The Return Read online

  “I figured as much.” She resumed her hooks and pulls with a gentle, steady rhythm. “He didn’t leave in a fit of rebellion; but toeing the line, obeying a pathway he wasn’t even allowed to choose, hasn’t been easy for him. Sticking to expectation hasn’t made him any more perfect than you were for finding wings and experiencing the world around you. I believe both of you need to come to terms with that truth—and each other.”

  We’re all the lost sheep, and we’re all the found…none is better than the other…all are equally loved by Christ.

  She rested from her crafting to brush gentle fingertips against his cheek, content, it seemed to Phillip, and happy to have avoided the ruckus of a Sunday afternoon football game and a pair of sons at loggerheads. Couldn’t much blame her on either count.

  She returned to crocheting, and a message rode through his mind, loud and clear: Grow up, Phillip.

  ~*~

  Phillip wasn’t quite ready to attempt another run of the gauntlet with Aaron. That fact left him with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. He had already seen Mila today, so there was no chance of getting together again without seeming, well, more than obvious in his sudden attraction. Nonetheless, Philip needed her. He craved a conversation sparked by her snappy humor, shared moments punctuated by their playful sparring. Mila pulled no punches, that was for sure. She made him think—and feel.

  Best to dodge that development for the time being.

  Resolved to make good use of his time, Phillip parked in the squeaky leather chair behind Pop’s aged wooden desk, which still shone thanks to meticulous TLC from Mom’s dust rag and furniture polish. The subtle aroma of lemon lifted through the atmosphere. Pulling open drawers, extracting files, bills, receipts, stacks of invoicing, he went to work reviewing current financials for the farm.

  The news wasn’t good. As expected, expenses exceeded income. The problem was that simple—yet also that complicated.

  Pressure built between his shoulder blades while Phillip booted his laptop and launched a spreadsheet. Time to get busy finding some form of a tourniquet, because the farm was hemorrhaging money. Pop had a heart of gold and a propensity toward never—ever—seeing good food go to waste. Therefore, he negotiated with brokers like Byron Thomas, trying to keep prices as low as possible in deference to local consumers. Then there were the extra crops, like the ten-acre side fields of pumpkins and strawberries that were picked, for the most part, free of charge, by field workers and lesser-privileged townsfolk once the main harvest was complete. All of this was noble, sure, but…

  “I’ll give as I can, and as I see fit, Phillip.” Pop allowed no leeway on the issue of rampant generosity. “God’ll take care of the details. He hasn’t let me down yet, and I don’t believe He’ll start to do so now.”

  “Even if that philosophy ends up killing the farm from a fiscal perspective? How does that make sense? You’re giving yourself away. This is your life. Your livelihood.”

  “No, son. This is my faith.”

  The words drifted to him on wisps of memory smoke, from an age-old conversation that stirred a longing, a sadness at the core of his chest. “That ideal of yours is all well and good, Pop, until the stress of survival wears you down and leaves you physically and emotionally drained.” Phillip muttered those words into the silence of the empty office, but respect for his dad’s fortitude and authentic love of neighbor spurred him forward. Clicking keys, compiling numbers, charting potential cut-backs, he lost himself in the familiar world of business alignment, budget structures and growth potential.

  If farm-living could ever be referred to as having growth potential.

  But wasn’t the gift of earth the prize Pop had always received, and given, so freely? The turmoil pushed at Phillip, prompting him to search, to find a way. For hours, he worked; in the end, he groaned, stretching back tiredly. He rubbed his eyes in time to the rock and squeak of his chair. Blast it all, the cursed spreadsheets didn’t lie. His formulas, the macros, the extensive computations threading one quarter to the next and one season to the next over the course of a year, spelled nothing but trouble.

  Desperation mounting, Phillip pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.

  A powerful though unexpected prayer came to life, rippling through head and spirit. God, you sent me here. Show me. Help me. I want to make a difference. I want this to somehow succeed. Please show me how.

