A Second Harvest
By Eli Easton
Blurb:
David Fisher has lived by the rules all his life. Born to a Mennonite family, he obeyed his father and took over the family farm, married, and had two children. Now with his kids both in college and his wife deceased, he runs his farm alone and without joy, counting off the days of a life half lived.
Christie Landon, graphic designer, Manhattanite, and fierce gay party boy, needs a change. Now thirty, he figures it’s time to grow up and think about his future. When his best friend overdoses, Christie resolves to take a break from the city. He heads to a small house in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, to rest, recoup, and reflect.
But life in the country is boring, despite glimpses of the hunky silver fox next door. When Christie’s creativity latches on to cooking, he decides to approach his widower neighbor with a plan to share meals and grocery expenses. David agrees, and soon the odd couple find they really enjoy spending time together.
Christie challenges the boundaries of David's closed world and brings out feelings he buried long ago. If he can break free of the past, he might find a second chance at happiness.
Release Date:
July 1, 2016
Pre-order the paperback here
Excerpts
Chapter 1
David
sat against the rough wooden boards of the cow stall and watched Gertrude die.
She opened her big brown eyes once toward the end and gazed at him for a long
moment. In the glow of the lantern light, her lashes cast deep shadows so David
couldn’t see what emotion might be in those eyes. Was she grateful he was
sitting up with her? Did she know it was time to go? Was she relieved to
finally be leaving this farm where she’d spent her entire long life?
But she
was just a cow. Probably she thought none of those things. When she closed her
eyes again, it was for the last time. An hour later she stopped breathing, and
she was gone.
It felt
like an era passed with her, silently and stealthily. David was there when
Gertrude was born. She was the first cow that was his, designated as
such while still in the womb, a birthday present from his parents. He raised
her and showed her at the Harrisburg farm fair when he was in eleventh grade.
She was a beautiful brown jersey with classic lines, and she won a third-place
ribbon that day. David was proud enough to burst. For years afterward Gertrude
was a reliable, strong milking cow.
A
farmer didn’t get sentimental about animals. That was plain stupid. But David
was not able to kill Gertrude when her milk production fell off. She’d half
performed for another decade until he eventually retired her to pasture. If
anyone asked, he told them it was good to have a mature cow around to show the
rebellious younger ones what was what, teach them the routine. And Gertrude was
a leader by personality. She knew how to put other cows and heifers in their
places. But the truth was, David just couldn’t bear to load her in the truck
and take her to the slaughterhouse.
She was
a part of his boyhood, and it was right she was dead now. God knew the boy in
him was a far distant memory.
He
turned off the lights in the barn and walked back to the house. It was
foolishness to have stayed up with her. The day’s work had to be done whether
or not he had a good night’s rest. He was too old for this.
The
light in the kitchen was on as he approached the house. He checked his watch.
It was just past 5:00 a.m. Amy must be up.
For the
past two years, Amy had come home from college for the summer to work as a
nursing intern at the Lancaster hospital and to help him run a CSA program on
the farm. It was Amy who did all the customer work. She made up the flyers,
packed the boxes of produce, and met with the customers every week when they came
to pick up their shares. She was good at that sort of thing. He wished he could
pay her more, but like every other operation on the farm, the profit from the
CSA was a very faint line of green. David honestly didn’t know how most farmers
made it. His grandfather had paid off the farm, but still, between property
taxes, upkeep and maintenance, animal feed, and everything else, he made just
enough to get by. As his dad used to say, the gravy was thin.
He
opened the sliding glass door and saw Amy in her bathrobe pulling some fresh
eggs from the fridge.
“Hey,
Dad.” She yawned. “What are you doing out at the barn so early?”
“Gertrude
passed.”
“Aw!
That’s a shame.” Amy didn’t sound too broken up about it. Then again Amy
learned young not to get attached to the animals.
He
grabbed a glass from the cupboard, went to the fridge, and poured himself some
orange juice. But when he went to lift it to his mouth, he was surprised to
discover a hard, thick lump in his throat. He put the glass back on the counter
and breathed. Ridiculous. He hadn’t gotten particularly choked up, even when
Susan died. But then she was sick for a few years. Her death was a blessing in
the end.
“Things
live. Things die. That’s the way of it.” His voice was gruff, but the lump
eased. He drank his juice.
When he
put the glass down, Amy was watching him with a frown. “You sound so cynical. I
worry about you, Dad. You should take Mrs. Robeson up on her offer for dinner.
I think she really likes you.”
“I’m
not interested in Mrs. Robeson.”
Amy
rolled her eyes. “You should give her a chance. Mom’s been gone two years now.
She wouldn’t want you to be alone forever. And Mrs. Robeson taught both Joe and
me in Sunday school. She’s a very nice lady.”
David
gave Amy a warning look. “I don’t care to discuss my love life, thank you. Are
you gonna cook those eggs, or are you waiting for them to hatch?”
