Page 77 of Spicy Ever After
And it scares the shit out of me.
“What did he promise, Pop? What’s this about?”
Uncle Paul finally looks at me, and it guts me that what I see on his face is sadness. It’ll occur to me later that this look should have scared me a hell of a lot more. Because my uncle doesn’t want to fuck me over, but he’s doing it anyway.
“The entailment is about to expire. I can sell my share in another ninety days.” Uncle Paul says it like a death sentence.
It’s like being gutted.
This can’t be right. And yet the looks on both my father and my uncle’s faces tell me it’s the truth.
Griffin speaks before I can summon coherence. “Pop. What the hell is he saying? Is this true?”
Uncle Paul gives Pop a confounded look. “How could you not tell them?”
When he speaks, Pop’s voice is gnarled with bitterness. “I didn’t think I’d ever have to, brother.”
The two of them trade almost identical wounded looks.
“Let me get this straight—” Griffin drags clawed fingers through his hair. “The entailment that keeps the property together expires?”
Paul gives a slow nod. “The prohibition of division was allotted for twenty years from the time of inheritance. Which technically puts us at January 20th of next year.”
Three months from now.
Paul’s face has lost some color. I can tell he’s not enjoying this. Yet he’s doing it anyway. “Your grandfather wanted to encourage us to keep the farm, keep it whole. But he knew times were changing and that we’d face a future he couldn’t predict. He didn’t want to tie our hands forever.”
Tie our hands? This farm? That has been in our family for four generations? That has sustained the Oliviers since 1934?
“So now everything unravels?” Quick anger strangles Griffin’s voice. I’m grateful. Because I’m stunned silent.
Paul owns a quarter. If he can sell that in just three months, it’ll ruin us. Eighty of our three hundred twenty acres would be gone. We can’t sustain a twenty-five percent profit loss.
We’re barely making ends meet as it is.
Griffin is right. If Paul sells his share, everything unravels.
I finally find my tongue. “This is why you keep coaxing us to think about selling,” I croak. “So you’re not the one breaking it up. So it’s not all on you.”
He doesn’t respond, but his lowered gaze says it all.
“Steadman will pay $1.6 million for the whole three hundred twenty acres and the outbuildings. And $350,000 for my share alone. It’s market value and then some.”
Jesus Christ.
“We’ll buy you out,” Griffin growls.
But with what?
The little capital we have we wipe out almost every year to keep things running. Repair equipment. Maintaining buildings. Fix one of the store shed’s ACs that inevitably goes out. Purchase slips for planting and alfalfa, soybeans, and corn for the off season. To cushion a bad crop. Hell, I just financed the Standen harvester, so we’re already mortgaged to the teeth.
Paul is shaking his head. “I don’t want to break it up. But everyone at this table knows the reality.” Exasperation nearly chokes him. He lifts a hand and gestures to each of us. “Castor is sick. Griffin’s in New Orleans. Beckett, I know your heart’s in this place, but you’re young. Your share of the sale would give you financial security for years. You could go back to school. Buy a home. Hell, set it aside for your own kids’ college fund or bankroll your retirement. You could do anything you wanted to do?—”
“Except for farming my land,” I say hoarsely.
Paul winces. “I told you. Steadman would take you on. You could keep doing the work without the risk.”
My neck is on fire. “But it wouldn’t be mine.” Does he not see how impossible that would be? To live in this house? To work the land? While it belonged to someone else?
