Free Harvesting Ashwood Minnesota 2037 by Cynthia Kraack Page B

I knew the day had stretched too long and covered too many rough paths. I missed David.
    “It would be nice if we could help out with the urban initiative in the future,” I said. “You’re all good at finding opportunities. Right now I need to spend time with my kids and get some fresh air.” I stood. “I almost forgot to share big news—Terrell is coming back. Tonight. Lao, please call me when he arrives.” Tired faces relaxed, including mine. “Thanks everyone for pulling through a tough day.”
    Spontaneous happiness broke out around the table. Terrell could make that happen.
     
     

Chapter Nine
     
    My stepdaughter absorbed physical touch like a plant draws water. She snuggled, she leaned against an arm, she sat with her hand on a friend’s leg while watching movies. So we walked through the orchards in this sticky evening hand in hand, her chatting about books she wanted to read, a curious chunk of china found by one of the workers while tilling a new garden. Finally, we talked about David’s current travel.
    “Why now, Mom?” Anxiety built the words into a whine, her intense young personality pushing much smaller worries into bouts of near-obsessive thoughts. “I need Dad here for my proficiency tests. We had plans.” She bumped her body into my arm. “Did he tell you about our plans?”
    “You bet, and plans are still in place for lunch at the History Museum’s restaurant.” I responded slowly, swinging our hands as we walked. “I’m taking the day off. Grandpa Paul and Ms. Magda will manage here.” I squeezed her small fingers. “I’m looking forward to visiting the museum with you. I know you were looking forward to being with Dad, but maybe a girls’ time away could be almost as much fun.”
    She shook free of my hand to throw her arms around my waist. “That’s the best news today.” Freed of one worry, she broke loose and did her young-girl dancing step next to me. And, typical of Phoebe, she stopped midstep with another question. “About Dad’s trip.” Her voice, so clear, carried through the humid evening air. “It feels like you aren’t telling us the whole story.”
    “Well, communication is quite difficult because of where he’ll be based.” I offered a truth buried in soft language. “In fact, I don’t know if we’ll talk at all while he’s away, and that makes me sad.”
    “I thought you might be worried about that boy this morning.”
    The estate grapevine spread innuendo faster than facts. For a moment I wondered who heard Paul or David talking about Andrew, or if Antwone knew more than he shared in the passageway.
    Ashwood ate at my hours, and sometimes emotions. What crops to grow, what animals to breed, where to buy, where to sell, forms to complete, the pressure to feed its people, make the payroll, pay the increasing taxes. And always the drive to care for the children—all those who came to be part of the estate—maybe this boy who may be my son.
    “You heard something today about a boy?”
    “Your surrogate boy.” Phoebe no longer danced as she walked, no longer held my hand. She spoke of facts learned from estate gossip that flowed like water in a rainstorm. “Grandpa says he could be my stepbrother. It’s too bad we couldn’t have another girl. I’ve got two brothers already.”
    I hoped I heard acceptance of the Smithson boy and envied her ease with the whole question, realized she’d had more time in her day to think about Andrew, a possible new sibling, than I, his possible mother.
    “I’m not quite ready to talk about him until I know all the facts, Phoebe. How did you hear this story?”
    She walked away, bending to pick a volunteer bachelor’s button growing in the orchard path. “I don’t remember. Somebody was talking this morning. Then you didn’t come to lunch.” She handed me the flower. “Race you to the school?”
    The sweet thrill of childish play still sounded in her invitation, although the pace she set suggested the