The Return Page 8

  “I think Aaron is finally coming around, but—”

  Mila shook her head. “No, Phillip. There are no ‘buts.’ Not now. Let your dad know. Make yourself known. Trust me. Nothing will bring peace, and understanding, like being open with the one who needs it most—and that’s not Aaron. It’s your dad. You exited Antioch as though the fires of hell were nipping at your heels; you had no problem leaving the dust of a small town behind, but all of that changed.”

  “It did.” He pulled in, as though staring toward a spot far removed from the present. “I guess you can come home again.”

  “Yes, you can, and you can find yourself right where you least expected. After all, look where you landed. Home is the beginning. Home is where you belong. Antioch is where you belong, Phillip.” A flash of insight struck; Mila realized those wise words might well be turned around and directed toward her. Home.

  Now, more than ever, that small, single word resounded through a heart beating fast and furious for all that might come.

  ~*~

  Wind whistled through the tips of thick, leafy green vegetation. That same breeze caressed Phillip’s face, calling to mind the loose curls of Mila’s hair, her full, soft lips. Surrounded by soybean plants, he stood stock still, eyes closing while his mind’s-eye drew pictures of Mila—her peaches and cream skin, her sky-blue eyes as they’d talked and laughed and shared with one another at dinner last night.

  Prompted to look up, Phillip opened his eyes and followed the path of a quartet of circling and diving birds. Their plaintive caws cut the air while he pondered what to do next. He looked over his shoulder, at the weathered though sturdy farm that had housed the Fisher family for generations.

  Be open.

  Mila’s advice rang clear. Protecting the farm, helping his family, weren’t the only elements of his return that kept him pushing forward, and hoping for a more fulfilling path to the future. He could picture Mila here—framed by rolling, green fields and golden sunlight—more to the point, he could picture his life at her side, in promising, tempting glimpses. Together they could make a life, a family, a continuation of both their treasured legacies.

  The recognition provided Phillip with a jarring, yet compelling, reason to put down roots and stay in Antioch. Resolved, he turned toward the farm once more, and made his way to the living room, where he knew he’d find Pop.

  As expected, he came upon his father seated comfortably in a recliner that had forever been stationed in a far corner of the room, near a picture window that overlooked a spread of land that most likely lent peace and calm to his daily meditations. Old or not, the solid piece of furniture was Pop’s favorite. As such, its tenure was assured, faded fabric, sunken cushions and all.

  Pop shifted in his chair, gaze steady as he glanced up from reading his time-worn Bible. “Phillip.”

  “Hey, Pop.”

  There was such warmth to his eyes. Lines grew ever deeper at the corners, but life had given him many a cause to laugh, to squint into bright sunlight, to weep over waterlogged crops, or rejoice over thick, green shoots of well-nourished plant life. Unconditional love, however, never changed. Nor did Pop’s loving vibration.

  How had he failed to fall to his knees with gratitude for being the recipient of such a gift?

  Following an elongated silence, Pop puzzled. “You OK?”

  “Yeah. Actually…yeah…I am.”

  Sensing authenticity, Pop’s warmth increased. “Good. You just back from town?”

  “No, I was checking the fields, taking a walk to clear my head.”

  “You’ve been working the numbers pretty hard lately.”

  “I have. And the news isn’t great, but it isn’t all bad, either. There are ways we can get this farm back to solid ground.”

  “Your meeting with Byron helped. Harvest time is about community. We’re not alone in this.”

  Phillip folded onto the couch, its contours comforting and inviting—right down to the smells that surrounded him—the lingering but subtle aroma of tobacco from the use of a pipe, the lemony tang of the furniture polish Mom used to gloss the wooden tables to a shine.

  “It’s not just Byron who says—”

  “Byron, is it?”

  Phillip traded joshing smirks with Pop. “I’ve approached representatives of the Indiana Farm Service Agency. According to Marvin Hilger, the FSA has been helping a number of farms in our area that were hit by that bout of early season flooding—”

  “Then the drought that followed. Yeah.”