Amy
snorted a laugh, but she opened a cupboard and brought out a skillet. “Slave
driver! I just worry about you. I hate that you’re all alone here when I go
back to school. Joe hardly ever comes home.”
“I
don’t mind.”
“I
know! That’s the problem. You’re turning into a crusty old hermit. Next time I
see you, you’ll have a beard down to your belly button. I know you live on TV
dinners, hotdogs, and chips. It’s not healthy. You should get remarried.
I know Pastor Mitchell thinks so.”
“Pastor
Mitchell wants to get some of his old maids and widows married off so he
doesn’t have to handhold them so much. I’m not interested.”
David
was half teasing, but Amy still gasped. “Dad! That’s a terrible thing so say!”
David
waggled his eyebrows, unrepentant, and exited the kitchen.
He went
upstairs and took a shower. The sleepless night hit him along with the hot
water, and he knew it would be a long day. Why had he felt compelled to
sit up with Gertrude? She probably hadn’t even known he was there. But at the
thought of her, another wave of sadness hit him. An image ran through his
mind—one of falling leaves and the boy he’d been playing in them, laughing. He
had no idea where that came from or why.
Out of
the shower, he used a hand to wipe off the fogged mirror. He looked at himself
critically to see if he could get away with not shaving this morning. His
reflection surprised him briefly, as it always did. He felt so old. He always
expected to see white hair and a sagging face when he looked in the mirror. But
there were only a few strands of gray at the temples of his dark-brown hair and
in his close-cropped beard. His face was not young, but it wasn’t sagging yet
either. He’d lost a good thirty pounds since Susan died, so he actually looked
younger.
Fine.
He might not look old, but he sure felt it. And he suddenly understood
why he sat up with Gertrude. He wanted to watch her as she escaped the farm at
last, as she simply left her body and went away, gone where no one could
prevent her going and no one could follow.
One day
David would leave too, maybe just that way. He’d shut his eyes and vanish,
leaving a shell behind. But dear Lord, he was only forty-one this past May.
Even if he died when his dad did, at age fifty-eight, he had years to wait yet.
Just
to… wait.
It was
Saturday and the idea of doing more cleaning held little appeal. What else did
he have to do with himself? Nothing. The temptation to go into Lancaster or
Harrisburg was there, to seek out a gay bar, or even get on Grindr. Gay men had
to exist out here. But… that wasn’t why he moved here. He came here to get away
from all that for a little while.
His
mind made up, he went to the grocery store in town with a long list. It was a
big-chain grocery store, and he was pleased to find nearly everything he
needed. The October day was bright with crisp leaves and a blue sky. When he
got back home with his sacks of goodies, it was still early afternoon. He
opened the windows in the kitchen—struggling against the one over the sink that
stuck—turned up the music on his iPhone, and started dancing around, organizing
his supplies and digging out pots and pans.
He made
the curried carrot ginger soup, a lovely dish with fresh peas, green onion, and
radishes, some savory cheese-and-herb swirled biscuits, and a basic
herb-roasted chicken. He truly did love to cook, though the past few years, it
never seemed worth the effort. There were so many great takeout places in the
East Village. Plus Kyle was such a picky eater. He basically ate pizza and
stripped-down salads, and that was it.
It
occurred to Christie while he was prepping this meal that it was going to be a
beautiful repast, and it was a shame he didn’t have anyone to share it with. He
could freeze some of it, but it wouldn’t be the same. He thought of David next
door, living alone, and of his TV dinner. Would that be weird? That would be
weird, right?
Pushing
it from his mind, Christie spent the rest of the afternoon jamming to tunes in
the kitchen and working his way through the recipes, having fun and dancing in
his stocking feet.
When
everything was ready, Christie decided the meal deserved some pomp and
circumstance. His aunt had a drawer of tablecloths, but they were not quite his
style. He used a white linen towel for a place mat and put each dish on the
table in the best china dishes he could find. He used a red cut glass for his
water and lit a candle in an old silver candlestick he found in the cupboard.
He
looked at the table and chewed his lip. Everything looked beautiful. It smelled
amazing too. He sucked some chicken juice from his thumb—yum. It almost seemed like a waste to eat it. He wished someone
were here to share the meal with him. Anyone, really. The idea he’d avoided
thinking about while cooking poked its head out again.
Well.
He’d never been exactly shy. If he was going to do this, he had to do it
quickly. The food was getting cold.
With a
nervous shake of his head, Christie decided. He cut the roast chicken in half
and put it on a large plate with a little bit of everything else, covered it
with aluminum foil, and ran out the back door.
He
hadn’t been to the Fisher’s farm before, and it turned out to be a longer trip
down the gravel lane than he anticipated, maybe a quarter mile. He kept up a
jog, worried about the food getting ruined. Between that and his nerves, he had
a fine sheen of sweat when he got there.
