“Great. When we get to Detroit, I’ll set up a meeting with my financial advisor, and we’ll make it official on paper.” He offered a hand. “Partners in everything?”
I put my hand in his and shook it, wishing I could blame the heat for the erratic way my heart was beating. “Partners in everything.”
We made it to the Feldmann farm by about six-thirty and knocked on the front door of the house—an old, weather-beaten, two-story structure with flaking white paint, a sagging front porch, and a black-shingled roof. Our knock was answered by a stout, pot-bellied guy whose bushy beard was about half gray. He wore a yellow T-shirt advertising a charter fishing business in Wisconsin, and his skin was ruddy from years in the sun.
“You the guy from Detroit?” he asked Oliver.
“I am.” Oliver held out his hand. “I’m Oliver Pemberton, and this is my business partner, Chloe Sawyer.”
“Nice to meet you. Josef Feldmann.” He shook hands with both of us. “Come on in. Dad’s in the back.”
We followed him into the house, which was cluttered but clean. I noticed Josef walked with a limp.
“Dad’s a little hard of hearing, so you’ll have to speak a bit louder if you want him to hear you.” Josef shook his head as he led us through a small, dated kitchen—the latest upgrade appeared to be a Formica countertop—adding, “He refuses to wear his hearing aids, the damn fool.”
“No problem,” Oliver said.
“The back” turned out to be a small den, which had been added onto the house sometime after it was built. Jergen Feldmann was sitting on a beat-up recliner watching Jeopardy on television at an absurdly high volume.
“Dad?” said Josef loudly. “They’re here.”
“What?” The old guy blinked at us through thick-lensed glasses.
Josef muted the television. “The people who want to make an offer on the farm are here,” he shouted.
“Oh.” Jergen struggled to get out of his chair.
“Don’t get up,” I said clearly, moving into the room and offering him my hand. “Hello. I’m Chloe Sawyer.”
He shook it. “Jergen Feldmann.”
Oliver introduced himself as well, and Josef gestured to the sofa. “Please sit down. Can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” I said.
He smiled. “Not even a little taste of whiskey made from our rye?”
My eyes widened. “You have some?”
“Sure, we do. We’ve been making our own moonshine here for generations.”
Oliver and I exchanged a glance. “Why not?” I returned Josef’s smile. “We’ll try it.”
The whiskey was rough, but it had a distinctive, unique flavor that both Oliver and I loved. I knew with the right equipment and process, we had the potential to create something that would taste extraordinary. After chatting （loudly） with the Feldmanns about their farm and family history, Josef asked us if we’d like to take a walk around the farm.
We took him up on his offer, and if I hadn’t been sold on the idea of buying this land before tasting the whiskey made from the rye that grew there, I was now. Maybe it was the slight buzz I had, maybe it was the beauty of the fields in the early evening light, maybe it was the growing excitement I felt about being a part of this story, but I knew we had to have that land.
“Have you given any thought to my offer?” Oliver asked Josef as we circled back toward the house. It felt glorious to walk without the weight of the pack on my back.
“Yeah. Yeah, we’ve discussed it.” Josef scratched the back of his neck. “The other offer is higher, you know, but Dad likes yours better.”
“It’s cash up front,” Oliver explained to me. “They can stay in the house as long as they want.”
“And he doesn’t much like the idea of someone tearing down the house and carving up the farm,” Josef said. “My great-great grandfather built this house and raised that barn. My great-grandmother taught school at that schoolhouse up the road. Their bones are buried right over there in the cemetery. We don’t want all that erased.” He sighed. “But it’s hard to say no to more money.”
“It is,” I agreed, turning on the charm. “But there are some things money can’t buy, and a legacy is one of them. In fact, your family’s history is a huge part of what we want to do here. We plan to not only keep it alive, but celebrate it. We were even thinking of naming the whiskey we make after your great-great grandmother—Rebecca’s Rye. If it’s okay with you and your dad, of course. We wondered if we could see a picture of her?”
Within an hour, Josef was shaking our hands, telling us we had a deal. We celebrated with a little more moonshine, promised to get in touch next week, and left with the Feldmanns’ assurance that the land would be ours as soon as we wanted it and they’d stay on long enough to get the rye planted in the fall.
Oliver and I walked away from the house, barely able to contain our excitement. “Oh my God,” I whispered as we moved quickly down the long dirt driveway. “It’s really happening!”
“Fuck yes, it is.” Oliver poked my shoulder playfully. “You totally made that happen.”
“Me! No, I didn’t—your offer is what made that happen.”
“But you saw how he was hesitating because the other guy’s offer was higher, and you swooped in there with all that talk about carrying on his family’s legacy and naming the rye after Rebecca and asking to see her picture. Your timing was perfect.”
I laughed. “It was a team effort—our first one!”
“And I’d say it was an unqualified success.” He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “We make a good team.”
My heart raced ahead of my breath for a moment, and heat blossomed in my cheeks. “Should we head to the campsite?”
“Yes. It’s getting dark and the bugs will be even worse pretty soon. I want to get our tent set up.”
The tent. That’s right.
I had to share a tent with Oliver tonight. Sleep next to him. Hear him breathing. Talk to him quietly in the dark.
Earlier today I’d been worried about him keeping to his side of the tent, but now I found myself wondering how I’d react if he didn’t.
We walked the mile to the campground in no particular hurry, holding hands the whole way.
14
Oliver
NOW
The Popple campground was the farthest site from the docks, therefore the least crowded. In my opinion, it was also the most beautiful. Located on a sandy bluff, it had the benefit of the lake breeze to keep the mosquitoes at bay, and the beach at the bottom of the dune was sandy and secluded. I’d camped here a couple times last summer when I was scouting the farms, and it was by far my favorite.
“What do you think?” I asked Chloe when it was clear we’d have our pick of the seven possible sites. There was no one else around. “Base of the dune or up here?”
Chloe slapped at a bug on her arm. “Which will have less mosquitoes?”
I laughed. “Those are everywhere, but these two sites are higher on the bluff, and maybe the elevation will give us a stronger wind.”