  Phillip nodded. “Since the weather shows signs of evening out, a late season growth spurt leaves Hilger to believe fields might yield up to seventy bushels per acre. That BPA forecast is enabling the FSA to issue low interest rate loans. We could enlist their aid, pay back the loan, and still turn a profit in the end.”

  Pop laid a dark red ribbon carefully into place between onionskin pages punctuated by notes and highlights that had been added to the Bible over the years. He closed the book and set it on the end table next to his chair. “Fine work, Son. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  Pop waited patiently. Knowingly. “Now. Would you care to tell me what else is on your mind?”

  Yep. Nothing got past Pop. Phillip leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “The delivery of a long overdue apology.”

  “For what?”

  “For vacating when you needed me most. For running out on the most important people in my life.” Phillip paused, gauged.

  Pop simply sat—and listened.

  “I was arrogant. I betrayed you, and Mom, and my brothers.” Phillip hung his head. “I want you to know, I’m sorry for that.”

  “The fault isn’t entirely yours, Phillip. In addition to taking responsibility for your actions, which is always a good thing, I believe that truth is something you need to accept, and realize.” Pop reached into the right pocket of his trousers and pulled an item free. He moved a small, smooth stone across his thick, calloused fingertips, caressing it with his thumb. The stone, was unblemished. Pure white.

  “What’cha got?”

  “A reminder. For you. Something I came upon in the field, of all places, a week or so after you left. Once I found it, I kinda felt as if it belongs to you.” Pop handed over the stone.

  It was remarkable. Slightly elongated, yet perfectly rounded, it shimmered to a soft, perfect glow.

  Phillip had never seen anything like it—and Pop had somehow found it in the dirt of hundreds of acres of vegetation? Remarkable. “Why would it belong to me? What’s it for?”

  Pop shrugged; Phillip worked the stone. “At first, I thought it was for me. The image of it comforted me after you left. For a time, it’s been a reminder that God makes all things new, and good. Now, I think it needs to go to you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because when I found it, I did some research on the significance of pure white stones and came upon an interesting story—you and Aaron aren’t the only ones who know how to use the search engine on a computer—and the story I found gave me hope.”

  Phillip edged toward his dad, piqued and focused. “What’s the story?”

  Pop drew a long breath. “Well, it seems in ancient times, when a Roman slave was set free, they were given a white stone to carry with them. It was a form of protection—a verification of their status and clean slate. It symbolized freedom, and the dignity of each man’s life, no matter their station. That’s what you’ve got here, son. So, keep it. Let that stone be a reminder. Keep it close. As you re-find your life, and your heart here in Antioch, maybe it’ll help you stay centered on the fact that you’re redeemed. You’re forgiven. Most of all, you’re loved.”

  Phillip’s throat went tight. He manipulated the stone much like his father had, enjoying its smooth texture and shimmering radiance.

  “Sometimes God writes you straight using a crooked line. What’s past is past, and backward isn’t where you’re headed, so focus on what’s ahead. Focus on mov
ing forward. Make good use of that clean slate. You’re free—with a chance to create whatever it is you want from this life.”

  Just as when he had stood in the rippling field of green, leafy crop plants, Phillip couldn’t help but think of Mila, and her impact. He pondered that fact.

  Pop gave another broad shrug and reopened his Bible. “Guess I don’t need to say much more beyond that.”

  9

  Phillip delved deeper and deeper into the intricacies of running the farm. August cooled into a fiery explosion of autumnal color as September chased its way to early October and harvest season began in earnest. The fields of the Fisher farm hummed with the steady cadence of combines pushing through vegetation. Field workers came and went. Ag students from Antioch High School’s co-op program showed up. Students and representatives from a few nearby colleges paid visits to the field and conducted soil/produce studies. They were joined by government officials who tracked and recorded crop yields as every attempt was made to build statewide production data.

