“There’s no one else I can talk to about this, Charlie. Not a soul. You’re the person who needs to hear it.”
The farmer leaned against the doorframe of the old house and considered him carefully.
“It’s about Amanda. Please.” Richard approached him carefully. He was a little concerned he’d be punched again.
“Ayuh, take a seat, then. I’ll be out with something for us. You like beer?”
“Beer? You told me you don’t drink.”
“I lied. I love a good pilsner at the end of a hot summer day. But is it safe for you to have it with your heart condition?”
Richard couldn’t help but laugh. Not a damn soul but his cardiologist cared enough these days to ask about his health. All his close friends had turned out to be neither close nor friends. As was now apparent, his relationships had been about what he could do for them, and when he wasn’t in the position to do much at all, they disappeared. And yet here was a man who had every right to hate him, asking him if it was safe for him to have a beer.
Richard figured any ill effects from the brew would be more than offset by a few moments of honest, human conversation.
“Sure, Charlie. That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
He took a seat in one of the porch rockers, almost immediately feeling his pulse slow and his blood pressure stabilize. He leaned his head back and enjoyed the view of the early-evening sun on the rolling fields and the peaceful, blue mountain lake beyond. Maybe when all this was over—with or without Christina—he’d find a place like this to live. Silence. Beauty. Something real and alive. Something that had nothing to do with politics or power.
Charlie came out the screen door and placed a frosty mug on a little wooden table.
“What time does the sun set up here?”
“Same as it does down there.”
“What are you growing, Charlie?”
“In these pastures?”
“Yes, everything we can see from up here on the porch.”
Charlie took a long draw on his beer and smacked his lips. “Hay.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t know what hay looks like?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I do. I’ve just never thought much about it.”
“Ayuh, this year I’ve got sixty acres of alfalfa, twenty-five of mixed clover, and a hundred of tall fescue.”
“And what do you do with it?”
Charlie laughed. “I sow it, fertilize it, maintain it, cut it, bale it, and sell it at auction as animal feed. You know—horses, cattle, sheep, goats, and even llamas.”
“I never imagined.”
“Ayuh, and what do you do at your job?”
“I fertilize.”
Charlie nodded quietly. “So what is it you have to say? I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re not my favorite person and never will be.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Richard put the mug down. “Charlie, I’ve come to apologize.”
The farmer’s rocker ceased creaking. He concentrated on his beer and didn’t make eye contact with Richard.
“Just yesterday, I learned something horrible. I found out that when Amanda worked for me, my chief of staff took it upon herself to handle the . . . situation . . . without consulting me. I only just now learned what she did to Amanda, and I was shocked and sickened.”