Chapter Twenty-Eight
The nerve of that guy.
Beth stormed out of Davis Biddle’s ostentatious mansion—which had no business in Willow Grove at all—and drove in silence back to the farm.
This man, this cunning businessman, had a reputation of brilliance. Why then would he want to buy Fairwind but not invest in it, especially when, as she saw it, he’d already invested so much in the upkeep of the orchards all these years? It didn’t make sense.
To make matters (and her mood) worse, Drew hadn’t said a word about yesterday. And he’d given her no indication that a kiss like that would ever happen again.
The thought of it lodged a lump in the center of her throat.
They pulled into Fairwind’s parking lot and found Molly sweeping out the main barn, no doubt preparing for the Fairwind Farm Market, which was now only a few weeks away.
They’d begun collecting items from the house and other barns, and soon they’d assemble it all together in a nicely ordered booth for people to browse.
“How’d it go?” Molly looked up when they approached, eyes darting from Beth to Drew and back again.
“Something is weird about that guy,” Beth said.
“So, not an angel investor?” Molly leaned on the broom.
“Definitely not.”
“Bummer.” She went back to sweeping. Something about her nonchalance, coupled with Drew’s silence and Davis Biddle’s insinuation that they were doomed to fail, set something off inside Beth.
“Do you have any idea what we’re up against here, Molly?”
Her sister stopped sweeping and stared at her, wide-eyed.
“He wants to buy the farm when we fail. Not if we fail—when.”
“Okay, well, he’s going to be out of luck, then, isn’t he?”
Molly had no idea what any of this was actually costing, the dire straits they were in. Secretly, Beth had been hoping her meeting with Davis Biddle would go well enough to at least convince him to continue taking care of the orchards—just for a little while.
But that wasn’t going to happen, heaping another huge expense straight into her lap. Not Molly’s—hers.
Beth dropped her purse on the table. “Why did I ever let you talk me into this?”
Molly crossed her arms over her chest and watched Beth pace. “What’s your problem?”
“Are you kidding? Ever since we started this, I’ve been out here every single day clearing out the house, cataloging the furniture, promoting the barn sale, trying to raise money.”
“Well, you’re not doing it by yourself.” She shot a look in Drew’s direction.
“No, but I’m not doing it with you. You’ve been off chasing leads in a twenty-year-old kidnapping case and buying dogs and goats and—”
“You’re always so negative, Beth. I wish you could open your eyes to how much we’ve accomplished.”
“It doesn’t matter, when we have so much more to do.” Beth sighed. “We aren’t going to have the money. We need to be logical here and at least consider this offer.” She pulled the paper from her bag.
“I don’t even want to see that, and I can’t believe you would think twice about this.” Molly turned away.
“Molly, I’m trying to be practical here.” Was she? Or was she looking for a way to escape? She glanced at Drew. Her heart ached for him. She wondered if she’d be so intent on considering Davis’s offer if Drew hadn’t been so cold that morning.
Of course she would. This was about the farm, the lack of money and a clear way out of what might’ve been an even bigger disaster than the one at Whitaker Mowers.
“What’s happened to you?” Molly put her hands on her hips and leveled their gaze. “The Beth Whitaker I know would never just lie down and let this guy walk all over her. She’d take his words as a challenge, and she’d say, ‘You don’t think I can do this? Watch me.’” She shook her head. “Where’s that girl?”
Beth steeled her jaw, biting back words that would only do harm.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw an old lady wearing a long, draping dress and carrying a box, canvases in several sizes sticking out the top. Birdie. “What is she doing here?”
“She’s going to have a booth at the barn sale.” Molly cocked her head to one side.
“You can’t be serious.”
“She’s a sensational artist. You’d like her. We’re going to turn her barn into an art barn. Host community art events.”
“Her barn?” Beth did a slow turn toward Drew, as if to ask for help, but he stood, hands in pockets, with a confused look on his face. So much for being invested in Fairwind. So much for being invested in her.
“I told her she could stay,” Molly said. The slight lift in her chin told Beth her sister had just issued a challenge. And this one was even worse than making her confess she was wrong.
This one was crossing a line.
Birdie set the box on a nearby table. “So sorry we’re meeting under tense circumstances,” she said as she approached Beth. “I understand you’re an artist too?” Her singsong voice trilled through the tight air.
Birdie took both of Beth’s hands in her own and led her over to the box of artwork. “Perhaps you can tell me what you think of my work?”
Beth swallowed, her mouth dry. “I’m sorry, I need to talk to my sister.”
“Of course.”
Beth turned, but Molly and Drew had both gone. She faced Birdie. “Molly and I will have to discuss the terms of your agreement with us. My sister likes to make decisions she’s not really capable of.”
“Of course, dear.” Birdie picked up a canvas. “Do you like this one?”
Beth looked down at the painted flowers covering the canvas. Rich, bold colors melded together like a garden, deep with unspoken emotions, the kind that couldn’t be talked about, only painted. Somehow, it moved her. “I like it very much.”
Birdie stilled. “Flowers have such strength, don’t they?”
Beth found kindness waiting in Birdie’s eyes. “I’ve never thought so.”
“Those are gladiolus. They’re known as sword lilies. Tell me there’s something stronger than a gladiator flower.”
Beth knit her brow. “I don’t think that’s what it means.”
“Look it up, smarty.” Birdie took the canvas. “You’re not a flower girl, I can tell.”