  Through it all, Phillip saw Mila almost every day and discovered an unexpected yet pleasing rhythm to being in Antioch. A sense of equilibrium sprang to life within the formerly strained roots of his relationships with Aaron and Ben. Slowly—like shoots pushing through soil—the ease of their youth patterned into a new, more dynamic connection. His brothers didn’t seem to mind his efforts to run the business side of the farm, but operations were a team effort, governed by consensus.

  Mindful of that truth, Phillip figured tonight’s family dinner would provide an opportunity to include everyone in some important strategies and plans he wanted to set in motion before much more time passed.

  Phillip took his seat, savoring the spread of food stretched across the length of the dining room table. He breathed deep. Pot roast. The aroma of simmering meat had filled the house all day, coming from a slow-cooker that had to be older than him. Now, the finished product welcomed him to the pleasure of a classic Fisher family supper. Draping a linen napkin across his lap, he hefted the meat platter positioned in prominence at the center of a feast that included potatoes, fresh corn, and bread.

  After devouring a few forkfuls of smoky, melt-in-his-mouth roast accompanied by onion and sweet peppers, Phillip continued the thread of a general conversation focused on the salvage operations to be executed. “The way I see it when I study the numbers, crop insurance and low-interest loans from the USDA Service Agency will help see us through. I’ve got the paperwork and approvals in motion. We’ll have to pay the loans back, of course, but not until after harvest.”

  “As in…right now.”

  Phillip nodded at Aaron. “Exactly. When I built the forecast, I figured we can hit about fifty-five bushels an acre, maybe a little more. At just over ten dollars per bushel, we can have a solid harvest despite the weather rollercoasters we’ve battled this year.” Phillip munched on a perfectly buttered and seasoned potato chunk.

  Mom paid close attention and nodded.

  “With numbers like that, we could turn a profit,” Pop said. “Small, but certainly enough to sustain.”

  Phillip felt a glow of pride—of ownership and responsibility to those he loved. The feeling had been absent from his life for so long it took him by warm surprise. “Yeah, we could. That’s my goal, and I think it’s achievable.”

  “It’d be a blessing, for sure.” Pop issued a satisfied nod.

  “It’ll provide for the future.” Phillip eyed his family. “Might even allow for some restoration of the house, some equipment upgrades. If we manage our income smart, we can invest in the future. I’ll keep building on the plan.” But the plan, Phillip came to realize more clearly, encompassed much more than just projections and agriculture. The plan involved much more than just redemption and a return to the core foundations of his life and upbringing.

  The plan involved Mila Thomas.

  Thoughts of her followed him home that night, to his apartment. As he drove the few miles to town, he considered the few remaining details left to polish the place to perfection.

  His phone chirped to life, flashing with a number that jarred Phillip because it was as familiar to him as it was unexpected. Someone from Millenbech, Incorporated was reaching out.

  But why?

  Since he was driving—and since he wasn’t particularly eager to speak to anyone affiliated with his former employer—he temporarily ignored the summons. Nonetheless, Phillip’s nerve endings prickled and curiosity built.

  After he climbed the outer stars and unlocked the front door, after he tried and failed to focus on a few meaningless pieces of junk mail he had retrieved from the floor beneath the mail slot, Phillip surrendered pretense. He yanked his phone from the pocket of his slacks and reviewed the home screen. Whoever had called left voicemail. Phillip tapped into his messages and tucked the phone to his ear, already bracing himself for…whatever.

  Phil, it’s Matt Hobbs. Need to talk to you right away. There’s an opportunity opening on my team—we had a big win with Symbiotic Technologies and we need you, man. This job would be perfect for you—and you’re my first and only call until I hear back from you. Let’s talk it over and get you back here. You’re missed, man. Big time. So, call me.

  Phillip gulped. He stared ahead, unseeing, unfeeling, submerged within a world of shock-absorbing silence.

  A knock at the door jarred him so hard he fumbled his phone. Phillip yelped when the device hit the floor; he retrieved it with a swooping grab and headed to the entryway. He opened the door to Mila, who smiled bright.

  She carried a colorful basket wrapped in clear cellophane and topped by a rainbow of curly ribbons.

