“Payment schedule aligned more closely with annual harvest.”
“Interest remains.”
“We are not a charity.”
“I know.”
“And the bank would like a first right to discuss financing any expansion.”
Clara smiled.
“No.”
Walter blinked.
“No?”
“You get the mortgage.”
“That’s enough.”
For one second, Walter looked offended.
Then amused.
“You have changed since March.”
“No.”
Clara said.
“I think people stopped talking over me.”
She signed the restructuring agreement two days later.
The farm was not saved forever.
No farm ever was.
But the immediate threat ended.
Winter brought the first real harvest.
After leaf fall, Clara cut selected shoots near their bases.
She learned to distinguish rods intended for propagation from those suited to weaving.
Straight one-year growth went into bundles.
Some traveled to Evansville.
Some went to the conservation district.
Some remained for Clara’s own nursery rows.
Ben worked beside her every Saturday.
At first, he complained about his back.
Then his hands.
Then the cold.
Clara finally said:
“You know nobody invited you.”
Ben looked offended.
“This is my investment.”
“Four hundred dollars does not buy this much complaining.”
“Interest.”
She laughed.
In February, almost exactly one year after Evelyn died, the first substantial payment arrived.
Clara took the check to First Mercantile herself.
She paid Ben back first.
He refused.
She placed the money in his coat pocket.
He put it on the kitchen table.
She put it in his truck.
He mailed it back.
The argument lasted two weeks.
Eventually they compromised.
Ben used part of the money to repair the farmhouse roof.
“The roof belongs to your business.”
He said.
Clara allowed it.
The other part went into a savings account.
The next spring, Clara planted another six hundred cuttings.
Not randomly.
This time she measured.
Mapped flood depth.
Separated cultivars.
Left access lanes.
Created a nursery block on the wettest five acres.
Kept the remaining land in grass, seasonal pasture, and conservation strips.
Harold helped design the trials.
Clara teased him constantly.
“You know.”
She said once.
“You once advised me to remove all this.”
“I have no memory of that.”
“I kept the letter.”
Harold looked horrified.
“You wouldn’t.”
“It’s framed.”
She was joking.
Mostly.
Her relationship with Tom Blackwell changed more slowly.
His willow stakes established well along part of the damaged creek bend.
Not all survived.
About three-quarters did.
The next spring flood tested them.
The living roots and new shoots helped hold sections that previously slumped, though heavier protection remained necessary at the hardest bend.
Tom came to Clara’s farm afterward.
“Lost fewer feet this year.”
He said.
“That’s good.”
He handed her an envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Payment for another five hundred.”
Clara opened it.
The amount was too high.
“This is more than we agreed.”
Tom shrugged.
“Interest on being an ass.”
Clara laughed.
“I don’t have a category for that in my ledger.”
“Make one.”
She did.
OTHER INCOME.