Final Harvest Read online

  “Yeah, it’s a long way from tent city under the Logan Street bridge,” Traci said remembering when they first met.

  Josh had been a shield against the elements that tried to take her out, people and things, and sometimes herself. When he found the winning lottery ticket, Josh didn’t waste the luck. He bought a twenty-five-acre parcel at the county line, and scavenged building materials from demolitions and abandoned properties. With no housing code enforcement to slow him down, he assembled the campground and filled it with fellow military vets and marginalized folk. It had become a small village sitting between Faucier and Pekote that neither county official wanted to claim. And that’s how Josh wanted to keep it.

  “How’s that house coming along?”

  “I still have a lot of work left to do,” she said shaking her head.

  “That’s always the way.” His voice was a low growl that some took for anger. Traci knew better. “Things ain’t never finished, sweetheart. So, don’t wait on that to be happy.”

  “I’m not sure it’s worth it anymore, to be honest. I’m thinking about packing it in, Josh. Maybe head to the West Coast. What do you think?”

  “Naw, I like it right here in the middle where life is slow. You know, I could always use your help around here. You remember what I taught you, right?”

  “How to use a ripsaw,” she said, then smiled at his fake scowl. “And that ‘quitting is the way of cowards and thieves.’”

  “That’s right,” he said and took in a long draw of his cigar. He watched the sequence of smoke rings float over their heads in silence as if meditating, then snapped back. “Well, I gotta check on a little trouble over by Bear Falls with a couple of the guys. Take care, T-Babe, and don’t be a stranger.”

  He gave her a bear hug, pressed his moustache against her temple and whispered, “Anybody give you a problem, just say the word.” He tilted his head back, those dark gray-green eyes staring down at her, then lowered his voice even more. “And Ol’ Josh’ll take care of it, alright?”

  She nodded, then forced back her tears as she watched him lean the shotgun on his shoulder and walk off into the shadows. The dry brush crunched under their feet as the other men appeared and joined him on the trail through the woods.

  Traci wiped her face and caught up with Moe who stood inside the enclosed porch of the cabin he shared with the other growers. They stepped inside the dimly lit common room. It was rustic but spacious, outfitted with three separate sleeping areas and a mini kitchen. Mosquito netting draped across the open windows and she could smell the scent of citronella pots burning in each corner. Only one person met them.

  “Sarah, it’s okay.” Traci said softly, touching her shoulder. “I’m going to show you a picture of some people. And I just want to know if you remember seeing them anywhere. Take your time. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Sarah looked at Moe and he nodded. Then, she looked back and nodded at Traci.

  Traci held out the article containing the photograph of Earl Garrett. Next, she showed her a group photograph that included several people, including Rowena Garrett.

  “She sure was pretty back in the day,” Sarah said her eyes starting to fill with tears.

  “Do you recognize any of the other people, Sarah?” Traci held the photo closer to her wishing the quality was better and the room lighting brighter. “Any of the women?”

  “No, not a one.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  FOR THE VERY FIRST time, Traci was making a solo document delivery. She had passed the probationary period at Dependable Flyers, had earned the red wing lapel pin and was promoted to handle priority and VIP signature deliveries. She almost missed having coffee breaks with Warren and cycling through the streets together, but she also loved the freedom not to have to speak to anyone. She had so many things to think about and it was hard to focus on casual conversation.

  Traci picked up the package at the dispatch desk and scanned it at the exit. She now had twenty minutes to get it to the proper destination and get the electronic signature on-site. “Fast, efficient, and error-free,” she thought. She looked twice at the address on the label. It sounded familiar, but she had never been to that location or that section of town before.

  She set it in her GPS and grabbed a bottle of water from the vending machine on her way outside. No one was more ready for the heatwave to end than Traci. The fields constantly needed irrigation, there was the concern about heat stroke among the growers, and to top it off, her house had no air conditioning. When she got home at the end of each day, she had to put cool cloths on the back of her neck to drive away the migraines. At night, she would slip out of her bedroom window and sleep under the shade on her roof. She was thankful for the old trees in Magnolia Grove. She was thankful for her house. As distressed as it was, it was still home, for now.