  “Hey.” Phillip greeted her, but on the inside, he froze.

  Her arrival struck him with a sledgehammer of guilt. A chill slithered against the length of his spine, but he hadn’t done a single thing wrong. Yes, he had to return the call. Yes, he would have to face the tempting pull of returning to a life he had built on his own terms, and to his own strengths, but still—

  Mila’s prediction was coming true—the very scenario she had posed when he’d executed the lease on her apartment: What happens if everything turns? What happens to you if the world of big-business comes calling again? Where will you go? Will you stay? Have you even considered such a thing?

  “Can a girl get an invitation to enter when she arrives at your doorstep bearing gifts?”

  Phillip regrouped, trembled while he sucked a deep breath. “Ah, yeah, sure. Sorry. I’m a little…off. Preoccupied by business.” Phillip dodged an outright lie, knowing she’d assume he meant the farm. Guilt, however, grew exponentially. “Come on in.”

  Breezy and visibly enthused, Mila entered the great room and spun toward him, offering the beautifully packaged basket of fruit and candy shaped into the form of a floral bouquet.

  “I know my visit might seem a bit stalker-esque, but forgive me. I’ve been waiting for you to arrive. I couldn’t wait to tell you—I’m celebrating. Sundae Afternoon has been named as a vendor for a national delivery company to help create edible arrangements just like this one. I wanted you to get a first taste of our offerings.” She kissed his cheek, her aura sparkling as their gazes connected. “I thought this might be a nice variation on the ice cream sundaes you like to indulge in at my shop every once in a while.”

  Phillip smiled but knew the gesture lacked ease and a responsive spark. “Thanks. This is great. It looks wonderful—congrats, Mila—that’s a huge commission. Much deserved as well.”

  “You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy it.” Sure enough, Mila’s brows pulled. She tilted her head, silent and watchful. Waiting. “Are you OK?”

  “Yeah, sure. I just got home from the farm and a pot roast dinner. I’m well fed and focused. Processed a lot of numbers and did some plotting and planning with the family.” And again, that was no lie, just a slight evasion.

  “I like that you’re calling this home.” She set the basket aside; Phillip cursed himself for not possessing
the temerity to take custody of her offering and place it in the kitchen or something.

  The arrangement was beautiful, with strawberry and pineapple chunks shaped into roses and flowers and held in place by small wooden spikes. There were also chocolates in the shapes of butterflies and birds which were tucked against bedding of green fluff. The sweet optimism of her gift was at complete odds with her unexpected arrival and his sudden bout of turmoil.

  “You’ve landed well, Phillip. I like the way you’ve pulled everything together. It does feel like home, doesn’t it?”

  Phillip wrestled with uncertainty and anxiety all over again, and wondered promptly why that would be the case. He hadn’t even made a return call to Millenbech yet. He had no information to build on regarding matters that had come to life in Indianapolis, and nothing had been discussed. Why was he allowing himself to get so keyed up? Why did he feel bad? Why, even though he had done nothing wrong, did he feel like some type of betrayer?

  “Phillip—Phillip, did you hear me?”

  “Sorry.” Lost again. He needed to straighten up, pronto. “I missed what you said.”

  Mila firmed her lips for a moment, then assumed a mild, accepting posture. “I was asking about your interview with Maddox Ag Industries. Fort Wayne is a bit of a commute, but the opportunity sounded solid. How was yesterday’s interview?”

  Oh, Lord. Help me. Please. Phillip shuffled his feet, stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his slacks. “They’re a great organization. They liked what I brought to the table.”

  “How could they not?”

  He stroked Mila’s chin with a lone fingertip, hoping to somehow telegraph some measure of the appreciation that swelled through him at her unencumbered encouragement and support. He pulled her close by tugging gently against her waist. “Jason Longbourne, the one I told you about who heads operations, said I’d hear back in a week or so. I met a few members of his analytics and forecasting team—and it’s an impressive company.”

  “Dovetails right into the work you’re doing with your family at the farm. You’d be a natural.”