“No, I’m the sugar to your spice. That’s why you love me.” Yuna’s expression grew impish. “Do you want ice cream?”
“It’s January. Ice cream is a warm-weather treat,” Rae said, aware she was being peevish. At home she kept tubs stashed in the freezer. Her father loved banana splits year-round. She peered at the lunch area, a cubbyhole arrangement where Yuna stashed goodies for her staff. “Do you have hot chocolate?” she asked.
“Dixon’s has brownies. We’ll add a scoop of vanilla on top.”
“Like I need a double dose of sugar.”
“One dessert—we’ll share. Fewer calories, less guilt.”
“Forget the fairy wings. You’re evil. You know that, right?”
Yuna shrugged. “Should we have Dixon’s heat up the brownie?”
Chocolate was Rae’s downfall. As was Dixon’s, the wine and dessert café on the opposite side of Chardon Square.
Sensing victory, Yuna nodded at the door that led to the alley behind the building. “Let’s make a run for it. Leave my staff out front to deal with the customers.”
Rae sighed. A quick snack—with or without ice cream—wasn’t the worst idea.
Chapter 2
Golden light slanted through the living room. The TV wasn’t on. Rae walked through the house, calling for her father.
A cup of coffee sat on the kitchen counter. In the mudroom, Connor’s boots and the canvas coat he wore to stroll the property were missing. Those excursions were perfectly safe in warmer months. In winter, when heavy snow and patches of ice dotted the acreage, Rae encouraged her father to wait until she was home to accompany him. For a man in his seventies, Connor was in reasonable shape—but Rae harbored an overprotective streak for her only surviving parent.
As usual, the request had been ignored. Muttering choice words, she hurried out back.
Nearly an acre separated the large, rambling house from the even larger—and thoroughly neglected—barn. During Rae’s childhood, the farm had bustled with activity. She recalled downy chicks skittering across her knees in the pasture’s soft grass. She’d chased dark-winged moths through the pumpkin patch and the rows of lettuce her mother, Hester, had coaxed into thriving clear into November.
Living off the land had been Hester’s dream. While many in her generation traded in their youthful rebellion for the rampant consumerism overtaking the country, she read articles on organic farming while earning a fine arts degree from the University of Pennsylvania. In 1979, armed with a small inheritance and a willing husband, she purchased the tract of land outside Chardon, Ohio. It was her twenty-seventh birthday.
Although she was young, Hester was serious and sensible. Plans for starting a family were put on hold as she and Connor learned animal husbandry and when to plant crops. They hired Amish carpenters from nearby Middlefield to erect their home and the barn. The barn quickly filled with pigs, goats, chickens, and a cow affectionately named Butter. The house underwent several expansions as the couple—like modern-day pioneers—learned to can vegetables and store root crops in makeshift bins. During summer, blackberries grew wild near the forest, and Connor filled baskets with the sweet fruit. Hester preserved jams and baked pies to share with new friends they met in town. By the third year, the Amish were called back to the property. They made further additions to the house, including a small greenhouse Hester quickly put to use.
For most people, the kitchen is the heart of the home. Or, in this case, the kitchen and the adjoining greenhouse.
Hester’s grand design was more ambitious. Once the Amish completed the greenhouse, they spent the better part of a sizzling August building a large, A-frame studio.
Hester’s studio became the beating heart of the rambling house. Inside, she experimented with sculptural collages she crafted from recycled items. Bits of fabric; pieces of aluminum or bottle caps discovered while driving Geauga County’s winding roads; old toys, chipped china, and swatches of embroidery unearthed at garage sales—Hester found imaginative ways to turn castoffs into art. Since her sensible nature came with a thrifty streak, she saw no reason why an hour driving the countryside, or three dollars spent at a garage sale, shouldn’t be turned into a tidy profit.
Like his more sensible wife, Connor—who was introverted, witty, and bookish—took eagerly to farm life. Money, and how to earn it, never crossed his mind. He loved the physical labor and the dawn mist rippling across the acres. Living out his days in blue jeans was Connor’s idea of heaven.