Hens and Chickens (11 page)

Settling In

The next few weeks skipped by as Lila wrapped up her old life in Massachusetts and relocated to the old Russell homestead in Sovereign, Maine. Despite pleas from both Lila and Rebecca, Wendell would take no more than $40,000 for the house and 10 acres of field, carving out for himself the hired hand’s house – Bud’s place – and the balance of the 110-acre woodlot. He even brushed off an initial down payment.

“If you put in a separate driveway entrance for me ovah to Bud’s place, thet’ll be enough for a down payment,” Wendell said.

“But I have PLENTY of money,” Lila protested.

“Wal, you know, there ain’t nuthin’ I need to buy that I ain’t already got,” Wendell replied. “And thet driveway entrance won’t come cheap. Them aluminum culverts cost ‘bout $800. Plus I’m thinking you’ll find plenty of things to spend money on around heah pretty quick.”

And so the entire purchase price on the old Russell Place was to be paid in monthly installments of $300 for 15 years. “That’s not even a third of what I pay for rent!” Lila chortled to Rebecca, after Miss Hastings retired for bed that second evening in Sovereign.

Rebecca was a bit more circumspect. “But you had a regular job with Perkins & Gleeful in order to pay that rent with,” she pointed out. “Now we’re depending on …”

“… on our own smarts and hard work paying OUR way, not THEIRS,” finished Lila with satisfaction and not a little triumph. “If we get the axe this time, we’ve got nobody to blame but ourselves!”

Wendell was to remove all personal items of value (except Grammie Addie’s cookbook, which was to remain on loan), and Lila would take immediate possession of the house. She and Rebecca were to dispose of any items left in the house that they didn’t want. Wendell was leaving the furniture, dishes, bedding and even the silverware. Lila could hardly believe their good fortune.

“Wal, you know, I ain’t got no more room in Bud’s place,” Wendell said, simply.

Within two weeks of returning to Massachusetts, Rebecca had contracted with the parents of a friend and neighbor, who wanted to be close to their grandchildren – but not
too
close – to rent her house. The new tenants took a year’s lease on the property, paid in advance, and the monies would be enough for Rebecca to pay her mortgage, property taxes, insurance and still have money left over for minor repairs.

The new tenants wanted to move in by April 15th, however, which sent Rebecca into a frenzy of packing, sorting and storing, and resulted in several weekend visits by her daughter Amber. “She’s bringing some friends to help every time she comes,” Rebecca reported to Lila, “otherwise I don’t see how I could possibly get everything done in time!”

Lila quickly gave notice and packed up her condo (which was as nothing compared to Rebecca’s breaking up of the Johnson family home), then returned to the old Russell homestead to prepare the hen pen for the arrival of the 100 certified organic laying hens she had purchased as a starter flock from a farmer in southern Maine. In addition, she had taken responsibility to coordinate the legal paperwork involved in the real estate transaction, both Wendell and Rebecca suggesting she take the lead. One sore spot cropped up almost immediately, however. Since Lila insisted on being the one responsible for paying the mortgage, Rebecca refused to have her name put on the deed. This was troublesome to Lila, who was conscious of how necessary Rebecca was to the success of the entire operation.

“She thinks because she’s not giving me money toward the mortgage, she doesn’t have an equal right of ownership,” Lila confided to Mike Hobart one sunny afternoon in early April. A trusting relationship had replaced their fledgling friendship as the two of them had spent the prior three weeks working shoulder-to-shoulder cleaning, rebuilding and retrofitting the old hen pen. “But she doesn’t realize I couldn’t do this whole egg business thing WITHOUT her.”

“Mmmhmm,” Hobart mumbled. He took the short yellow pencil out of his mouth, and jotted down a figure in a small notebook. “Two inches by three-quarters,” he said.  He glanced up at Lila, curiously. “She sounds old school to me; pretty much what I would expect from Rebecca,” he continued. He pushed his cap back on his head. “Does it bother you that much?”

“That’s the point! It’s soo old school,” Lila proclaimed. She was removing the compacted, cruddy sawdust from the nest boxes with a gardening trowel, but paused to wipe her face with her hand. “I know so many women who’ve helped men buy and fix up a house or build a business, and then, 10 years later – when the guy replaced them with a younger version – they got NOTHING! Why? All because they never insisted on legalizing their partnership!”

