Read Online The Last One by Tawdra Kandle - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Tawdra Kandle
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purgatory in the form of Backwater, Georgia.
“You’re up bright and early.” Laura shuffled out of her bedroom, blinking at me. “Everything okay?”
“Sure.” I rubbed my forehead, where a wicked headache had just begun to blossom. “Guess where I’m spending the summer?”
IN THE MONTHS AFTER my parents died, I had to make way too many hard decisions. Would I be Ali’s guardian? That wasn’t even a question. She was fourteen, and sending her off to live with our grandparents in Alabama was the last thing either of us needed. Would we keep the farm? That was more complicated. The land where I’d been born, where generations of Reynolds had lived and died, wasn’t something I could toss away lightly. But I was eighteen, just about to graduate from high school. I’d been working with my dad as long as I could remember, but helping out was a far cry from running the place.
That was when the Burton Guild had stepped in. Those men walked me through my options, and from the vantage point of twelve years distance, I knew they’d saved our lives. The Guild had helped me decide how much land I could reasonably manage on my own, and then they’d found people to lease the rest of the farm. The idea was that as I gained years and experience, I would be able to take back parts of the farm that I needed, as I needed. It was a good plan. So far, we’d been able to close out two leases.
I stood now in the late afternoon sun, scanning the acres of rich red Georgia clay. The field that butted the rear property line was my favorite place to stand at the end of the day and survey what I’d accomplished and what still needed to be done. Vidalia onion plants surrounded me, healthy green tops swaying in the breeze. Harvest was underway, but it was a slow and painstaking process that had to be done by hand. We’d hired on a few high school kids to help as we did every year, and the work was coming along. Several truck loads of the bundled onions were already crated in the barn, and we could barely keep up with the demand at our farm stand.
The stand was our main source of income. It was well known in the area and had been since my great-grandparents had sold their first basket of tomatoes back in the thirties. I glanced down at my old beat-up work watch, the one I wore in the fields to keep track of time so I didn’t have to risk losing or destroying my cell phone. Ali should be closing up about now, walking back to the house with Bridget. I snagged a bunch of onions, thinking of dinner, and made my way through the half-picked rows.
I passed through the tomato plants, pausing to rub a leaf between my fingers. Something was eating them, and I frowned. I’d have to amp up our organic pest spraying—only natural ingredients, as defined by the state—or risk losing the plentiful white blossoms and tiny baby green fruit. If there was one thing I’d learned over the past decade, if I got lax on any front, the bugs, the critters or the weather would get ahead of me, and I’d lose plants, food and money.
The walk back to the house was quiet, with only the occasional buzz of cicadas to keep me company. At the shed, I stopped, stripped off my sweat-drenched T-shirt and ran water in the old sink. I used the rag hanging on a hook nearby to wash my face, my arms and my chest. I remembered my dad and my granddad making this stop every day during the spring, summer and fall as they returned from fields, and it had become part of my ritual, too. Ali said it saved on the mess in my shower and in the kitchen sink, and anything that kept my sister happy was worth doing.
I climbed the two steps to the kitchen door and opened it, making a mental note to oil the squeak tonight. Or maybe this weekend. I tried to remember where I’d left the WD-40.
“Sam, is that you?” Ali called from the front of the house.
“No, it’s your other brother who’s been working out in the fields all day and brought you some fresh-picked onions. Who
“You’re up bright and early.” Laura shuffled out of her bedroom, blinking at me. “Everything okay?”
“Sure.” I rubbed my forehead, where a wicked headache had just begun to blossom. “Guess where I’m spending the summer?”
IN THE MONTHS AFTER my parents died, I had to make way too many hard decisions. Would I be Ali’s guardian? That wasn’t even a question. She was fourteen, and sending her off to live with our grandparents in Alabama was the last thing either of us needed. Would we keep the farm? That was more complicated. The land where I’d been born, where generations of Reynolds had lived and died, wasn’t something I could toss away lightly. But I was eighteen, just about to graduate from high school. I’d been working with my dad as long as I could remember, but helping out was a far cry from running the place.
That was when the Burton Guild had stepped in. Those men walked me through my options, and from the vantage point of twelve years distance, I knew they’d saved our lives. The Guild had helped me decide how much land I could reasonably manage on my own, and then they’d found people to lease the rest of the farm. The idea was that as I gained years and experience, I would be able to take back parts of the farm that I needed, as I needed. It was a good plan. So far, we’d been able to close out two leases.
I stood now in the late afternoon sun, scanning the acres of rich red Georgia clay. The field that butted the rear property line was my favorite place to stand at the end of the day and survey what I’d accomplished and what still needed to be done. Vidalia onion plants surrounded me, healthy green tops swaying in the breeze. Harvest was underway, but it was a slow and painstaking process that had to be done by hand. We’d hired on a few high school kids to help as we did every year, and the work was coming along. Several truck loads of the bundled onions were already crated in the barn, and we could barely keep up with the demand at our farm stand.
The stand was our main source of income. It was well known in the area and had been since my great-grandparents had sold their first basket of tomatoes back in the thirties. I glanced down at my old beat-up work watch, the one I wore in the fields to keep track of time so I didn’t have to risk losing or destroying my cell phone. Ali should be closing up about now, walking back to the house with Bridget. I snagged a bunch of onions, thinking of dinner, and made my way through the half-picked rows.
I passed through the tomato plants, pausing to rub a leaf between my fingers. Something was eating them, and I frowned. I’d have to amp up our organic pest spraying—only natural ingredients, as defined by the state—or risk losing the plentiful white blossoms and tiny baby green fruit. If there was one thing I’d learned over the past decade, if I got lax on any front, the bugs, the critters or the weather would get ahead of me, and I’d lose plants, food and money.
The walk back to the house was quiet, with only the occasional buzz of cicadas to keep me company. At the shed, I stopped, stripped off my sweat-drenched T-shirt and ran water in the old sink. I used the rag hanging on a hook nearby to wash my face, my arms and my chest. I remembered my dad and my granddad making this stop every day during the spring, summer and fall as they returned from fields, and it had become part of my ritual, too. Ali said it saved on the mess in my shower and in the kitchen sink, and anything that kept my sister happy was worth doing.
I climbed the two steps to the kitchen door and opened it, making a mental note to oil the squeak tonight. Or maybe this weekend. I tried to remember where I’d left the WD-40.
“Sam, is that you?” Ali called from the front of the house.
“No, it’s your other brother who’s been working out in the fields all day and brought you some fresh-picked onions. Who
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