  In an instant, Mila’s face materialized against closed lids and the beat of his heart, followed by an answer that reverberated through his soul. He needed to talk to Byron Thomas. He needed to start laying groundwork for the harvest to come in a couple of months. Handling negotiations would remove a stress-ridden burden and ease Pop’s load. If nothing else, Phillip could play a bit of hard-ball with Byron Thomas and defend his family’s hard work.

  Just that simple.

  Just that complicated.

  ~*~

  Monday morning, Phillip drove to town and parked in front of Sundae Afternoon, more determined than ever to find a place of his own so he could establish some breathing room. He needed to strategize the rest of his life and sort things through without constant family pressure and involvement.

  Trotting inside, he slid onto a stool at the main service counter and opened his just-purchased copy of the latest Times Gazette. After ordering coffee and a bagel, he twiddled a pen and scratched notes in the margins of the paper, performing edits on a list of available rentals in and around Antioch. He fingered the handle of his freshly delivered cup of java, inhaled the robust, earthy scent that rose from tantalizing curls of steam. His senses perked further when Mila stepped into view across from him and slipped a neatly plated, toasted sesame seed bagel to his right. The sweet, light chocolate of her eyes was a more-than-welcome sight.

  “Catching up on all the latest?” With a finger tap, she indicated the paper he perused.

  “You bet.” Phillip surrendered newsprint long enough to spread cream cheese across the warm surface of his bagel. “Can’t afford to be out of touch in a town as bustling as Antioch.”

  Mila laughed. “And if you don’t mind my asking, are you escaping from the farm? Again?”

  The rebuke in her tone was teasing and mild; all the same, it lit the fuse to Phillip’s temper. He’d done more than enough agonizing over family, farm, and finances during the last forty-two hours. “Mila, don't ride me. Please. I came here for respite.”

  “Well if you’re nice to me, I just might be able to offer you some.”

  Contrition washed through him. He never should have barked at the one who was doing her best to lend support and care. “I’m sorry, Mila. Really. I am.”

  She softened at once. “No problem. I get the confusion. What happened?”

  In brief but thorny terms, Phillip laid out the details of Sunday’s blowup with his brother, along with his desperate and futile attempts to find any sort of good news when it came to the sustainability of the farm.

  Mila leaned against the counter and sighed. Sadness relayed from her spirit to his. “Aaron’s not making it easy, and farm life is tough, that’s for sure, but you’re a smart man, and you have a lot to offer. Don’t lose sight of that, OK? Keep pressing on.”

  He didn’t expect answers. The situation was too complicated to resolve in one sitting of coffee, company, and a snack. Phillip re-centered on the most immediate task at hand—finding a place to call home. He eyed Mila, the seeds of an idea springing to life. “Hey, you’re connected. You cross paths with most everyone in town.” He waved the paper. “You probably know more about this place than any reporter working at the Gazette.”

  “Yeah, that’s me, a regular newshound.”

  “Seriously. Can you keep an eye and an ear out for me regarding an apartment or a house to rent? Anything would work. Anywhere close by.”

  She tapped his folded paper, where red marks and stars delineated potential housing options. “I noticed you were shopping. And I meant what I said about being able to of
fer you respite.”

  “Really?”

  She nodded, deliberately egging him on with a touch of suspenseful silence.

  Phillip arched a brow then grinned at her antics. “Spill it.”

  “Well…I…suppose I could rent you the space above my shop. It’s small, but I just updated it with the idea of renting. It’s a one-bedroom, one-bath, but the main area is fairly big, and open. The kitchen is fresh, right down to the ceramic floor and appliances. It might be a nice set up for you.”

  Phillip went still, wondering why his heart took off at such a fast, staggered beat. Maybe it was her shy overture, or her slight stammering. Charmed…and magnetized…he struggled to formulate a response. “You…you have…I mean, I don’t need much, but I wouldn’t want to intrude or anything, or…”

  OK, this convo had escalated rapidly toward being plain awkward, all because he had trouble processing her offer.

  Mila’s skin went from creamy to rosy pink as a blush came to life.

  How was he supposed to interpret that?

  “No problem. And I promise not to price-gouge.”

