“Then we can get a pony and play in it all the time?” Her eyes were big and bright and full of hope and faith.
“Yes. All the time.”
The memory faded. His time-ravaged, worn body returned. He had never played in the barn with Evi. And they’d never gotten that pony.
He slowed his steps. He had time to play now, but it was too late. Evi was all grown. And Noah. There had been a time when Gerrit hoped Noah would take over the farm one day. Follow in his footsteps.
That would never happen now.
He reached the box and pulled a small stack of mail from inside, remembering a movie trailer he’d seen during the commercial breaks on the cooking channel this morning. It was for a movie about a man who discovers a fantasy world inside his mailbox. Huh. He might want to see that movie. When was the last time he’d gone to the theater?
He turned to head back to the house and froze. Wait a minute. He looked down. Something was wrong.
The end of the drive had a strange ridge of gravel scattered with trash that hadn’t been there the day before. What had happened here? Daisy looked up at him with a question in her liquid brown eyes, and he drummed his chin with his fingers. It was almost as if someone had raked all the dirt, gravel, and litter from the road and the ditch into a pile at the end of his driveway. But who would—?
His hand clenched into a fist.
George.
Unbelievable.
He picked up an insect-infested beer can and hurled it in the direction of his scoundrel neighbor’s house.
George would pay for this.
GERRIT STRUTTED AROUND the kitchen as he put the finishing touches on the broiled pork chops with rosemary beans and potatoes and biscuits made from scratch. He had outdone himself this time, he was sure.
The back door banged, and Hannie called from the mudroom. “Smells good.”
Daisy sprinted to meet her mistress, grinning from ear to ear.
Gerrit rushed to set the table. “It’s almost ready.”
Tomorrow was Thursday. If Hannie had to go to bed early on Wednesday nights in preparation for Thursday morning deliveries, the least he could do was have dinner ready on time.
Hannie swept into the kitchen, Daisy at her heels. “I’m starving.”
He eyed the pork chops warily as he set them on the table, a pinch of dread biting his chest. It was easy to overcook pork to the point of dryness. Hadn’t that guy on TV said so at least a dozen times? Gerrit gave the chops the same look he used to give the kids when they were little that said, Don’t even think about it.
Hannie set her purse on the counter and knelt beside Daisy to give her a good scratch behind the ears. “It looks great. Biscuits are my favorite.”
His palms began to sweat. He had been gun-shy about taking any risks with dinner after the fettuccine Alfredo—opting for the safety of grilled-cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, chicken Caesar salad, and the like—but tonight was a big night. It had been one week since he signed the farm papers. One week since he became a free man. He needed to convince himself that was something to celebrate. And he needed to talk with Hannie about Memorial Day.
They sat at the table in silence, and he waited with anticipation as Hannie took a bite of her meat. He held his breath. She chewed. Her expression was inscrutable. He waited.
She was not going to comment.
He quickly cut a bite of pork from the outer edge of his chop and ate it. It was . . . fine. Not amazing, but not dried out. Definitely passable. His shoulders relaxed. It wasn’t a disaster.
If he was waiting for a good omen, this was the best he was likely to get. He cut a potato, studying it as if it were the most interesting spud he’d ever seen. “So have you talked to the kids yet?”
After a long moment with no response, he looked up.
Hannie swallowed. “About what?”
“Memorial Day weekend. Are they coming?”
She chose a biscuit from the tray and admired it. “I didn’t think you meant it.”
He speared a bean. Of course he’d meant it. Why would he have brought it up if he hadn’t meant it?
“I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.” She buttered the biscuit with deliberate movements. “And they probably already have plans.”
“But I’m going to barbecue ribs.”
She sighed. “Look, honey, I’m not sure how to tell you this.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“Evi’s a vegetarian now.”
He sat back in his chair, hard. It couldn’t be. She loved meat. Hamburgers, buffalo wings, rump roast. Pulled pork.
“How could—when did—I can’t—”
“Don’t take it personally.”
His fork dropped to the table. It was beyond all comprehension. He hadn’t worked—slaved—on that thankless piece of land for sixty-three years so his own daughter could shun the very animal that had put food on their table her entire life. How could he not take it personally?
“She still eats fish.” Hannie waved her biscuit in the air. “Sometimes.”
Gerrit didn’t know what that meant. Couldn’t process it. “Does she still drink milk?”
Hannie studied the table. “Almond milk.”
He threw up his hands. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Like I said.” Hannie brought the biscuit to her lips. “I don’t think Memorial Day’s a good idea.”
He helplessly watched her bite into the biscuit. Evi must hate him more than he figured.
Hannie’s face twisted for a second as she chewed her biscuit, then smoothed back into place. Uh-oh. Gerrit snatched a biscuit from the tray and took a big bite, the pinch of dread in his chest a fistful now. Fresh biscuits were one of Hannie’s most beloved foods. He had counted on them being his ace in the hole.
He spit the bite out. “It tastes like cardboard.”
Hannie set her biscuit down with a disappointed sigh and folded her hands on the table in front of her. “I think you forgot