David’s
farm was beautiful. The white barn Christie had seen from a distance was huge
and picturesque. It made Christie’s fingers itch to draw it. The farmhouse was
fieldstone with black shutters. Electric candles in the windows gave it a cozy
Colonial air and made Christie realize how dark it was getting outside. Why
hadn’t he grabbed his coat? It was fucking freezing. He was an idiot—a
shivering idiot at the moment.
Determined
to drop off his gift without further delay, he marched to the back door and
firmly knocked.
Enthusiastic
barking commenced. More than one dog—two or three. Christie felt a little
nervous. He liked dogs, but these farm dogs might be territorial. And he
was holding a plate of chicken. He might as well have bathed in bacon
grease.
A deep
voice silenced the dogs and the door opened. David’s face looked stern and worn
for a moment, but when he recognized Christie, a smile softened it. “Oh, hi.”
“Hi.
Sorry to bother you, but I spent the day cooking, and I made all this food. No
way can I eat it all, so I thought I’d bring you a plate. You know, to make up
for causing you to burn your dinner the other day, fixing my smoke detector and
all.” God, he was overdoing it! Shut up,
Christie.
“Oh.”
David looked surprised. He glanced at the foil-covered plate in Christie’s
hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I was
bored.” Christie’s shrug turned into a shiver. He held out the plate. His mouth
was dry. He was starting to wish he hadn’t done this.
There
was a reserve about David, a way he kept himself at arm’s length. Christie
sensed that when David stopped by his house, but he put it down to the fact
they were strangers. The vibe was stronger here, on David’s turf. Christie felt
like an intruder standing at the back door. David was looking at the plate with
an unreadable expression. Please just take it.
Then the
wind shifted and a delicious aroma billowed up. David’s face grew curious.
“Roast chicken?”
“Yeah.
It was from a Thanksgiving magazine. I made some sides too.”
Suddenly
David moved. “Heck, you must be freezing. Come inside.”
“Thanks.
I can’t stay. I just wanted to drop this off.” But Christie was stepping inside
as he spoke, welcoming any relief from the cold air.
“River.
Tonga. Sit.” David shut the door. The dogs sat obediently. One was a golden
retriever and the other a large furry black mix of some kind.
“Tonga?”
Christie asked.
“It’s
an island,” David said with an adorably bashful duck of his head. He took the
plate from Christie and raised the foil, looked at it, and smelled. “This looks
really good. You made this?”
“Sure.
I just followed the recipes.” But David’s words made Christie feel infinitely
better about bringing it by. “Well. I’ll leave you to eat it before it gets
cold. I have mine back at the house.”
“Thanks.
It beats the heck out of frozen food.” David sounded sincere. He put the plate
on the counter. “Hang on.” He opened up an accordion door in the hall,
revealing an overstuffed closet with a collection of coats, hats, and shoes. He
selected a black woolen pea coat with large buttons and pulled it out. “You’re
going to freeze to death.”
“It was
stupid not to wear my coat. I didn’t realize it was so far over here.”
David
got an amused smile, but he wasn’t looking directly into Christie’s eyes, so he
still seemed uncomfortable. Instead of handing Christie the coat, though, he
held it open and moved behind Christie.
Christie
blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had helped him into a coat.
He held back his arms and let David slip the coat onto him. It fit in the
shoulders okay, but it was big around the waist and hips. David turned Christie
in a matter-of-fact way and started doing up the buttons.
Christie’s
eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. What the hell? Did David think he
was a child? But there was something titillating about being taken care of, or
maybe it was David’s proximity, his handsome face focused on his task, his
rough hands so close to Christie’s body.
Yes, it
was definitely the proximity. Wow, David was a good-looking man. Who knew
rugged could be so hot? And to think of all the money Christie had spent on grooming!
There
were only five buttons, and when David finished the last of them, just below
Christie’s chin, he looked up and saw Christie’s face. He suddenly blushed, his
nose and cheeks going red. He dropped his hands and took a step back. “Sorry.
That was… sorry.”
“I
didn’t mind.” Oh God, Christie’s voice had dropped in register and sounded
rumbly to his own ears. That was a smexy voice! What the hell was he doing?
“Um… thanks for the jacket, David. I’ll bring it back later.”
“No
hurry.” David was avoiding his gaze again.
Christie
yanked the door open, escaped the house with a silly little wave, and walked
fast back to his aunt’s place.
Once
inside he found his own food was only tepidly warm, but still flavorful and
delicious. The herb glaze on the chicken was to die for, and it went
beautifully with the floury-cheesy biscuits and the curried soup. He hoped
David liked it too.
He kept
the coat on while he ate, snuggling into the fabric and holding the collar
close under his chin. It smelled of earth and hay, a slight trace of motor oil,
and the smell of a working man—piney, sweaty, and altogether appealing.
He
remained in the coat all through dinner. But only because he was cold.
About The Author
As an avid reader of such, she is tinkled pink when an author manages to combine literary merit, vast stores of humor, melting hotness and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, three bulldogs, three cows and six chickens. All of them (except for the husband) are female, hence explaining the naked men that have taken up residence in her latest fiction writing.
You can find Eli at
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