“Sounds like you knew the wrong kind of men,” said Hobart, calmly. He leaned over and brushed a piece of dirty sawdust from Lila’s cheek.

“I didn’t say that happened to ME,” she said, blushing.

Their eyes locked and Lila experienced a hyper-awareness of his presence. Moist body heat emanated from his muscular chest and shoulders. She felt the ground spin and heard a ringing sensation in her ears.

Hormones at work!
she cautioned herself.
Beware!
  Instinctively, she retreated closer to the double-row of whitewashed wooden nest boxes.

Hobart observed Lila’s retreat with amusement. “I’m not going to eat you,” he said, closing the pencil into the fold of his notebook and placing the book upon a nearby sawhorse. He took off his cap and ran his fingers through his matted hair. He reached for a bottle of spring water, tipped the bottle up and took a long drink. The fresh water gurgled down his throat. Hobart set the bottle and his cap onto the saw horse, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt. “Listen, I don’t know what crappy stuff men have done to you in the past, but I can guarantee you that this is one man who only wants good things for you. I don’t have any ulterior motive here except to help you and Rebecca get this egg business off the ground.”

Lila, a little taken aback, could think of no immediate retort. Instead, she tried not to notice how strong and capable his hands were as he reached for the tape measure. But the more she attempted NOT to focus on Mike Hobart, the more her brain honed in on minutia like the boyish curl of hair growing on the nape of his neck and the peculiar ironbark brown of his eyelashes.

“And since I seem to be on my white horse at the moment,” he continued, hearing no response to his prior declaration; “I want to know if you’ve taken a close look at the financials for this egg business. Do you know what your expenses will be? Who your market is? How much you can sell the eggs for? Do you know what it takes to get an organic certification in Maine?”

Facts, figures, numbers, marketing—these were all Lila Woodsum’s territory. She was an expert at business matters however much she might be deficient in other areas. His questions instantly pushed her hot buttons. “Of course I have!” she retorted, hazel eyes flashing. “I don’t have all the answers to your questions at the tip of my fingers, but I’ve run enough numbers to justify
The Egg Ladies.
” She admonished him with the garden trowel. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I can show you those numbers at lunch!”

‘Whoaa!” Hobart said, with a smile in his eyes. He took a half-step back and raised his palms in mock defense. “Don’t hurt me! I was just asking a few questions; as a friend.”

Embarrassed, Lila laughed shortly, and dropped the trowel into the nest box. “Sorry, I’m a little defensive,” she admitted. “I have a Master’s in Business and I’m not used to having my projects questioned.”

“I can see that,” Hobart said. He paused. “Wendell said you were the marketing manager of some big insurance company in Boston?”

Lila nodded curtly. “Rebecca and I shared the marketing director job until she got downsized,” she said. “Then our boss offered it to me, as a PROMOTION—sarcasm intended. That’s when I told him to take the job and shove it. Sorry,” she added quickly; “I’m trying to clean up my potty mouth. Bad for business, you know.”

“No problem,” Hobart said, reassuringly. “I used to be pretty rough around the edges when I was first self-employed.”

“When was that?” asked Lila, eager to learn more of Mike Hobart’s history.

“When I had my paper route,” he replied. He grinned. “I was the toughest, 10-year-old dude in Maple Grove.”

They both laughed. Hobart sensed Lila relax.
Sensitive area avoided
, he thought.
At least for now.

“You seem to like your own way pretty well,” Lila agreed. She leaned back against the row of faded, white-washed nest boxes and regarded the carpenter with a challenging smile. “So do I.”

“Well, that’s not going to be a problem,” he said, stretching a long arm out and leaning against the nest boxes, perilously near Lila.

“Why not?” she asked, in a low voice.  She felt the pull of his mesmerizing blue eyes cinching her closer, and could practically taste his earthy scent. Lila closed her eyes and swayed toward the inevitable.

“Because I’m going to do exactly what
you
want me to do,” he replied, in a matter-of-fact tone. “You get to call the shots, Lila—not me.”

Startled, Lila opened her eyes, and blinked.

Hobart pushed away from the nest boxes and straightened up. “Here you go,” he said, reaching for the trowel and tossing it to her. “Shouldn’t we go back to work now,
boss
?” he asked.

An astonished Lila caught the gardening tool automatically. “Umm…yeah,” she said. “Sure.”