  “Oh, ouch. And would that subtle dig be an ode to the relationship between our fathers?”

  She chuckled, breaking the tension. “Maybe…maybe not. Who knows? There’s always been an intensity between the two of them. Weird, isn’t it?”

  “I guess.” He had to respect that playful, yet no-nonsense attitude of hers, especially when paired with those sparkling eyes and that teasing grin. Phillip let her conjectures fade to the background while Mila studied him. A weird, tumbling sensation hit his stomach. Attraction pushed clear through, taking him by surprise yet again.

  Considering what he needed to do regarding crop negotiations with Byron Thomas, Phillip realized he was dancing through a minefield that was cleverly disguised by the low-lying, rippling green leaves of soybean plants.

  6

  “Well, don’t you just beat all?” Hailey Beth gaped at Mila from across the width of a flatbed trolley they wheeled through Thomas’s Grocery Store.

  Mila halted their forward motion in the middle of aisle four and then proceeded to shelve boxes of cereal. Maybe silence would speak loud and clear, and end any kind of—

  “Furthermore,” HB continued, “thank you for continuing to build up my exhibit pile. We’re up to three now; although, if I wanted to be militant, I could say the fact that you’re offering him room and board ups the exhibit count to at least four—maybe even five.”

  Nope, no such luck. Silence, as usual, wouldn’t cut it with HB. “Hailey Beth, I’m serious. Get over it.” Mila hoped the use of her sister’s full name might demonstrate the depths of her displeasure. Chances ran greater, though, that HB would go straight through her prickly attitude and see it for what it was. Fear. Fear of Phillip’s increasing impact—and fear of a budding interest. “I swear, someday I’ll get even with you.”

  “Get even? Get over it? Honey, I haven’t begun to grill you. He’s back in town less than a week and you’re ready to rent him the apartment above the shop?” HB turned to the opposite side of the aisle and methodically stashed soup cans.

  “Phillip needs a break.”

  “Yeah, over the head, with a two-by-four.”

  “Oh, don’t you worry about that, honey. Aaron already tried, only with his fist instead of a plank of wood.”

  HB’s righteous tirade softened on a dime, melting to sympathy. Yeah, Mila could totally relate to that level of sensitivity.

  “You’re kidding me,” HB said. “Wow. I wondered about that fading bruise of Phillip’s. I knew Aaron was pretty busted up when Phillip took off the way he did, but, man. To flatten him? That takes moxie.”

  “Along with a strong dose of stupidity.” Mila hoisted a bag of rice puffs and waggled the temptation. “Grab us a couple bowls, and the milk from the mini fridge in back. Let’s have a snack.”

  HB lit up like the fir tree at Christmas. “I do love my breakfast cereal.”

  “This I’ve known for well over twenty years.”

  HB scampered off like an eager puppy.

  “Don’t forget sugar. Or the spoons,” Mila called after her.

  “Yes, mother.” HB’s snarky reply was stifled by distance.

  The office space to the right, where Dad—and now HB—ran the coordinates of ship was next to the storage area at the rear of the store. A small kitchenette was to the side with its ancient coffee maker and old, but serviceable duo of dining tables where staff congregated for breaks and meals.

  Wooden floorboards creaked comfortably beneath Mila’s feet as she finished storing boxes and then sat in wait on the bed of the dolly. She loved this place—knew its every inch by rote. The mercantile was well-run and well-loved. Over a hundred years old, Thomas’s Grocery remained a community bedrock. Mila took that fact to heart.

  Stability filled her with a solid sense of belonging, of roots—but those roots weren’t stifling. Rather, those roots served a purpose, providing her and her family with nourishment and a clear path to the future. Following a pre-ordained destiny didn’t bother her as it did Phillip. She found peace along the tree-lined streets, the stately old homes, the time-honored gathering spots, and most of all, the people of Antioch. Phillip, on the other hand, had always pushed against its figurative walls, dreaming of silver-lined clouds and bright blue skies. When a stark harvest season hit his family hard at the mid-point of their high school careers, Phillip had turned ambition—a yen to leave the confines of small-town Indiana—into an all-encompassing mission.

