A Map of the World - Jane Hamilton [129]
Arnold was a thin, clean-shaven man in his early thirties. He had taken over the family business, which I gathered meant managing the money. When we came to the old orchard he took a deep breath and sat on a stump. He pulled each burr from his pant leg and flicked it away. Restored to his original state, he seemed at peace. Mrs. Reesman bent down and picked up a gnarled apple. “Isn’t this a Duchess?” she asked. Although I wasn’t sure, I said that it was. “We had these at Maud’s when I was little, Arnie,” she called to him. The Duchess apples were going to snag her in, just as the barn with the fresh white walls had caught me. Caucasian boys, Native American boys, Afro-American boys, would come together to harvest the apples of her youth.
Mrs. Reesman had an old-fashioned graciousness as well as a detachment that befit her wealth. She would or would not have the property, and either way her life would go on exactly as it had before. She seemed not to enjoy shopping, particularly, but she asked me questions about the farm. She did not have direct experience, but she was educated and knew what to ask. “How interesting,” she responded, without fail. Her great dignity, her code of behavior, neither required nor allowed her to ask me any personal questions.
Sandy walked me to the front door after the other two were in the car. “She really likes it,” she said, in hushed, conspiratorial tones. “She’s a lady with a vision, that’s for sure, and she’s very impressed. She’s the kind of person who feels a need to give back to her community. Her grandfather, I believe it was, founded one of the big Milwaukee breweries. Adele has always been so involved.” The only thing that kept me from trusting Adele implicitly, was the fact that she had Sandy in tow. “I’ve worked on a lot of different properties with her,” Sandy went on, “and I can tell when she’s affected positively.”
I’m in a terrible hurry, Sandy baby. I’m about to jump out of my skin. I know you didn’t believe that shtick about my sister so I leave it all to your imagination, if you have one. I want cash now, sweetheart, that’s the long and short of it.
“People have been stopping at the sign,” I lied. “A couple drove in last night and wanted to look around.”
“Really.” It was a statement of disbelief.
“I told them to call you, of course.”
I’m sure that on the way back to Milwaukee Sandy, doing her utmost to represent me, explained to Mrs. Reesman that I was having personal problems and was looking forward to selling my property, that I had, in fact, an urgent need to make a major life change. And that considering my desperate need I might be willing to part with the land at a radically lower price. Not many people in their right minds, after all, would buy a place with a conservation easement.
I don’t know if Rafferty had some kind of sixth sense operating. The day after Sandy came to scout out the farm he called me, for a change. And he continued, calling me several times that week, as if he knew he needed to be alert. He phoned with good news once, about a witness he’d discovered that was going to blow up the prosecution. He asked me how I was doing, how I was managing with the farm and the girls—questions he had not asked me at the start, when I could have used someone’s concern. I gave him no clues. “We’re going along,” I said. “Waiting. We’re waiting.”
On Friday Sandy called to say that Mrs. Reesman was planning to make an offer of three hundred thousand dollars, a substantial cut in the asking price. I had figured what I would need to pay Rafferty, to retrieve Alice, to wrap up my considerable bank debt on land and machinery and livestock. I had hoped also to pay back my mother’s loan.