It hurts as much as it flatters, that sentiment. Knowing that Charlie has been lonely too. And no matter how uncomfortable the realization makes her, he certainly does know her better than anyone. Sure, she’s told Everett a lot of things, and she has shared history with Yolanda, but Charlie is the only person who’s ever taken one look at her and recognized the artist behind the painting she attempted to present to him. Telling him that would make her more vulnerable than she wants to be right now, so she instead says, “I did some math today while I was at the farmers market.”
“Yes, I heard you calculate the price of three soaps plus two cheeses plus tax when someone asked. I was quite impressed.”
“I meant bigger math. About profits and expenses and shit.”
“Ah. And?”
“If Hannah can sell a hundred dollars’ worth of product at each of the markets she goes to, and you continue having events throughout the summer including maybe a wedding or two, and you can get a couple local businesses to buy wholesale... I think you could break even in a year.”
“Oh, is that all?” he asks, sounding both amused and exhausted by the thought.
“It would be hard. But it’s doable. And I could...” What? Help out when she’s able to get away from the city? The suggestion would be like offering a drowning man a foot-long piece of rope attached to nothing.
He sighs. “Maybe I should just sell off the herd completely. Ihave no idea how I’d make any money living out here in the middle of nowhere and not farming, but at least the land would stay in the family.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I mean, I obviously don’t know much about how this works, but could you switch to a different type of animal or crops or something?”
“No, the start-up costs would bury me even deeper.” Charlie presses his palms against his eyes. “Look, Acorn, I really appreciate you trying to help me. I do. I admit that when you showed up, I had my doubts, but you’ve proven yourself to be stubborn and smart as hell. It’s possible, though, that even you can’t solve this problem. That what you’re doing won’t be enough. And I need you to understand that if that’s the case, it will not be your fault. Whatever happens to me—it’s not your fault.”
I just wish I could take your place. It’s not the first time the thought has drifted across her mind. But this time it doesn’t drift so much as linger. It’s not a cirrus cloud urged along by a brisk wind, but a fog that settles heavily. Part of her surely feels this way because she wants to help Charlie, and part because it would be the ultimate way to prove to herself that she’s not her father; he would never in a million years do something so selfless. Except is it really selfless when she’s grown to love Gilded Creek? The idea of staying here until she dies is intimidating, of course, like any permanent choice would be. But it doesn’t sound like all that much of a hardship when it means she would get to stay in this place that feels like home and leave her old life—her bullshit artist career, the weight of her family’s history—behind.
She smiles at Charlie, realizing she’s gone too long without responding. “Too bad I’m not a Waybill. Then I could stay and run things here while you go do whatever you want.”
Unless you’re volunteering to become a Waybill... Everett said that to her once, the day she first arrived. And she sort of forgot about it, because it seemed as absurd as his flash mob idea back then. But now... now...
“Holy shit,” she says, springing up in bed. “Wait here. I need to talk to Everett.”
33
Everett sits beside the pile of baby goats in the corner of the small outbuilding, quietly singing the theme song toWelcome Back, Kotter. He looks Gretchen up and down, taking in her hastily donned outfit consisting of one of Charlie’s T-shirts, a pair of his sleep shorts, the flannel, and her rain boots. He raises his eyebrows.
She preempts his criticism of her fashion choices with a wave of her hand and comes to sit on one of the hay bales. “I have some questions for you.”
“Oh, I see how it is. It’s all ‘Everett, scram’ till you need something from me.” Gretchen opens her mouth to either argue or apologize—even she isn’t sure which it will be—but Everett sighs and says, “Go ahead.”
Gretchen leans forward, propping one elbow on her knee while she pets the supersoft floppy ear of a kid who makes its way over to nibble on the hem of her flannel. She should probably figure out what has Everett in such a funk, but first things first. “WhenI got here, you said something about me becoming a Waybill. How would I do that?”
“Ah. Well, the usual way. Through marriage.”
“And that would work? Do we have evidence that the curse will accept someone who marries into the Waybills and takes the name as a full-fledged family member?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t fully thought about it when I said it, but I’m pretty sure...” He presses his finger to his chin, thinking for a moment. Then he snaps his fingers; like all of his other gestures, it doesn’t make a sound. “Enid,” he says, pointing at Gretchen.
“George’s wife?”
“George died before her, and Gilded Creek went to Enid until Charles took over.”
“And it wasn’t some technicality, like that Charles or one of his sisters were still on the property?”
Everett shakes his head. “Nope. There was a time when it was just Enid here. The twins both married and moved away at the beginning of that summer, I think, and Charles joined the Navy and planned to make a career of it soon after. That was until he met Ellen. She loved the idea of living on the farm, so...”
“But the curse counted Enid as a Waybill even though she wasn’t born one.”
“Mhm. At least I guess so, because nothing bad happened to Charles when he shipped out.”
“So I would count too. If Charlie marries me and I take his name. I would count as a Waybill.”
Everett rises to his feet and grabs for the wall to steady himself. He instead falls halfway through it. Once he’s fully inside the building again, he holds up both hands. “Hold on, you’re considering marrying Charlie?”
