveness. “That’s a shame. You want some coffee or something?” Meg asked.

“No, I’ve got to run.”

“But it’s Sunday!” Meg protested.

“Yes, but the big box stores are open, and I’ve got to get my supplies together for this week. What the heck were you doing over by the cemetery?”

“Looking for Violet. I know, I know—kind of stupid, since I didn’t even have her married name at the time—I guess I thought I should be drawn to her mortal remains by some psychic connection or something. But even I should know it’s pretty deserted over there. I ran into John there. Is that one of those municipal jobs you were telling me about?”

“Yup. Actually it works out well for everyone. The town can’t afford to hire a full-time maintenance crew, so we pay him hourly on an as-needed basis, and maintaining the cemetery is one of those intermittent things he does. He needs the work, and we need the work done. We asked him to keep the main paths clear.”

“Lousy time to be looking for work. Anyway, when I came back Gail had emailed me to say that Violet married Abiel Morgan here. I checked the censuses for Morgans, trying to figure out if Violet stuck around, and I found only one family with that name, so I should be on the right track. I think she and her husband lived out their days here in Granford, but I haven’t figured out which kids were theirs. Does the name ring any bells with you?”

“Not offhand. But you do know that almost everyone in this town is related somehow?”

“Including me, apparently. I guess it keeps surprising me. It’s a wonder my great-grandfather ever escaped the place.”

“We let people out now and then—but we can’t afford to lose much more of the population. Well, I’ve got to get moving. See you later!”

Back inside, Meg wandered aimlessly, tidying the kitchen, and then drifted into the dining room, where Bree was sitting surrounded by piles of paper.

“Just the person I wanted to see,” Bree said, looking smug.

“You’re finished?” Meg asked.

“Rough version, at least. You want me to summarize? Unless you’re too busy right now.”

“Bree!” Meg checked to make sure she was joking.

“Just kidding! You’ve been bugging me for weeks. Here.” Bree handed Meg a single sheet of paper. “This is the simple version—I’m still tweaking the details, but this’ll give you the big picture.”

Meg scanned the page, willing herself not to go straight to the bottom line, which was . . . small but positive. She looked up at Bree. “We made money?”

“Yes, ma’am, we did. Not a lot, but not too shabby for the first year. Let me go over some of the details.”

As Bree started reviewing the numbers and her calculations, Meg was surprised by her own reaction. Sure, she had a background in financial analysis, and she recognized the parameters that Bree was outlining for her. But at the same time, she had no way of knowing whether the results in individual categories were good or bad.

When Bree had wrapped up her short version, Meg said slowly, “So let me get this straight.” She started ticking off points. “We paid competitive salaries this year, but we’ll have to go up a bit next year?”

Bree nodded. “Maybe 5 percent.”

“You’ve figured in capital depreciation?”

Bree snorted. “That antique tractor?”

“Well, it was a capital expenditure. So was building the storage chambers. I’ll have to review the IRS regulations. How much of the gear and containers will we have to replace next year?”

“Maybe 20 percent. That’s about normal.”

“Did you figure in mileage for deliveries?”

“Yes.”

“Insurance costs?”

“Yes.”

Meg thought for a moment. “What would you change, going forward, to optimize our marketing?”

“I’m not in any hurry to figure that out. This year, nobody knew who we were. I’ll bet they knew the apples and the trees better than they knew either of us. Next year they’ll know what we’re offering, and that we can deliver what we promised. We’ll probably pick up some more orders, maybe 20 percent.”

“All right. What about new tree stock?”

“We could add some trees on the north end, but you know that they won’t bear for a few years.”

“Seth offered to lease us some of his land, long-term, if we wanted to expand in that direction.”

“Oh ho!” Bree said. “That’s talking serious commitment.”

“I know. I told him I’d think about it.” Meg looked Bree squarely in the eye. “So what’s your professional assessment?”

“Looking at this as a business? I won’t sugarcoat it—it’s not terrific, but under the circumstances it’s not bad. You’re paying me a pittance, and you’re not taking any salary yourself at the moment. That’s not a great long-term plan. But you’ve got good tree stock, you’ve established relationships with your vendors, and I’ll bet you’ve learned a heck of a lot. Right?”

“That’s the truth.”

“Then I think this is a good outcome,” Bree said triumphantly.

To her dismay, Meg realized she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. She’d been waiting for these results for weeks, and now that she had them, she didn’t know what to make of them. What had she expected? A five-figure profit? That was unreasonable and she knew it. She knew the trouble small farmers faced—she should be ecstatic just to be in the black after her first year. But did the results justify all the hard work she—and to be fair, Bree, too—had put into it? Could she see herself doing this in ten or twenty years’ time?

“You don’t look very happy, Meg,” Bree said. “Do you know how hard it is to make a profit at all in this business? And you—we—pulled it off on the first try.”

“I know, and I really appreciate all you’ve done, Bree.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“I’m weighing the profit against the amount of work it took to make it.”