Chapter One

Ash

My eyes catch on the dusty analog clock hanging above my office door; fingers deftly typing against the keys, brain on autopilot, waiting for the minute to pass. The closer the hands creep towards 3:45 p.m., the slower my fingers move until they’re just hovering over the keyboard. Any second now. Any. Second.

Wait. Wait. Tick.

The hands shift subtly by one degree and I have half a mind to use the next sixty seconds to celebrate officially turning thirty. For this one, measly minute, I don’t share the entire day with my dead mother. Thirty years ago, this was the minute I entered the world, kicking and screaming. My first, and quite possibly last, sixty seconds of unadulterated attention, but just like every year, the minute passes.

Closing my laptop, I scrub both hands over my face in an effort to forget. The text tone reserved for my family’s group message chimes from my cell at the same time a knock reverberates into my office. I’m given approximately three seconds before the door is shoved open by the young girl I recently hired to be my administrative assistant. I think her name is Marissa. She looks like a Marissa. Damn, this is definitely something I should know.

“Ms. van Doren would like to speak with you,” Marissa (?) says nervously. “I told her you were busy, but she insists.” Every receptionist I’ve hired has been terrified of Vivian van Doren from the moment they enter the interview room right up to the moment they inevitably do their exit counseling. Sure, Vivian has the ability to look at you and make your knees shake and her cut-throat business practices keep Forester and van Doren Landscaping LLC above water, but I’ve never seen her so much as raise a curled-up newspaper to a half-dead fly.

“Send her in,” I say, leaning back in anticipation. Before the door can swing shut behind the young girl, it’s pushed open again by an older woman in mud caked boots, worn out blue jeans, and an oversized cream sweatshirt. Vivian’s version of business attire.

“Hello,” She sings, as she steps into my office. Her white-grey hair is pulled up and out of her face, cheeks red, no doubt from the rush of wind outside. “How’s your day been? Lucy said you’ve been in here with the door shut for hours,” Vivian says as she squats to sit in the stiff chair across from my desk.

“Who is Lucy?” I ask, reopening my laptop to finish the budget analysis open on my screen, simultaneously avoiding the topic of my day.

“Lucy is the secretary you hired three weeks ago. The girl who insists on calling me Ms. van Doren, and who refuses to let anyone see you without your permission,” Vivian says with a sharp hiss.

“Why did I think her name was Marissa?” I ask, absent-mindedly.

“Because Marissa was the last secretary who quit after your brother wouldn’t return her calls.” 

Right. I make a mental note that I’m sure I won’t keep tacked in my brain for longer than a few hours and hit save on my half-assed report. I’ll embellish whatever else I need to when I get to our meeting with the bank lender in—I check my watch—ten minutes. The farm’s sales have dropped significantly since last month, but that’s to be expected for a tree farm that gets most of its profit around the holidays. Even our sales in cabin rentals and party reservations have gone down. We want to expand the flower nursery at the farm to try and pull in more revenue. Vivian remains optimistic that the bank will see the value in this expansion, where I’d rather stand firmly on the side of passive realism.

Vivian’s bright yellow nails tap against the wooden top of my desk impatiently while I delay giving her my full attention. “Do you need something?”

“You haven’t responded to any of my texts. I need to know what you want for dinner.” There is a reason I haven’t responded, and she knows that. We go through this every year.

“The kids have been begging for tacos all week,” I say and as if on cue, the family text tone chimes again.

“I didn’t ask you what the kids want for dinner,” Vivian says pointedly. I try my best to mirror the stern look she’s giving me, but instead of moving her away from the subject it makes her push harder. “It’s been seven years.”

     The sound of the printer waking up from its month-long slumber is enough to get me out of my chair and away from my desk. “Exactly,” I say, leaving off the, “So drop it,” that’s lingering on my tongue. My phone goes off for the third time, interrupting whatever Vivian is going to say and giving me an excuse to change the subject. This time the tone isn’t from a text. It’s a call, and when I pick up my phone my little brother Juniper’s face is smiling back at me. House rule number three on our never-ending list is no calling unless it’s an emergency. So naturally, my heart drops into my stomach when I slide my thumb across the screen to answer.

“What happened?”

“We’re stuck at the high school,” Juniper sings from the other end. I groan and fall back into my chair. Juniper’s snicker gives me a pretty clear indication of where this conversation is headed. “Aspen got detention,” he taunts. The twelve-year-old hasn’t quite surpassed the stage where tattle-tailing brings him joy.

“Do I want to know why?” I ask.

“You know that information is highly confidential,” he says. “But word around the halls is that it had something to do with his hands up Rebecca Marks’ skirt in the field house.”

