Free Your Dream and Mine by Susan Kirby

“Let me get that for you,” he offered hastily.
    “I’ve got it,” she said, and ducked into the entryway as Will came bounding up the porch steps.
    “Trace! You’re cleaned up! Got a date?” asked Will.
    “Something like that” Trace picked up one of Thomasina’s boxes.
    “Who’s the lucky girl?”
    “Deidre.”
    “Deidre O’Conley?” Will chortled and slapped him on the back. “Old sparks still burning, eh? If you weren’t my best buddy, I’d be jealous. Or did you think you were the only one who ever had a crush on sweet Dee?”
    “You want to help here?” Arms full, Trace indicated with his foot the remaining boxes on the porch.
    “I heard you had a new tenant,” said Will just as Thomasina returned for another box. “Hello again, Thomasina. Need some help?”
    “Sure. Thanks, Will.” She smiled at him, and reached for the box in Trace’s arms.
    Will picked up a folded lawn chair and an ironing boardas Trace followed with a box full of dishes with paperback novels wedged in.
    “So where are you and Deidre going?” Will asked.
    “Dinner and a movie.”
    “The drive-in?”
    “Are you here for a reason?” he growled.
    “Yes, and wait’ll you hear! Where do you want this stuff, Thomasina?” Will asked.
    “Anywhere’s fine.”
    Will propped the ironing board and folded chair against the wall. Trace continued to the kitchen.
    “I just came from the farm,” said Will, at his heels. “You think you know somebody, and wham! Right in the old bread basket!”
    Trace paused in looking for a patch of open countertop. “What’re you talking about?”
    “Mom and Dad are selling out. They’re going to move to town,” Will told him.
    “Selling out?” Trace set the box down so hard, the dishes rattled. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
    “I wouldn’t have believed it myself if the appraiser hadn’t been there,” said Will. “Dad’s pretty determined. He asked my advice on a good auctioneer.”
    “He’s auctioning the place?”
    “That’s what he says. Unless one of us kids wants it”
    “ Do you?” asked Trace.
    “I’d like to keep it in the family, of course,” admitted Will. “But I’m no farmer. I never was. And let’s face it, I can’t shake loose with that kind of money just for sentiment.” Will stopped midstride as the beeper on his belt went off. “It’s the lumberyard. Can I use your phone, Thomasina?”
    “It isn’t hooked up yet,” she replied.
    “You can use mine,” Trace offered.
    “That’s all right, I’ve got one in the car.” Will turned to go. “What time is your date?”
    “Seven.”
    “I’ll get out of your way, then.” Will clapped him on the shoulder, and trekked back through the house and out.
    Selling out? Numb, Trace stood at the kitchen window, his eyes losing focus in the general direction of Milt and Mary’s farm. He turned to look at Thomasina. She crossed her arms and looked back at him, her mouth turned down.
    “Did you know about Milt selling out?” he asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Doesn’t sound like him. He isn’t dying, is he?”
    “We’re all dying, Mr. Austin.”
    Mr. Austin? It settled over him slowly. What had he done to put her chin in the air? Trace waded through her chaos of boxes and clothes and moving clutter and stopped at the front door. Hearing her behind him, he turned and asked, “What gives?”
    “What do you mean, what gives?” she countered, her dark gaze unflinching.
    Trace rubbed the back of his neck, struggling to separate apples from oranges. He focused on the puzzle he could safely voice and said, “That farm is Milt’s whole life.”
    “Is it?”
    “Of course it is!”
    “If you feel so strongly about it, perhaps you should talk to him,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, it sounds as if Ricky has finished. I need to drive him home.”
    “Where’s he live?” Trace asked.
    “Bloomington.”
    “I’ll take him.”
    “Thank you, but I couldn’t impose,” she said stiffly.
    “It