  Traci arrived at Dewey Station, a bustling business hub on the southern edge of town. She found Simon, Kinsey and Co. on the building directory and went inside. She asked for the office manager at the entrance after the security officer waved her through the metal detector. The walls were stark white with doors positioned every twenty feet. The guard nodded in her direction and pointed toward the bank of thick glass enclosed administrative stations along the back. Traci noticed a woman stand up and walk toward her. They met in the middle of the narrow corridor.

  “Hello, I have a delivery,” she said holding out the package for the office manager to scan it with the electronic wand.

  “Ms. Simmons,” said a voice from behind her.

  She turned and saw Ray Winston approaching her from a corner office.

  “What a nice surprise to see you here,” he said and motioned for the woman to return to her desk.

  “I’m just making a delivery.”

  “Ah, well, I hope you don’t have to rush back right away. I’d like to show you around,” he said while taking off a pair of tortoise framed glasses. He stashed them in the pocket of his russet brown suit jacket and tucked his tailored cream shirt into slim navy blue slacks. “That is if you’re interested in the plans we have for the community.”

  Traci was becoming irritated by his presence more by the minute, but she couldn’t resist the opportunity to look behind the walls of the corporation that was determined to wipe out Bent Willow.

  “Sure,” she said and removed her sunglasses and bike helmet. He escorted her to a spacious presentation room filled with large gleaming trophies on white pedestals and awards mounted on the walls. Each one represented an accomplishment in urban planning or architectural design throughout the county. There were pictures of unique structures that existed around Keeferton that she had never seen. She was fascinated by a pen and ink drawing in a black metal frame.

  “Where is this building?”

  “Good eye,” he joined her next to the wall. “One of my favorite examples of post- Civil War Industrial Era architecture. That’s Stuart Hall.”

  He stood close behind her, speaking softly into her ear. His voice was smooth and enticing, almost hypnotic.

  “It’s the oldest building in Faucier County. The Historic Preservation Society occupies it now. They’re open today. I can contact Shannon Brewer and arrange a tour, if you’d like.”

  “No, thank you. I have to go now,” Traci said resisting the urge to lean back against his chest and melt into that luscious baritone, she stepped away.

  He followed her, waved at the security guard to let her pass back through the checkpoint, and caught up with her at the door.

  “You know, Ms. Simmons,” he said as he slowly stroked his beard trimmed to a perfect Gentlemen’s Fade, “I liked the way you stood up for yourself the other day. To be honest, I was a little ticked off at first. Well, more than a little,” he laughed, “but after I thought about it, you really impressed me.”

  He smoothed his navy herringbone print tie and adjusted the monogrammed clip. “Perhaps you’d be interested in coming to work here, as an intern.” He took a step closer and said, with a slig
ht curl of his lip, “But, don’t get me wrong, nothing’s going to stop the development in Magnolia Grove.”

  “I have to get back. Goodbye.” She turned and walked outside but he refused to let her out of his sight.

  “Wait, hold up. Do me a favor and think about it. And you can at least let me buy you a coffee while you’re here,” he said, dropping his chin and looking into her eyes, “and a donut. Let’s support a small local business. What do you say?”

  Traci noticed the bursts of gold in the brown of his eyes as the sun washed over his face. “So handsome,” she thought and felt the words sink into her soul. She had prepared a lunch and left it in the fridge for Milo, which meant there was none left for her. Getting some food in her stomach sounded like a good idea. Maybe she could learn more about his plans, and he seemed like a reasonable person.

  “Okay, sure,” she said and locked her bike to the platform in front of the building. They entered the Brunch and Brew Coffee Shop next door. The heavenly aroma of roasted beans and spices filled the air. Traci looked around the almost empty seating area. The ambiance was slightly upscale but conducive to conversation with a young man playing acoustic guitar softly in the corner. The after-work crowd had not arrived, so the servers were chatting together near the hostess station.

