Read Online Berry the Hatchet by Peg Cochran - Free Book Online Page B

to four inches of ice. That’s the minimum thickness to hold the weight of the machinery without cracking.”
    â€œYou said that sanding keeps down insects,” Monica said, the wind snatching her words away as she said them.
    â€œYes. Way back in 1816, when the cranberry growing industry was in its infancy, a Captain Henry Hall of Dennis, Massachusetts discovered that the sand that regularly blew onto his cranberry vines seemed to stimulate their growth. Sanding is now a best practice in cranberry farming.”
    By now they had passed the pump house, where thecontrols for the sprinklers were housed, and had reached the bog in question. It looked so different in winter, Monica thought, without the brilliant ruby red of the cranberries dotting the vines. The bog was frozen over and the vast expanse of ice was a bluish gray that blended with the overcast sky so that the line of the horizon nearly disappeared and you could barely tell where the ground ended and the sky began.
    Two of Jeff’s men stood around with their hands shoved into their pockets. They were dressed for the frigid weather in thick jackets and heavy work gloves. Monica recognized the one with the green cap pulled down low over his curly blond hair. He’d helped Jeff with the fall harvesting. They were standing next to a machine that looked like a cross between a Bobcat and a dump truck.
    â€œThat’s our sand buggy,” Jeff said, pointing at the contraption. “I adapted it from a crawler. Cranberry growing is all about making do with what you have. There are only around one thousand cranberry farmers in the country, so manufacturers aren’t rushing to create equipment for us—we have to do it ourselves.” He grinned. “At least it’s something to keep us busy during the winter.”
    At a signal from Jeff, one of the men jumped into the sand buggy and started the engine with a roar. Carefully he guided the strange-looking machine down a ramp and onto the frozen bog. A spreader, hooked to the back of the sand buggy, slowly released a layer of sand onto the ice.
    â€œWhen the ice melts, the sand will automatically sift onto the vines,” Jeff said. “It will choke out any weed seeds or insect eggs and act as a fertilizer, as crazy as that sounds.”
    As they were talking, a small group of people approached, led by a pretty blonde in a dark blue parka.Monica caught the glance that she and Jeff exchanged, and she smiled. Jeff had been hesitant to pursue Lauren at first, feeling he had nothing to offer with a farm on the brink of bankruptcy and an injury that was never going to heal. But Lauren had waited for him to come around, and he had.
    Together, Jeff and Monica had managed to turn Sassamanash Farm around as well, and they were now making a small profit. A chain gourmet grocery store had taken an interest in stocking Monica’s cranberry salsa, and they had their fingers crossed that the deal would soon go through and bring an infusion of cash to the farming operation.
    Lauren’s brave little tour group huddled together as Jeff explained about the sanding process. One gentleman, who looked like a retired professor with his tweed overcoat and plaid scarf, asked numerous questions, which Jeff patiently answered while the others looked around, stamping their feet to keep warm.
    Lauren was about to shepherd them toward the farm store when Monica noticed a woman in the distance headed their way. She was waving at them. Monica watched as she ran down the dirt path toward them.
    The woman finally reached them, breathless and red-faced, with her fancy heeled boots coated in mud.
    â€œJacy!” Jeff said. He looked from Jacy to Lauren. “Lauren, this is Jacy Belair. She owns Bijou, that new jewelry store in town.”
    Monica could tell Jeff felt awkward. He kept looking back and forth between Lauren and Jacy.
    Jacy put her arm through Jeff’s, apparently not noticinghis scowl, and