The Last One(21)

“Oh. Really?” I tried to keep the skepticism out of my voice.

“Definitely. They’re so excited about you coming. We sent them your portfolio, and the home and school association said you were exactly the kind of teacher they’d hoped to have. I spoke to Mrs. Moss yesterday. She was positively giddy.”

“Mrs. Moss?” I searched my memory for the name.

“Yes, she’s your host. She’s been the driving force behind getting ArtCorps to Burton, and she also agreed to open her home to you while you’re in town. She was telling me about where she lives, and I have to tell you, I’m jealous. Apparently it’s a farm house that’s been in her family for generations.”

“I’m sure it’s lovely.” I hesitated, not wanting to sound unappreciative in the face of Tina’s enthusiasm. “I just wanted to check, though, and make sure that there hadn’t been a mistake. I read that usually you try to give applicants their first or second choice of locations. I had said either the southwest USA or the west coast.”

“Yes, that’s true. We do try. But we had a few special circumstances this year. We had a number of people request Arizona or New Mexico. We had intended to place you in northern California, but then one of our volunteer applicants had a family emergency. She’s from that area, and her mother is ill. She asked for a special placement, and when the request from Burton came in, everything fell into place. I’m sure you understand.”

I did, all too well. I’d had my experience with a sick parent, and if giving up my spot in California let someone else have more time with her mother, I was fine with it. I still wasn’t sure about Burton, though.

“So if there’s nothing else ...” Tina was ready to wrap up this convo.

“Just so I can be clear, there’s no other options for me as far as location? No way for me to ... I don’t know, switch with someone?”

“No, we don’t allow switching.” Tina’s voice lost some of its patience. “We’re careful about how we make the assignments. We have a process. Your options are either Burton or withdrawing from the program.”

I gritted my teeth. “Okay, well, thanks. I’m sure Burton will work out fine. I appreciate your time.” I turned off my phone and stuck out my tongue at it. Or rather, at Peppy Tina who’d been on the other end up until a few seconds before. Damn her and her process that was sending me to purgatory in the form of Backwater, Georgia.

“You’re up bright and early.” Laura shuffled out of her bedroom, blinking at me. “Everything okay?”

“Sure.” I rubbed my forehead, where a wicked headache had just begun to blossom. “Guess where I’m spending the summer?”





IN THE MONTHS AFTER my parents died, I had to make way too many hard decisions. Would I be Ali’s guardian? That wasn’t even a question. She was fourteen, and sending her off to live with our grandparents in Alabama was the last thing either of us needed. Would we keep the farm? That was more complicated. The land where I’d been born, where generations of Reynolds had lived and died, wasn’t something I could toss away lightly. But I was eighteen, just about to graduate from high school. I’d been working with my dad as long as I could remember, but helping out was a far cry from running the place.

That was when the Burton Guild had stepped in. Those men walked me through my options, and from the vantage point of twelve years distance, I knew they’d saved our lives. The Guild had helped me decide how much land I could reasonably manage on my own, and then they’d found people to lease the rest of the farm. The idea was that as I gained years and experience, I would be able to take back parts of the farm that I needed, as I needed. It was a good plan. So far, we’d been able to close out two leases.

I stood now in the late afternoon sun, scanning the acres of rich red Georgia clay. The field that butted the rear property line was my favorite place to stand at the end of the day and survey what I’d accomplished and what still needed to be done. Vidalia onion plants surrounded me, healthy green tops swaying in the breeze. Harvest was underway, but it was a slow and painstaking process that had to be done by hand. We’d hired on a few high school kids to help as we did every year, and the work was coming along. Several truck loads of the bundled onions were already crated in the barn, and we could barely keep up with the demand at our farm stand.

The stand was our main source of income. It was well known in the area and had been since my great-grandparents had sold their first basket of tomatoes back in the thirties. I glanced down at my old beat-up work watch, the one I wore in the fields to keep track of time so I didn’t have to risk losing or destroying my cell phone. Ali should be closing up about now, walking back to the house with Bridget. I snagged a bunch of onions, thinking of dinner, and made my way through the half-picked rows.