When Libby Met the Fairies and her Whole Life Went Fae (14 page)

Instead, she was getting weird gardening advice. Nothing had changed. She was still just Libby Samson. Aging, childless, middle class divorc
é
e. Dull as a Monday.

She plucked a tissue from the box on her desk and wiped her fingers so she wouldn’t get her keyboard greasy.

Maybe she should tell Paul after all. If she presented it in a neutral way, he might be able to help her explain it. It would be nice, to be able to explain it.

20

Libby’s rescheduled on-site visit for her farm’s organic certification was finally set. For a Wednesday.

She woke up that day at 5:00 a.m., threw on some shorts, a tee shirt and sneakers, and ran up the hill to her beds to look at her lamb’s lettuce.

It was still there. Jade-green whorls of spoon-shaped leaves. Beautiful against the straw mulch.

She told herself there was no reason to be nervous. And truthfully, seeing those plants there really did help. Some.

She waited in the house, drinking more coffee than she needed. Her hands got all sweaty from nerves and the coffee, and every time she checked out the window to see if the inspector had come, she carried her forms with her, so that by 11:00 there was a rumpled bend along one edge where she’d been gripping them with her damp hand.

Then, at long last, a car pulled into her drive.

She watched the inspector guy hop out of his car and when enough time had passed that she figured it wouldn’t seem too much like pouncing, she opened her door and went out to meet him, telling herself as she walked that she was ready. She was ready.

He was short, receding hairline, moustache. White crew socks folded over above his boots. Fit. Really fit. Not a scrap of fat. It gave him a cop-ish kind of look that didn’t do anything for her nerves.

“Libby Samson?” He put out his hand. “I’m Chip Hanford.”

“Nice to meet you. What do you want to see first?”

And then they started. Mostly he asked questions. Which was okay. At first. He went over everything. Where she bought her seed, where she stored her equipment. What water would she use to wash produce. Who had owned her land before and how did they use it. A lot of the same stuff that was on her application forms but of course he needed to hear her say it, too.

Then he wanted to walk the perimeter of her property to check the maps she’d drawn up. He wanted to see the adjacent properties, too. Organic farmers need to prevent contamination from neighboring land—pesticide sprays can drift, for instance. But in Libby’s case, her property wasn’t bordered by anything that might present a problem. There was Dean’s forest on two sides, country roads on two others. More undeveloped land on the other side of the roads. Not even a lawn that somebody might treat with something prohibited.

“Okay. Let’s take a look at your beds, then.”

“Sure.”

They walked back toward the lower field and Libby’s growing beds. Him, not talking; Libby, trying to look around, without him noticing she was looking around. In case the little people were about.

She was hoping they wouldn’t be.

She was hoping that, if they were, they’d keep a low profile this morning.

“That’s all you have in cultivation right now?” he said.

“Yes. That’s all. I do plan to—”

Then she saw him. The little man. Seated on the stone wall. Back in the shadows of the hedgerow but clearly visible to anyone who glanced in that direction. Sitting on the edge of a large stone, kicking his feet out like a child, staring at Libby.

“Are you okay?”

It was only then that she realized she’d broken off in mid-sentence.

“Uh! Yes. Fine. Something caught my—”

Ach! He was looking over at the wall.

“Gone now!” She practically shouted it. “As I was saying, what was I saying—” She brushed the sweat from her forehead. “Wow, it’s gonna be a hot one today, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He frowned. “So, Ms. Samson. What are you doing for soil amendments?”

“Oh, yes, um, well. Let’s see. Since the land has been fallow for several years, nothing, nothing this year. I plan in the future to mostly use green manure. Rotate the beds, plant white clover when, um . . .”

The little man was still there. She could see him out of the corner of her eye.

“You know what I mean. When I’m not growing anything. I’ll grow clover. So I guess that means I will be growing something, won’t it?” She laughed nervously and noticed the crease in Chip’s brow had deepened.

They were back by the end of the bed nearest the house. Libby glanced again toward the big stone where the little man was sitting. Her watering can was a few feet away from it—the can she’d used to sprinkle her horsetail brew on her fields. She hadn’t thought anything of it. Until she saw Chip Hanford follow her glance and notice it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did you say you own the property east of this plot?” He pulled her map back out of the folder he was carrying, stepped over the bed and toward the watering can.

“I . . . yes. Yes.” Libby followed him, her heart hammering. If he saw the little man . . .

But Chip wasn’t interested in the little man. He was interested in the watering can. He’d thought that was what she was looking at.

He picked it up and looked inside.

“What’s in the can?”

“Oh! Oh. Nothing. I was just—”

The little man hadn’t moved. He was still on the rock, still kicking his feet. “Go AWAY” she mouthed to him over Chip’s shoulder, gesturing with one hand, but he didn’t act like he noticed. Or knew what she meant.

But she needn’t have worried. About the little man, that is. Chip’s attention was entirely on the can. He tilted it, staring inside. Smelled it. “Ms. Samson?” He swirled the contents and stuck his face back toward the opening to smell it again. “What is in this can?”

“It’s . . . it’s . . .”

Now how was she going to explain this?

“I assume this is something you’ve applied to your beds?”

“Well . . . yes, yes . . .”

He lowered the can. He had Libby pinned down now with his eyes. No messing around with this guy.

“It’s, uh, an herbal infusion.”

“Herbal infusion.”

“A friend, uh, suggested it . . . as a soil amendment . . .”

“I believe you said you weren’t using any amendments this year.”

“I forgot about this one.” Libby shifted her feet as she realized her blunder. Little man. Least of her problems. Libby, you idiot. You idiot.

Chip lifted the can and sniffed at it again. “What sort of herbs?”

