stretched out in front of her. Rows and rows of romaine stood at attention like perfect soldiers.
There were four of them against the legion of leafy greens.
Beckett, in jeans, a t-shirt, and boots nearly as worn as Carter’s, sighed. “I’ll start over there,” he gestured at the far row.
Colby took the middle, leaving Carter and Summer alone at the edge.
“This is a row crop knife,” Carter said, holding up an orange handled blade. “You grab the plant a few inches off the ground with one hand and cut with the other.” He leaned over, grasped the stalk, and swiped down with the blade. He freed the lettuce head from the earth and tossed it into a wooden crate on the ground. “Don’t hold too far down on the plant or you’ll be cutting your hand. Got it?”
Summer nodded. “Grab, slice, toss. Got it.”
“It’s hard work,” he warned.
She nodded again. If Carter was waiting for her to flake out, he could just keep waiting. She could spend an afternoon in the dirt and the story would be better for it. Besides, the monotonous work would help her brain sift through their lunch conversation. She knew there was so much Carter hadn’t said, and she had a feeling that that’s where the real story was. She would get him there. Trust grew slowly. She knew that for a fact. She had a week here to get him to open up.
“I’ll start here and work my way in,” she said, pointing at the outside row.
He handed her a blade. “I’ll start over there and work my way to you. If you get tired, let me know.”
She wouldn’t. In her career as a writer and then editor, Summer had interviewed sources through a translator, followed a team of scientists into a bat cave, and once sat down with a troubled model/actress for an interview in the limo on her way to rehab. Plus, she had already been on the back of a horse today.
Harvesting lettuce, she could handle.
Beckett and Colby were already moving like machines up their rows.
She shoved up the sleeves of her shirt and bent from the waist.
Grab. Slice. Toss. Grab. Slice. Toss.
The first few tries were sloppy and she had to take a second and sometimes third pass with the knife. But as her crate slowly filled, she hit a rhythm.
Grab. Slice. Toss.
There was something satisfying about having her hands in the earth, about seeing her progress when she looked back at the empty stalks. Another few heads and she straightened to take a drink.
Her back sent a swift and undeniable complaint of discomfort. Her feet were echoing the sentiment.
She felt eyes on her. Carter, of course. Checking on either her progress or physical wellbeing. Pretending not to notice, Summer took a quick swig of water and bent over again. The complaint from her back got instantaneously louder, but she sliced through the next head of romaine with enthusiasm.
Grab. Slice Toss.
Once her crate was full, Summer struggled to pick it up.
“Summer, leave it,” Carter called. He was already stepping over the rows separating them. He hefted the crate and carried it to the truck bed where he grabbed an empty.
She used the opportunity to jab her fingers into her throbbing lower back. “Thanks,” she said, pasting a smile on her face.
“Doing okay?” Carter asked, tugging her ponytail.
“Sure,” she answered with more enthusiasm than she felt.
He raised an eyebrow before heading back to his row.
To save her back, Summer crouched down. She couldn’t swing the knife as efficiently, but at least her back wasn’t taking the brunt of the effort.
Grab. Slice. Toss.
––––––––
S ummer hated the farm. The dirt. The stupid lettuce.
But most of all she hated the smirks Carter and Beckett were throwing her way. Colby was at least polite enough to look at her with pity when he picked up her crate.
She had tried standing, crouching, and kneeling. The only thing left was to lie down in the dirt and crawl through the field. She was seriously considering that option when she ran into a pair