  “Hello, Mr. Winston,” the teenage cashier said with a shy smile. He acknowledged her with a wink. Traci chose a double espresso with hazelnut syrup and a lemon-filled donut. Ray had an Americano.

  “No sugar, no cream, no waiting on the barista. That’s my motto,” he said as he carried their order to a window nook overlooking the highway and the construction site of the new amphitheater. They sat quietly waiting for their beverages to cool enough to sip. Traci felt comfortable sitting there with him, which was so strange when only a few days ago she considered him her mortal enemy. He was so self-assured, so in control of his personal space it seemed to pull her in. Almost a different person than the man threatening her at Bent Willow. Why doesn’t anything make sense anymore, she thought

  “So,” he said with a slow blink of those gorgeous eyes. “What makes you so interested in Rowena Garrett’s property?”

  “Why do you need to know that?” she said locking eyes with him. She felt a brush back was needed but hopefully not heeded. She wanted more information without exposing anything about herself and the others.

  “You’re right,” he said taking a slow sip of coffee, then folded his arms across his chest. “I don’t need to know. Just trying to start a conversation and being very awkward, apparently.”

  Traci wiped away donut crumbs and smiled behind her napkin. “I like those,” she said nodding toward his wrist.

  “My cufflinks?” he said, as if he was unaware of them. “Thank you, I collect them. I guess you could call it a hobby.”

  “What color is this?” she said, touching the oval shaped blue stone.

  “Lapis,” he said, propping his elbow on the table to give her a better view, pointing out the green veins running through it. “Lapis lazuli set in sterling silver. I purchased this pair during my last trip to Dubai.”

  “They’re nice,” she said and leaned in, inhaling the scent of sandalwood and frankincense. Royal Moor, she recognized it from her part-time job at Scent Essentials last year. Or was it the year before last? Randall didn’t wear cologne like most of the men she had met socially. How odd. Or was it? “Focus,” she thought.

  “Do you like to travel?”

  “Sorry?” Traci sat back and took another sip of her drink.

  “I am a bit curious about you, Ms. Tracinda Simmons,” he said with a playful smile while tugging his shirt sleeve back down. He crossed his legs exposing bare ankles over brown wingtip oxfords. “Let me start again.” He folded his hands on the small table. “I’m from Hart Township and only recently moved to Laurel Village just outside North Keeferton.”

  “I know where it is,” Traci said flatly. “I’ve made deliveries there.” She recalled gazing into the window of the $1.2 million model unit. One day I’ll design a room like that, she had thought.

  “I like it,” he said trying to catch her eye. “My place is comfortable for a single guy. So, you know about the new developments around here?”

  “Yes,” Traci said looking away. “I grew up around Eastern Shores most of my life.”

  “Eastern Shores?” he said and wrinkled his brow. “I’m not familiar with that area. Where is it?”

  “It’s not,” she said and put her cup back on the table. “They tore it down. It’s a big box retail mall now,” she looked at him, “and miniature golf.”

  Ray Winston sat quietly staring into his cup for a few minutes, tracing his finger along the rim. Then he leaned over the table toward her and whispered, “Listen, I understand that real estate development can get a bad rap. If it’s not thought out completely, it can create terrible relationships within the community. And no one wants that. I certainly don’t.” He placed his hand over his heart. She stared at the diamond set in the platinum Morehouse College signet ring. “People get displaced, and that sows the seeds of contention. It can take years to recover their trust. When we talk about ...”

  “Changing the face of the community?”

  “Yes,” he said and motioned for her to lower her voice. “What we mean by that is ...”

  “I know what you mean,” Traci said even louder. “Everyone knows what you mean.”

  “Okay, so what’s your idea?” he said, settling back against the oak panels. “Leave everything as it is? Let the buildings fall into ruin? Is that your solution? Let the properties be destroyed and the people with them.”