“Horsetail.
Equisetum Arvense
. It’s very high in silica. I’m a . . . biologist.”

“I see.”

The silica thing was true. Also a stroke of brilliance. What soil didn’t need more mineral content? “It’s an experiment, really. But interesting, don’t you think? I—”

“You prepared it yourself?”

“Yes! Yes. One peck in five gallons of water. Then I cooled it and strained it and used the can here to . . . I gathered the horsetail from down the hill there, next to the road—”

“Next to the road?”

Libby froze. Knew before her brain caught up that she’d just made her blunder worse. “Yes, yes, in the d—alongside the road.”

“Ms. Samson. You are aware that roadside plants are often heavily contaminated with heavy metals? Lead? And also possibly petrochemical residues?”

Oh, no. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, yes. Of course.”

Chip produced a vial from his vest pocket. He pulled its cork out with his teeth and poured some of the infusion into the vial where it swirled around for a second, greenish and murky.

Then he set the watering can back down and thrust the cork back into place.

“We’ll have to have this tested. At your expense.”

“Oh, of course. Of course. I’m sure it will be fine . . .”

“Anything else you want to tell me, Ms. Samson?”

He didn’t look very happy. Not at all.

“No. No. I, uhn, I guess that’s it. Really.”

He put the vial back into a pocket and she followed him down toward her house.

She didn’t dare look over her shoulder to see if the little man was still there.

21

“It’s beautiful, Libby,” Susan said.

She and Libby were standing, side by side, looking down into the chest cooler at Libby’s lamb’s lettuce. Her first harvest.

“Thanks,” Libby said, keeping her tone deliberately even. Inside, though, she was jumping up and down. No, she was crying with relief.

Or maybe exhaustion. Not that harvesting had been that hard. But she’d had trouble getting to sleep the night before. Then up at 4:00. Filled six 5-gallon buckets with ice water and carted them up to her field. Sun coming up. The harvesting itself, moving down her rows, cutting the plants off with a knife right at the ground, flicking away the occasional slug, a bit of cosmetic trimming if any leaves were yellowed or chewed. As soon as a plant was trimmed, she plunged it into a bucket of ice water to keep it from wilting. Then carted the buckets to her car and transferred the greens to the cooler.

Then the drive to Susan and David’s farm. Libby had to push to make it by 7:00. Plus Paul called her cell at 6:15, right as she was about to leave her place—what was he doing up at 6:15 on a Saturday? And her reaction, she was sorry to say, was irritation. She didn’t need an interruption right at that particular moment, so she didn’t pick up, then she felt guilty so she rang him back.

He’d called to wish her luck. He’d actually set his alarm so that he could call her before she left, to wish her luck.

So then she felt even guiltier.

They agreed to meet for lunch in the city at about noon.

She jumped into her car, jumped back out when she realized she’d left her gloves by the side of the road, then finally, on her way.

“I’ve never seen lamb’s lettuce heads that big before.” Susan picked one of the heads up. “You must have some amazing soil.”

Libby laughed a bit nervously. She’d thought they’d looked kind of . . . lush. “The land’s been fallow so long. Or maybe that it was pasture before? I guess that probably explains it?”

Susan thought she and her husband could move about 20 pounds of Libby’s greens that day. She had some of her CSA members coming out to work in the afternoon, and they’d take some. David was hitting Rochester’s open air market and would add Libby’s stuff to the greens and herbs he and Susan were selling. This time of year, that was mostly what they had, plus their preserves—Susan kept an inventory of jellies and jams to give them things to sell when the harvest wasn’t in full swing.

Of course, he’d have to mark Libby’s greens as “transitional,” not organic, since she wasn’t certified yet.

“So, how’d your on-site go?” Susan asked as they transferred the lamb’s lettuce to the back of David’s pick up.

“Good, I guess.”

Libby had too much on her mind to notice that her answer was a bit lacking in conviction. But that was okay. Because if Susan started asking for details, Libby might have to get into the whole horsetail brew business. A subject she’d rather avoid.

“Well, you’re off to a good start.” Susan climbed into the truck bed to push everything up toward the cab.

Libby noticed she and David had grown tatsoi.

They watched David drive off.

“Lamb’s lettuce is getting really popular. I bet he sells out.”

Libby nodded. “I’ve got more.”

“Next week.”

They hoisted the cooler out of Libby’s trunk and carried it, between them, to Susan’s barn where it would be shaded from the sun. “We can’t seem to grow the stuff here,” Susan said. “Lamb’s lettuce. Just doesn’t like the clay, I guess.”

Libby almost said, “I’ve got clay, too,” but she stopped herself. Susan and David had been doing this for over fifteen years. Obviously she’d gotten lucky. And if it wasn’t entirely luck . . . well. It still wasn’t anything she was going to start blabbering about.

“C’mon, there’s coffee inside,” Susan said and she smiled at her gratefully.

♦ ♦ ♦

She’d washed her hands and face at Susan’s but she was still feeling pretty grubby as she stood inside the door at Jine’s, scanning about for Paul.

She spotted him finally, in a booth hunched over a menu. Then he saw her and waved her over.

Ritual lip peck.

She sat down.

“So how’d it go? Didja bring in a cool million or two?”

He probably didn’t intend that to be a dig. Libby gave him the benefit of the doubt, anyway. Yeah, her net was going to be thin this year, and probably next, so there’s nothing wrong with making a joke out of it, right? “Susan thinks they’ll probably sell everything I brought today. I’m off to a great start, she says.”

“Look out, Cascadian Farms.”

They ordered. She watched Paul strip the paper off a straw and plunge it into his cola.

“So,” he said. “There’s something we have to talk over.”