“Jesus Christ,” I growl, pulling the phone away from my mouth so my brother doesn’t hear even though he’s no stranger to curse words.

“What happened?” Vivian asks, but I clear my throat and regroup, pressing the phone back to my ear.

“Did you call Willow?”

Juniper hums his confirmation. “She’s working a double at Tillie’s tonight.” I already knew that, but wishful thinking. “Cypress is finishing up a walk-through of the Lothario project in Greencastle, and Hawthorn is driving back from the city. I can try Vivian if you want me to,” Juniper suggests. Vivian perks up when my eyes flick to her.

“She’s here with me now,” I tell him.

This is the reason I don’t get anything finished during the day; why I spend more time working with the overnight cleaning crew than I do with my receptionist. I have eight siblings and somehow, none of them are ever available when I need them to be. “I’ll figure something out. Are you guys okay hanging out at the school for a bit? I have a meeting with Vivian and a few lenders.”

From the other end of the phone, I hear the undeniable bark of Linden’s voice. “No,” he shouts. “We won’t be okay. I need my stuff for practice.” The whooshing of static and hands against the receiver attack my eardrum before I’m met with a less than thrilling offer from Juniper. “I could let Linden drive us home.” I’d laugh, if he didn’t sound so serious. There is no way in hell I’m letting Linden drive any of them home when he can’t even drive a lawn mower without getting himself injured.

“Absolutely not,” I say. Linden has basketball practice at 4:30. Juniper and Magnolia have dance at 5:00, and Zelkova has swim until 5:00. If I leave the farm now, drive home and back to the high school, I might make it in time. Of course, that means I have to skip yet another important meeting.

“If I’m late, coach said I won’t play at all next Thursday,” Linden shouts.

“I’m on my way. Tell Linden to calm down or his coach isn’t the only one who will keep him from playing next week.” Juniper huffs agreeingly, but I know he isn’t going to repeat anything I said, which is probably for the best since I’m not there to break up a fight. Juniper and I hang up with an exchange of tired goodbyes.

“What’s going on?” Vivian asks for possibly the fifth time. 

“Aspen got detention,” I huff, shuffling through the stack of printed papers I’ve compiled. “I have to run home and grab Linden’s duffle bag, bring Juniper and Magnolia to dance, and pick up Zelkova from swim, before I grab Aspen from detention and then Linden from practice.”

“I swear that boy is trying to beat Hawthorn’s record,” Vivian laughs. “Do you need help finding someone to run them around?” she asks half-heartedly. I laugh, because we both know that if Zelkova sees anyone walk through the doors to his swim practice who isn’t me without any kind of notice, he’ll freak out. It’s a separation anxiety issue we’ve been working on since he started going to school full-time. His therapist swears he’s improving, but the ever-present creak in my neck from his elbow jabbing into me all night begs to differ. Instead of pointing that out to Vivian, I shake my head and hand her the still-warm stack of papers that I pulled from the print. “I’m going to miss our meeting.”

“This will be the third time this year,” she tsks.

“I have everything written out here,” I say, shaking the stack in front of her. Vivian plucks the papers from my hands and looks them over with narrowed eyes.

“I’ll take these to the meeting if you tell me what you’d like for dinner,” she bargains. There is absolutely no way she’d actually refuse to attend a meeting in my place, and not just because we’re business partners, or even because she had a heavy hand in raising me and my siblings. It’s because she can’t pass up the opportunity to help. It’s in her DNA.

“The kids want tacos,” I repeat. “I will eat whatever is placed in front of me.”

Vivian rolls her eyes, scans the documents again, and sighs with mock defeat. “I’ll make sure to have a fresh batch of oatmeal cookies made when you get home,” she says with a warm smile. “I know they’re your favorite.” I meet her statement with silence and throw on my jacket before slinging my computer bag over my shoulder; the weight of it reminding me of all my responsibilities.

“Excuse me,” Vivian says, clearing her throat when I breeze past her. She’s standing in front of my desk; hands firmly on her hips, the toe of her boot tapping expectantly. I double back and pull her into a tight hug, holding on until she wraps her arms around my waist. “I wish you would let us celebrate for you,” she mutters into my chest. “It isn’t every day one of my little angels turns the big three zero,” she continues when I drop my arms and step away.

“Wait two more years and you’ll get to celebrate Hawthorn,” I say, earning a swat to my arm.

“I love you,” she sighs, zipping my jacket up higher and pulling up the edges of my collar so they cover my neck.

“I love you too,” I say impatiently. Vivian pats my chest twice, her sign that I’m allowed to leave, and I bend down to give her a quick kiss to the forehead.

“Happy birthday, Ash,” she calls after me. I tug on my ball cap to secure it in place, making sure not to flinch so I can pretend that I didn’t hear her.