Lila felt a momentary sinking feeling of disappointment. That certainly wasn’t the outcome she’d expected! But what was she hoping would happen? What did she want from him? Was it more than friendly advice, support and his carpentry help?

Someday – soon – she would need to take a look at those questions. Because they were every bit as important as the questions Mike Hobart had asked her about
The Egg Ladies!

“So, what DOES it take to get an organic certification in Maine?” she asked him, unwilling to let their conversation drop.

Hobart finished his next measurement before answering. He let the end of the yellow tape go, and it
zipped
back into the silver metal case. “I don’t know,” he replied, honestly. He reached for the short pencil, which was now stuck over his ear. “You should talk to Tom Kidd. The locals call him ‘The Organic Kidd.’ Tom’s a big mover and shaker in the organic movement in Maine and with MOGG.”

“MOGG?”

“The Maine Organic Growers Group,” he replied, jotting his measurement in his book. “Tom Kidd is on the MOGG certification committee. He might even be the head of it, now.” Hobart hesitated. “Tom and I went to college together. We’re not exactly friends, but we’re not enemies, either. He lives in Unity. I usually run into him at Gilpin’s a couple of times a week—want me to ask him to stop by sometime and talk with you?”

“That would be awesome,” said Lila. “Rebecca’s daughter Amber has been involved in the organic movement for years, but I’m, well, pretty clueless.”

“If you’re absolutely sure you want to go the organic route …?”

“Totally sure,” Lila affirmed.

“Then Tom Kidd is the man to talk to. Just as long as you stick to business with him.”

“That sounds like a warning,” said Lila, raising a dark eyebrow.

“It is. Tom Kidd is not a man I would recommend to my sisters.”

“Or a friend?” suggested Lila.

“Or a friend. Just keep your eyes open, and you’ll be alright. Tom Kidd doesn’t kiss with his eyes open.”

“You, you …!” Lila scooped up a handful of dusty gray sawdust from a nest box and hurled it good-naturedly at Mike Hobart. “Don’t think I was going to kiss you, because I wasn’t!”

Hobart shielded his eyes from the sawdust, and smiled, disarmingly. “I know you weren’t. I was just teasing,” he said. He brushed the sawdust from his curly blond hair and sweatshirt. “But not about Tom Kidd,” he continued, seriously. “Tom has a reputation of being charming with the ladies. A little too charming, if you ask me.”

Mike Hobart’s warning had an interesting effect on Lila. The rest of that day she found herself contemplating what might be behind the handsome carpenter’s heads-up.

Was Mike Hobart jealous? Or was there something about Tom Kidd that really would bear watching?

Or both?

Chapter 11

The Organic Kidd

Tom Kidd had been a major player in the Maine organic movement for the past 12 years, since he’d arrived from New Haven, Connecticut with his shoulder-length black hair not exactly wet behind the ears. Kidd landed on the doorstep of Unity College to major in environmental studies and to make Tom Kidd a name in the blossoming national organic movement. Not coincidentally, Unity was also home to the Maine Organic Growers Group (MOGG), one of the earliest organic associations in the country.

Tall, thin and devilishly handsome, the Organic Kidd had begun his working career as a MOGG apprentice. But Tom Kidd didn’t intend to work as an apprentice for long, slogging away at weeds in hot, dirty fields that smelled like cow shit. No, actual physical
work
was NOT his strong suit. Utilizing his natural sales abilities, a charming smile, coaxing brown eyes and a marketing finesse (for which Maine farmers, even organic ones, are not known) which WAS his strong suit, Kidd soon landed a desk job with MOGG.  Once he was graduated from Unity, Kidd secured an advanced degree in organic marketing from a mail-order college, and before long he was promoted to the MOGG certification committee where he quickly became the “go-to guy” for organic certification in the now-exploding Maine organic movement.

“Hey, hey, hey Hobart—whaddaya say?” Kidd greeted Mike Hobart when they ran into each other Sunday afternoon at Gilpin’s General Store, a few days after Hobart’s conversation with Lila. “Met the new babe up on Russell Hill yet?”

Hobart stiffened instinctively at the allusion to Lila. He didn’t like the way Tom Kidd had chosen to live his life, but he tried not to let it affect the way he treated his former Unity College classmate. “Yeah, I’m helping renovate the old hen pen,” Hobart replied, pulling a gallon jug of milk from the cooler.