I had not disclosed to her, however, that I was bringing along a guest.
A wealthy, handsome, headstrong, abrasive guest.
With any luck, he’d find the day at the farm enjoyable or at the very least satisfactory.
I thought back to when we were younger. Even back then when there were so many less things to worry about besides being back home by dinner, he’d been the serious kid. He spent most of his time indoors on an old computer he’d put together himself. It took him six months to collect all the necessary bits and pieces, of course. Things like that didn’t fall into the laps of kids like us. We had to pick them up where we could. He spent a lot of time recycling cans and bottles he’d collect from the neighborhood to save up enough money to hit pawn shops or computer repair shops to see if the owners had any spare pieces they wouldn’t need. Over time, he succeeded.
After that, we all saw a lot less of Lukas. Where he used to come out and play kick the can with us, he started to become somewhat of a recluse. Lisa saw more of him than the rest of us. Sometimes, she told me how much she missed her older brother. She told me she’d try to sit with him in his room sometimes but he’d be so absorbed in the work he was doing that he’d hardly notice she was there.
Eventually, she gave him what he wanted and left him alone.
There was one thing he did enjoy though, I recalled.
My mother worked at a bakery during those days. Sometimes, she’d bring home orders that were never picked up by customers. Other times, she’d bring home products that didn’t sell and were on their last day before expiring. This meant my house always had something reheating in the oven, whether it was apple pies, peach cobblers, or cinnamon cakes.
It was on one of these nights that the apartment door was open. Lisa and I were in the living room playing with our dolls on the floor while my mother hovered over the stove, checking on an apple pie in the oven. Lukas came by to pick Lisa up and walk her back to their building, and he mentioned how good it smelled in the apartment.
My mother, being the angel that she was, cut him a slice of pie, spruced it up with some whipped cream, and handed it to him on a paper plate.
I smiled at the memory of how fast Lukas had devoured that slice of pie.
He’d practically inhaled it. My mother cut him another and sent him home with one for his own mother. Whether or not she saw that piece, we would never know. My mother used to joke that he probably ate it on his way back and swore Lisa to secrecy that no such pie ever existed.
Every time an apple pie came home with my mother after a shift at the bakery after that day, she sent me to his apartment with it. Lukas’ fridge was often empty, and once it became a regular thing, he always made sure to save half for his mother. His gratitude had been obvious and I’d loved to see him smile. It was something I didn’t see as much as I used to.
Had I even seen Lukas smile since that meeting with him and Lisa at his office the other day?
No, I don’t think I had. He’d grimaced, frowned, scowled, pursed his lips thoughtfully, and brooded. But smiled?
No such luck.
Hopefully, our day at the farm would change things. I’d arranged for a bakery close to the farm to deliver freshly baked pies in the afternoon for everyone to enjoy before the education part of the day began. In my experience, people, especially kids, were more likely to pay attention when they had full, happy bellies.
There was no doubt in my mind the same principle could be applied to Lukas.
Maybe the pies would bring up some nostalgia for him and he would remember that it wasn’t all bad growing up with no money. I’d always believed there were worse things than being poor. We had our mothers. Our friends. Each other. For me, that was more than enough.
But at some point, it had stopped being enough for him.
As if my thinking about him had summoned him, I looked up when my desk fell into shadow. Lukas stood outside my office door, reading my name painted beneath the words “Good Fellow’s” written on the glass in yellow and blue paint. He frowned, reached for the handle, and tugged it open. He was wearing sunglasses—designer brand, I assumed—and a white shirt with a black tie. His pants were black, his shoes properly shined, and a silver watch glistened at his wrist as he removed his sunglasses and hooked them in the collar of his shirt. His eyes scanned my office before landing on me.
His eyebrows lifted as if surprised to see me there. In my own office. Working.
I swallowed and stood up. “Hi.”
Lukas turned in a slow circle, sizing things up. He slid his hands in his pockets. “Where are your employees?”
“Oh, um, I don’t have any.”
He stared blankly at me.
I giggled nervously and hated how insecure it sounded. I cleared my throat and lifted my chin. “I don’t have employees but I have volunteers who help out when I need it. Occasionally, I’ll get an intern from a local high school who is interested in pursuing non-profit studies in college but those are getting fewer and farther between.”
“So,” he said slowly, his voice deep and gruff, “you handle all of this yourself?”
I wasn’t sure what he was referring to when he said “all of this.” My office was not all that
