Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 (38 page)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Ashwood slid into the holiday season with less food in our storage than we had hoped as the Department of Agriculture ordered all agricultural units to release additional product for export. We were compensated for the lost inventory, but we needed the food. Inflation raged through the marketplace, pushing the price of sugar, spices and grain-based product beyond many households. We were frugal, grateful for the small grain-milling operation built at the insistence of Terrell. He and Sarah returned to reviewing depression recipes. I tried not to worry through this phase of managing Ashwood.

“It’s like old times, Annie,” Terrell commented as we finalized menus, including the estate’s traditional Thanksgiving basket distribution and holiday buffet. “Only in our first year we had unexpected help from Milan and the Regan ranch. This year we have money, but I’m having to look farther than the Twin Cities to find products.”

“Ironic that we can feed our people the finest meat and dairy products, even fresh produce, but it’s so damn hard to find staples.” Magda turned off her data pad. “Wish I could grow us sugar beets and spices. Thank God for last spring’s record maple syrup collection. I’m going to research ways to distill better oils. We got to make Ashwood totally self-sufficient.”

As usual when a government agency has wronged a civilian, the DOE poured money over us, as if a big bankroll could repair the damaged strands in our emotional fabric. Paul accepted compensation for his illegal incarceration and injuries, and dumped almost every dollar into the lawsuit. I settled quickly with the Pentagon to put the Peterson episode behind me. For the first time in my life, I invested some money in a careful portfolio of private businesses, betting that the country would return to a free market before our kids left home.

In honor of David’s homecoming, the entire Regan family received invitations to Ashwood’s Christmas celebration. Clarissa Smithson came to live with us at Ashwood as my personal assistant until after the baby’s birth. Maybe the pregnancy tired me more easily, maybe the emotional hangover of September depleted my physical energy. I needed help and used the Pentagon settlement to pay for it.

With Thanksgiving three days away, Clarissa and I sat in my office looking over staffing reports. A handful of our workers would ride a special transport to the Twin Cities for home holiday visits, and three mothers were scheduled to visit their kids on the estate. Because of new greenhouse production, these small numbers caused ripples in staffing, which had been a heated discussion point at the management meeting that morning.

“Only a quarter of the child workers are going home this holiday season,” Clarissa said as I explained our typical staffing. “That is so much lower than what the media report.”

I sat back, admired her astute observation. Milan had been right when he encouraged me to reassess Clarissa. “It is the lowest number of kids going home since my first holiday here,” I said. “The economy must be shaky when parents can’t meet time or resources criteria for a home stay. I suspect there’ll be more pressure to find work and housing space for kids by spring.”

“It is extremely difficult for people to pull together a living.” Her lips drew into a tense line. She sighed.

“Is that why you brought Andrew here?”

A rather quiet woman, Clarissa fidgeted with her pen, then looked my way without a shred of self-protection. “It is true that my husband funneled Andrew’s funds to a foreign account. He daydreamed about our taking Andrew to Costa Rica. It was not only illegal but also stupid, like a lot of his other romantic dreams. We both had decent jobs and we lived in a secured neighborhood, but we never had enough money.” Lines deepened around her mouth. “I was desperate when I appealed to Executive Director Milan. Absolutely desperate.”

“You made the right decision, Clarissa. He’s doing well here. Especially now that he can see you every day.” I moved the conversation back to her responsibilities for the upcoming Regan gathering while my thoughts moved ahead to finding a permanent place for Andrew’s aunt at Ashwood.

Gentle snow fell Thanksgiving morning, not enough to stick to surfaces for more than a few hours, but enough to create a holiday feeling. I gave myself a day off from Ashwood duties to be Mom. While our Thanksgiving meals would never look like the groaning-table feasts of my childhood, every person walking through the buffet had more than enough turkey and side dishes. Adults enjoyed regional wine or beer. We played games and sang and read out loud to each other. Some of the men and boys snuck off to watch sports, but the main attraction for the day was having downtime.

Clarissa and I finished buying Christmas presents, or end-of-the-year gifts for the non-Christians, during the week after Thanksgiving. I left her in charge of housing arrangements for the Regan crowd. I needed Sarah to put her energy behind kitchen holiday activities, but she and Paul remained obsessed with the Stolen Children campaign.

“I’d like to take the images of our kids with me next week to the lawyers,” Paul told me as we left a management meeting. “I want to show them to a couple of our legal partners. They’ll agree to Milan’s terms.”

“Paul, you agreed to keep those absolutely confidential. Not even tell others the images exist.” Milan must have known Paul might talk, but still I made a mental note to forewarn my friend that information might be leaked. “No can do.”

“But, Annie, those images are not yours to keep.” Paul headed us down a road we’d been walking more frequently, drawing a distinction between the Regan children of David and Tia and those I mothered. “Those are my grandchildren.”

“I’m not up for this discussion, Paul.” Pregnancy hormones made me wickedly angry or slightly weepy as my blood sugar dropped about this time of morning. Today I just got angry, fed up with Paul’s obsession. “You’re drawing lines in this family—yours, mine and ours—that David and I don’t like. Remember that I’m the one Phoebe and Noah call Mom.” I tucked a shaking hand in my sweater pocket, upset by the frequency of my arguments with Paul. “Let the lawyers do their work. Government’s slow movement will grind you down.”

We stood close enough to touch, so close I could see thin red lines radiating across his cheeks under wind-dried skin. We shared the same space and air, but trod carefully on these grounds.

“I’m thinking I might need to step out of grains management. I’m seventy years old and these six kids mean more to me than filling production quotas for this government.” He held his head high, a defiance I didn’t expect. “Sarah loves what she’s doing and one of us has to work to keep our government benefits intact.”