  Their neighbor flapped his newspaper and lifted it to block his presence.

  “I don’t have one,” she said, her face heating up, “but maybe you’re asking the wrong person. Maybe talk to the people whose faces represent the ‘community’ you talk about. The ones you don’t like to think about and see what they have to say.”

  She rose and tossed her napkin on the table, “Try talking to them and not at them for a change.” She walked away, turned back, picked up the rest of her donut and pushed through the line of people into the parking lot. Without looking back, Traci mounted her bicycle and rode into the flow of traffic headed back to City Centre. She had to push Ray Winston out of her head, finish her quota of deliveries for the day and get home to have dinner with Milo. She had so much to tell him. She was going to win this war. And she knew how; by any means necessary.

  Traci turned down Veterans Memorial Blvd and crossed Freedom Way, where the stark contrast of urban blight was most apparent. The vast majority of residents on this side of Keeferton had been employed by the Empire Steel plant. When the owners closed the plant, they offered the workers the option to move out of state to retain their jobs. Three out of five houses were abandoned in the wake. Retail stores and services had dried up. The families that remained had slowly watched remnants of the area decay. Everyone was outside escaping their hot box houses. She avoided eye contact as she sped along, dodging children playing in the street while scanning the open doorways and broken windows. Finally, she spotted him.

  “Milo!” she shouted.

  She watched a shadowy figure emerge from the side of a boarded-up duplex. Milo looked around, shoved his hand in his pocket and slowly approached her.

  “What are you doing over here, Miss Traci?”

  “I’m glad I found you,” she said and pulled onto the sidewalk. Suddenly a group of kids ran past her and onto the porch next door. The adults directed the children inside the house. Others abandoned their front yards, slamming screen doors behind them. She turned back to Milo, but he was gone.

  “You make deliveries over here, too?” Officer Randall Wells said from the middle of the street.

  Traci dismounted her bike and walked over to the squad car window.

  “I finished with my delivery. Not that it’s any of your business.”

  “I would advise you not to take any sh
ort cuts through Empire Row,” he said pushing his sunglasses down his nose. He looked past her, surveying each of the surrounding buildings. “Stuff happens over here that you don’t want to be a part of.”

  “Are you following me?” She was so angry that just the presence of his squad car sent ripples of fear through the neighborhood. How could he be so oblivious to that? Maybe he knew and enjoyed it. Could that be it? He’s not his uniform, she told herself trying not to explode, but she couldn’t help it.

  Randall pushed his sunglasses onto the top of his head. “I only follow suspects in these streets,” he said smiling, “Are you planning on committing a crime, ma’am?”

  Traci climbed on her bike and headed back toward Freedom Way but not before throwing up a middle finger toward Officer Randall Wells.

  She sped down the three blocks from City Centre to find Shannon Brewer at the Faucier County Historic Preservation Society. She got there just as the office was closing for lunch and passed along her most prized possession, the envelope from Rowena Garrett’s mattress. She knew it would be safe in their hands, but most importantly, she wanted it out of hers.

  “I don’t know what to make of all of this,” she said pointing to the envelope. “But I think if anyone should have it ... Well, I hope it all makes sense one day.”

  “Where did you get this?” Ms. Brewer said shuffling through the photos.

  “From a friend.”

  After she left Ms. Brewer’s office, Traci sat on the front steps of the old building and took a few sips from her water bottle. She had explained everything she knew about Rowena Garrett and her beloved Hazelton House, the farm and the people. Tears streamed down her cheeks as all the faces of Bent Willow flashed before her eyes.

  “Now what?” she said under her breath.

  She wished she could just go back in time to a few short weeks ago; getting up each morning, going to work and finishing the dozen or so DIY projects around her house. If it was possible for her to love a thing, she loved that old wreck of a house, even with all the broken windows and overgrown vines, the faucet leaks and creaking floor planks. “It has good bones” the inspector had said. “Once you get it in shape, it’ll be worth all the work.”