Page 76 of Spicy Ever After
That was also when we became an organic farm. No small undertaking, but fucking worth it.
Pop bats a shaking hand. “You know this was the Paraquat.” He spits out the name of the broad-spectrum pesticide like the venom it is.
My uncle scoffs. “How many years did I work side by side with you, spraying? I might not have been drenched in that shit for my whole adulthood, but there’s at least a decade of it in my blood.” Then he gestures at me and my brother. “And I don’t have two sons who are gonna look after me when the worst happens.”
Griffin is the first to speak up. “Uncle Paul, we’re still your family. We wouldn’t turn our backs on you if you got sick.”
Paul nods in an ingratiating way. “I understand that it’s easy to say that now, but you’re already stretched thin. And if you aren’t, your brother is. Are you telling me you and Kennedy would be willing to pull up stakes and come home to nurse your old uncle?”
Griffin opens his mouth and hesitates. “I mean, we'd make sure you were looked after.” But we can all hear the edge of defensiveness. No, he and Kennedy would not uproot their lives for that.
Nor should they.
“And your dad here was younger than I am now when he started showing symptoms.” Uncle Paul shakes his head. “I don’t know if Parkinson’s will ever be my fate, but I can’t act like it’ll never happen. That or getting sick like sweet Gracie. Or a stroke. Or Alzheimer’s. You name it.”
Uncle Paul gives a mirthless laugh and flattens his hands on the table. “Yes, I want to make sure I’ll be comfortable whenever that comes. However that comes.” He shakes his head. “But I want to enjoy as many good years as I can before that, and I’m not ashamed to say it. I’m part owner of this farm, and I. Want. To. Sell.”
Even though I know he’s outnumbered—Pop and Grif would never agree to this—sweat breaks out across my back. My heart hammers. Because it’s crystal clear to me that what this boils down to is his wishes versus mine. The life he wants versus the life I want.
But no way am I giving up this farm.
I speak the words slowly and clearly. This doesn’t have to get ugly. He’s not a majority shareholder. This discussion can end right now.
“This is our home and our livelihood, Paul. We are not selling.”
Before my grandfather died, he was deliberate about his estate. As it was already in Pop’s hands—his and Mom’s—and Grif and I were already around, helping our parents as soon as we could walk—Grandpa stipulated that Pop would inherit the house and seventy-five percent of the farm.
He left Paul the other quarter, clearly outlining the fact that he wanted him to have a stake in the success and survival of the farm. He said he believed this would ensure that if Pop hit a rough patch, he could turn to his brother for help since their fates were connected.
When Mom got sick a second time and the future seemed uncertain, Pop transferred a third of his holdings to both Griffin and me. Griffin still owns his third, but he refuses to accept the dividends, insisting I reinvest it into operations.
It’s the reason I’ve been able to make some of the changes that I hope will keep us afloat.
But with only twenty-five percent of the shares, Uncle Paul can clamor to sell, but that’s about it. The property is entailed. It stays together and it stays in the family.
Uncle Paul doesn’t acknowledge a word I’ve said. He’s just looking at Pop. “It’s a good offer. You should consider it. Because there’s a back-up offer on the table.”
“What does that mean?” Griffin glares at Uncle Paul.
Still, Paul doesn’t take his eyes off Pop. “Y’all can’t afford to buy me out, but Steadman can.”
“Paul—”
“The property’s entailed,” I say, shaking my head. “No one else is buying you out.”
Uncle Paul narrows his eyes at me and Griffin, then raises an eyebrow at Pop. “You haven’t told them?”
Pop’s tremors worsen before my eyes. “Paul, you can’t do this.”
“Do what?” Griffin asks.
“It’s a good offer,” Uncle Paul says, his voice almost gentle.
But Pop slams a fist onto the table and the dishes clatter. “You swore you wouldn’t do this!” he roars. “You promised Gracie—on her deathbed—you promised her you wouldn’t?—”
Panic cinches my throat. I’ve seen my father angry. Hell, the man is pissed at the world more days than not.
But this isn’t anger. This is outrage. This is anguish.