Beth crossed her arms over her chest. “What makes you say that?”
“I’ve seen you in the garden.” Birdie picked up another canvas, this one covered with deep-red poppies.
“I guess I don’t have much of a green thumb.”
Birdie let out a deep laugh. “No, you certainly don’t.”
Beth turned away. She’d thought she’d been doing a good job in the garden. Drew had probably gone behind her, making sure those plants grew.
Birdie peered at her over a pair of gold-rimmed reading glasses on a long gold chain. “What is it you’re hoping to prove with all that work?” She stepped closer. “What is it you need?”
Beth inched away, but Birdie wouldn’t let her off the hook.
Under other circumstances, Beth would’ve called security to remove an unwanted nuisance, but when she met the old woman’s eyes, something told her Birdie wasn’t asking to be nosy.
But then, sometimes people asked questions they already knew the answers to. Birdie sat in the chair beside the table and pulled on Beth’s arm until she sat beside her.
“I’ve seen you down here, running around with your clipboard and your cell phone, trying to make sense of a world that doesn’t make sense to you. I can’t help but wonder what you hope all that work will accomplish.” Birdie waved a stray hair out of her eye, the sound of jangling bracelets filling the barn.
Beth pressed her lips together. “We can’t reopen the farm without all that work.” Wasn’t that obvious? Did she dare point out that some days she felt like the only one with any sense of urgency around here?
“Yes. That’s true. Hard work is an important thing.” She paused. “But it’s not the only thing.”
“Well, of course it’s not.”
Birdie raised an eyebrow. “This farm was built slowly and with a whole lot of love. Do you even take time to enjoy any of it?”
“Sure I do.”
“I don’t think so. You try to force those plants and flowers to grow, and it’s never going to happen. Just water them. Give them light. Eventually they’ll shoot up out of that soil like the gladiators they are. They do it because it’s what they were made to do.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying if you do what you were made to do, then you’ll find the peace you’ve been looking for. You can’t work for it, you know. You just have to rest in it.” Birdie’s words wove an invisible thread between them.
Beth studied her hands, folded in her lap.
Birdie leaned in, as if to share a secret. “Just like you can’t earn love. Or forgiveness. Or grace. Those things are gifts. You just have to reach out and take them.” Birdie covered Beth’s hands with her own. “You don’t get to be my age without a few lessons along the way.” Her smile was sympathetic, like the smile of a person who actually understood.
Beth stilled.
“It’s awful tiresome, if you ask me.” The woman pulled her hands away and slumped in her chair. “I mean, why work for something you already have?”
The words radiated into Beth’s weary soul.
“I heard a quote once: ‘The two most important days of your life are the day you were born and the day you figure out why.’”
Beth met her eyes.
“Find your ‘why’ and the rest of it—that will fall into place. And it’ll let you off the hook. All the things you thought you should have done—if they aren’t part of your ‘why,’ then they don’t matter anymore.”
Beth sat silent for a few long seconds. “I have a ‘why.’”
“Having a ‘why’ isn’t the same as having something to prove.”
Beth frowned.
Birdie glanced at the canvases on the table in front of her. “You know, once upon a time, all I wanted was a gallery showing in New York City.” Beth’s face must’ve shown her surprise, because Birdie laughed. “I know, can you believe it? Me in a New York City gallery? I worked tirelessly to make that happen. I thought once it did, I would finally—finally—be somebody. I’d be respected and well-thought-of and known.”
Birdie pulled her stack of paintings from the box.
“There’s something deep down within us, isn’t there, that just wants to be known?”
There was. Beth had felt that longing many times.
“Anyway, I had my gallery showing in the city.”
“You did?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, kid. I’m a sensational artist.” Birdie winked at her. “And you know what? My heart never settled into it. I started painting what the gallery owners and my manager told me to paint, instead of what my own soul wanted to paint. They wanted me to wear stuffy clothes and look professional, and I wanted to be my hippie-dippy self.”
“So what did you do?”
“I left.”
“Just like that?”
“Packed up my brushes and moved to this little hole-in-the-wall town in Illinois, where I met my husband, who gave me the very best life I could’ve ever imagined.”
“Here?”
“Yes, right here in Willow Grove, hometown girl.”
“You didn’t feel like a failure for not going after the big dream?”
Birdie waved her off, her bracelets clanging together halfway up her arm. “Are you kidding? This is the big dream!” She let out a loud laugh. “I started to love painting again. I was creating whatever I wanted—nobody got to tell me how my art should look or what the people would buy. I didn’t care. I just did it because I loved it.”
Beth stilled.
“You get to decide, Miss Whitaker, what ‘the big dream’ is for you. And it’s okay to want a simple life. It’s even okay to admit that you kind of love it here—that this place is your ‘why’—at least for right now. I mean, look what you’re doing—bringing people together. Fairwind Farm is a connector of people. We need that around here.”
Beth was skeptical. Birdie Chirper was a crazy old lady who really needed to pay them rent if she wanted to continue to paint in their barn, but she made a lot of sense.
Could Beth ever be that brave—that comfortable with her own choices that it didn’t matter what anyone else thought?
Birdie stood. “I’ve got more paintings to cart down here.” She turned to Beth. “Unless you don’t want me to participate in your sale?”
Beth shook her head. “Of course you should participate.”
She smiled. “Of course I should.”
Beth watched as the old woman left, resting in the words imparted by a perfect stranger and begging God to show her how to rest in the gift of His “why.”