  “Here you go.”

  Hailey Beth’s return jarred Mila from her thoughts, and she accepted a bowl and spoon, pulling open the cereal bag and pouring them both a healthy serving. Milk and a load of sugar came next, then companionable silence as Mila indulged in her breakfast snack and returned to the task of sorting her emotions.

  “Phillip’s not all bad, you know, and he’s not entirely in the wrong for trying to find his own way in life. I offered him the apartment because I figure he could use a little support. Besides which, I worked my tail off on that renovation with every intention of renting the space. I figure, why not be there for him? That’s all there is to it.”

  HB giggled her way into a disbelieving snort while she spooned and chewed. “Yeah. You just keep tellin’ yourself that, sister-mine. Just keep tellin’ yourself that. From where I sit, we’ll be into double-digit exhibits before the week is finished.”

  ~*~

  The rumble and vibration of the sorting machine called Phillip to the barn. He parked the pickup and made tracks for the interior of the massive structure, painted by Pop in the colors of black and gold in homage to Mom’s alma mater, where she had earned her teaching degree. Inside, Aaron stood facing the threshold; Ben stood across, sorting freshly harvested beans.

  The sorting machine resembled a conveyer belt, crafted of rolling, vibrating metal cylinders that chugged and spun, spitting beans, leaves, branches and bramble from the back of a harvester nearly as old as Ben. His brothers sorted with expert hands, extracting waste, while beans bounced and rolled down the line into stainless storage bins.

  He could help with that—and inform them of his plans with Byron Thomas. He joined them and gave a nod. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Ben and Aaron answered his greeting in unison, not breaking from the task of using gloved hands to sort the good from the bad. Phillip grabbed a pair of work gloves from a nearby bench and slipped them on, going to work next to Ben.

  “How’s Mila?”

  Phillip regarded Aaron with surprise. He knew about Mila? “What…you got a video cam loaded into the dash of the truck or something, Aaron? Cripe!”

  “News travels fast in Antioch. Can’t sneeze without the next-door neighbor handin’ you a hankie.”

  Phillip held back a spontaneous burst of laughter at that analogy. He wasn’t quite ready to give Aaron the satisfaction of a score in the humor department. “I suppose so. Anyway, yeah, I was at Sundae Aft
ernoon. Looks like I might have found a spot to land.”

  “Land?” Aaron’s tone was snide, but he didn’t break stride from the task of sorting the small batch of beans.

  “Yeah. In town. Above Mila’s shop. An apartment.”

  “Then you’re serious about staying here? Staying here for good and for real?” Aaron blinked, giving up sorting and shutting down the machine for the time being. “Seriously?”

  “Such a shock, little brother?”

  Aaron snarled at Phillip’s response, as expected—and hoped.

  Phillip added a grin, just to solidify antagonism. “Maybe you don’t believe in me, or my intentions, but you’ll learn what’s what, just like I’ve had to learn about the mistakes I’ve made.” He could take ownership, and responsibility for his decisions. But now, as Mom indicated, it was time for Aaron to do the same.

  “Whatever.”

  Nice surrender—not. Phillip bristled, yet refused to give up.

  Ben shook his head but kept quiet, picking stubs, leaves, and branches from the still life of vegetation that stretched before them.

  “I did more than socialize with Mila while I was in town. I paid a visit to Thomas’s Grocery. I’m meeting with Byron Thomas at the end of the week.”

  “You’re what?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked, Aaron, I told you I intend to make progress on the business side of things.” A steely impasse followed. “I’m presenting preliminary projections for the crop, and I figure working with Byron first will lay the ground work, and help us all as we deal with the bigger distributors like Swarington Foods and Gordon Wholesalers. Like politics, all things start local, right?”

  “True enough, and smart, I’d say.”

  Thank God for steady-handed Ben. Phillip clapped him on the back and prompted Aaron with a look. “Do we keep sorting or what?”

  Aaron fired up the machine. “You sure you’re ready for that kind of meeting?”

  “Right down to a prior year recap and upcoming crop projections.”