After finishing his Pepsi, he slipped his gloves on and went back outside. There were still hundreds of weeds to pull, and he had a feeling the noises from the workshop weren’t going to bother him nearly as much now. Daisy followed him to the small bed of geraniums on the southeast corner of the house and plopped down in a shady spot to watch him work.
Though the sun was hot on his back, he didn’t mind. It felt good. He was riding high. Before long, he even found himself whistling. If only he could be there to see George’s face when he realized—
“Ho, there.”
He stiffened. Speak of the devil.
He rose to his feet. “What do you want?”
Turning to face his neighbor, he tried not to grimace at the pain in his lower back. Didn’t want to show weakness. George stood in the driveway, smiling. Smiling, for goodness’ sake.
“I had a question about your order.” George adjusted the safety goggles on the top of his head. “Agatha forgot to ask you about the feet.”
Gerrit gaped. What—? How—? “I . . .”
“I usually do a plain tapered foot on a table like that, but some people like a pedestal corner. It’s a little fancier.”
Heat burned Gerrit’s face. His mouth went dry.
“Wh-what are you talking about?” he stammered. This couldn’t be happening. There was no way George could know it had been him who called.
George raised his hands. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to Hannie. I know you’re probably planning a surprise for her birthday, right? I’ll give you a discount.”
The fact that George knew his wife’s birthday was coming up felt like salt in an already-gaping wound. He didn’t need a discount from George, and no, he wasn’t planning a surprise. He’d forgotten all about it until right this minute. His face must’ve looked perplexed.
“You know what?” George waved a hand. “Don’t worry about the feet. When I get to that point, I’ll have you pop on over and take a look at it, and you can decide then. We’ll do it when Hannie’s at work. She’ll never know.”
Gerrit stared dumbly. “I . . .”
“Guess I’ll be talking to you soon.” George turned to go, then spun back around as if remembering something. “Oh, and Agatha says to tell you to take it easy with that cold you’ve got. She heard this bug that’s going around is especially hard on the elderly.”
He strode away, and Gerrit stood as if paralyzed, incredulity roaring in his ears. Of all the—! How could he—? What was he—? Fury and shock raged through his body, alternating hot and cold. Fire and ice. Then dribbled down to his toes to form a pool of disgrace and indignation at his feet.
Bested again.
And how was he going to pay for the table? A month of his life, gone.
Hannie must never know about this.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
Gerrit’s eyes flew open. He sat up with a gasp. The cows. He was late. They were waiting.
He panted as he struggled out of his recliner, grunting as his back protested. It was past four in the morning. He’d better hurry.
His arms groped in the darkness. Why weren’t his coveralls next to the chair? He shuffled around the room, panic rising in his chest. What were these fuzzy things on his feet? He needed his boots.
Adrenaline buzzed in his ears as reality struck. He wasn’t late. The farm was gone. All that was over.
Hannie had bought him these slippers at the mall.
He stumbled to the back door and flung himself out onto the deck, sucking the crisp, fresh air. The coolness sharpened his senses, and he peered down the hill at the soft glow of the milking parlor. The faint bellow of a heifer drifted through the quiet early morning, urgent and yet peaceful. A cow seeking relief. Waiting her turn at the stanchions.
His hands gripped the deck rail as something raw and overpowering boiled up from within, burning his chest and throat as it spewed from his mouth. A strangled cry. An answering bellow.
Tears stung his eyes. He blinked them back, ashamed, but the weight of all he’d lost forced them down his face. The farm was gone. Luke was gone. All the memories, the long hours, the backbreaking labor. The years spent trying to make his father proud. Lost in his brother’s shadow.
And for what?
His heart slowly returned to a normal pace as he took a deep breath, then another. Then another. He had always loved the land. Loved the smell of fresh-cut fields and the roar of a cab tractor. Loved the freedom of working outside, away from the insistent demands of a desk or a phone or a client. But somewhere along the way, the farm had become a millstone around his neck rather than a refuge.
Maybe it was when Luke died. Or maybe . . .
A movement caught his eye. He blinked in the darkness and squinted. “Well, look who it is.”
He hadn’t seen the rascal in several days and had begun to believe he was rid of him. But Bernard the Terrible perched on the far end of the deck, roosting for the night. With how poorly roosters could see in the dark, he wouldn’t be going anywhere until sunrise.
Gerrit inched closer. “Can’t sleep either, huh?”
Bernard tilted his head to look at him with his right eye.
“You’re not nearly so scary when you’re stuck.”
The rooster puffed up his feathers.
“Not that I was ever scared of you.”
Gerrit stopped about three feet away, well out of reach, and leaned against the rail. The sky was still dark, but too alive to be called black. It looked rich and velvety, an indigo cushion spotted with stars that he was sure, if he reached out, he could press his hand into.
“Luke believed God made that sky.” He glanced at Bernard, who bobbed his head as if urging
