Weekends in Carolina Read Free Page A

know what Max grew, other than vegetables.
    “They were Hank’s. After we finished renovating the barn, he had some leftover wood. There’s a little chicken coop on the other side of the house, built to look like a tobacco barn.” Her smile must be at the thought of the chickens; it couldn’t be at the memory of his father. “It’s cute.”
    Trey tried to imagine his father designing a cute chicken coop and got a headache. He also couldn’t imagine his father wanting chickens. Trey, Kelly and his mother had built the original chicken coop after his father’s response to his mother wanting hens had been, “You want ’em, you gotta work for ’em.” Kelly and Trey had gone with their mother to pick up the chicks from a nearby farm, and though Trey had pretended to be too old and too manly at thirteen for anything cute, he still remembered having to repress a giggle at the sight of the cheeping biddies. His father, however, had never once referred to the chickens without the adjectives “smelly” or “dirty.” He’d also never once turned down fried eggs or a slice from one of his mother’s delicious sour-cream pound cakes.
    “I’m sorry about your father,” Max said. Her tone held the same sharp honesty of her stare and Trey wondered if she meant it or was the best liar on the planet. He decided to give her credit for honesty.
    “I’m only sorry he didn’t sell you the land before he killed himself. Seems like that’s the only thing you should be sorry about, too.”
    It was eerie, watching those short, pale lashes lower over her light eyes. Trey almost felt like he’d said something he shouldn’t have. Almost.
    They finished the rest of their meal in silence.
    * * *
    M AX APPRECIATED BOTH Trey’s help carrying the dishes to the sink and his quick exit. She didn’t know how to respond to the anger simmering under the surface of his skin. Hank hadn’t been a paragon of anything, but he at least deserved for his children to be sad at his death.
    She scrubbed the plates and stacked them in the small dish drainer. The winter season was slow on the farm, but she had to finish plotting out her fields before the spring vegetables went into the ground. And she must make sure she had enough wax boxes in stock for when the Community Supported Agriculture, or CSA, began. And arrange for the intern candidates to visit. She’d been about to send those email invitations when Hank had died, then she’d wanted to wait until she’d met Trey.
    Of course, she thought as she folded the kitchen towel and hung it off the oven, she could still lose the farm for the summer. She didn’t think Trey’s promises could to be trusted. She would have to go on with her work as though everything was normal and be prepared to stand tall when everything came crashing down about her feet.
    But starting the broccoli in the greenhouse would have to wait until tomorrow, since she’d wasted the morning in useless, irritated shooting and would need to spend some of the precious daylight picking up shell casings. Her irritation with herself for wasted hours would last until she turned the week in her calendar and didn’t have to look at “shot Pepsi cans” as her record for daily farm duties. Maybe if she added “made lunch for new landlord” to it, the day wouldn’t look so wasted on paper.
    When she’d asked Hank what happened to the will and he’d said, “I’ve taken care of it, sugar,” she should’ve pressed him for more details. Her morning spent in target practice had been as much a reaction to her own stupidity as to not knowing what Hank had meant by taken care of it.
    She whistled and Ashes eased his old bones out of his bed, stretched, then finally wagged his tail. The old dog wasn’t ready to retire from farmwork yet, but this might be his last season. The geese were starting to get the best of the old dog. She wished he could live out the rest of his days in a farmhouse with central heat rather than the often