“Can we talk about this after the holidays?”

He shook his head. “I want to tell the family over Christmas. I’m hoping a few will jump on board and be supportive of David’s efforts to parent all his children.”

“All right.” I wanted to hug him and to feel those fatherly arms return the gesture. But Paul was too tightly wound. “I’m not going to look for a replacement until after the holidays.” I pulled a handkerchief from one pocket and a small bag of dried fruit from another. “Sorry, I’m feeling shaky.” I opened the bag, extended it toward him, and tried to smile. “Paul, you have to admit that we have a few things to celebrate this season.”

His real nature showed itself with a grin. “Annie, you restore my optimism.” His arms reached out to offer the hug I craved. “You need that dried stuff more than me.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

December settled on Minnesota as if unsure of its direction. On the first day of the month seven inches of snow fell over twenty-four hours, putting an end to working outside in sweaters. Two days later rain fell intermittently for forty-eight hours, running down frozen paths, raising worries about icing. When the rain ended, temperatures bounced back into the forties.

The weather did no harm to Ashwood’s greenhouses or livestock. Magda, Terrell, and I sat down with twenty days until Christmas to take stock of food supplies and estate greenhouse crops. We settled on a rotation of meatless and fish days to hold off butchering until January.

“We’re better off than I expected,” I commented. “Meals have more grains and eggs, but no one is complaining. Good go, Terrell.”

He stretched, smiling as he lowered his hands from above his head. “I’m going to turn my kitchen over to Amber,” he said. “That girl can come up with more suggestions about snazzy recipes than this old man. She should study estate management.”

“Whatever Amber wants to study, she’ll do well.” Terrell, a key character witness in my process to adopt her, nodded as I spoke. Until the courts reached an agreement with Amber’s mother, we kept the action under wraps at Ashwood.

“Good luck with attracting these kids to our jobs.” Magda pulled on her jacket. “They think this is where they send people who can’t do anything else.” She slipped her data pad in a pocket. “Only three weeks until I’m in Europe.”

“I’d like to spend a month away,” I said. “Maybe I should plan on having this baby somewhere else, with a nice long recuperation. I think that was called maternity leave when we were young.”

“The girls in the city still get eight weeks off.” Magda put on gloves. “You’re in the wrong profession, being an owner and all.”

She left and Terrell hung back. “I’ve got some news just for you.” He sat straighter in his chair. “Frances and I are planning to register our relationship in January.”

I was off my chair and around the table for a hug.

“We’d like to apply for housing here if you have space.”

“Of course, Terrell. But your news is mighty wonderful.”

“I think this baby is the top story at Ashwood.”

“Of course, but old news.”

The pregnancy felt no different than my first two physically, but I was closer to forty than thirty. Emotionally I could not clarify how I felt—happy to have another child, yet uncomfortable with the circumstances of its conception. How odd to not use contraception for all those years and then become pregnant in Washington. David saw the timing of the pregnancy as a sign of a different future. I dreamt of a little girl with golden hair running through our orchards, a child of light.

During December David did a small amount of DOE work each day, but most of his time remained focused on recovery. Insomnia kept him walking the residence at night. His physical wounds healed, and he worked out every day to restore stability in his shoulder and flexibility in his back. Those who didn’t know about the ambush would see a very healthy man.

“Dr. Frances says the pregnancy is going well.” He looped his arm across my shoulders as we walked to our offices across the estate courtyard the day of Terrell’s announcement. I felt like a college student walking to class. “What do you think?”

We bumped against each other by accident, and his arm slipped then resettled. “I feel fine. What scares me is thinking about how we secure a better future for our kids.”

He turned, blocked our movement forward, his arm now enclosing my shoulders. “Annie, I’ve been in therapy for months to deal with Paraguay. My dad’s working out his fears with dedication to a lawsuit that he hopes will bring control over his life.” His arm tightened. “It’s time we start paying attention to making you feel safe.”

Over David’s shoulder, I could see the resting orchards surrounding a very plain building we called our home. Ashwood’s acres circled us on all sides, sounds from the roadway dampened by earth and rock and all we’d built—a safe, comfortable community of kids and adults moving ahead without fear of starving or freezing or violence. Until Peterson.

Small sleigh bells jingled across the courtyard, tied on the front door of the school building by one of the kids. Rufus raced across the distance directly toward me. David put a hand out to keep the growing puppy from jumping on my abdomen.

“Day by day I find it easier to put the Peterson experience in perspective, but I feel vulnerable.” I couldn’t look into David’s face so I petted the dog’s head, then started walking. “Some of that is natural for a pregnant woman.” Rufus fell into step beside us. “I’d like to have some peaceful time, to get connected with this baby.”

“Then let’s work on those things—making you feeling safe, minimizing legal chatter and keeping you healthy.” Just like a man to made a list and consider our worries solved. He opened the office building door, changed the subject as people looked up from their desks. “No criticism of Ashwood’s offices, but I’m looking forward to the DOE building being finished.”

Milan’s voice called from my earpiece as we entered the building. “Anne, do you have time to talk about the Regan civil case?”

David’s office door closed as I answered. “Sure. Let me close my office door. David and I just spoke about putting this aside until after the holidays.”

He appeared on my desk screen, sitting in his home office. “Renovations at the Bureau so I’m working here for a few weeks.” His voice dropped. “Driving my wife nuts.”

“Remember, David and I are together almost twenty-four seven, so I can’t empathize. I’d offer you an empty office here, but we’re full up.”

“This won’t take long. By the way, congratulations on making production quotas during the last quarter. Your team held everything together during a difficult time.” He smiled. “So Ashwood earns the top bonus award for its region.”