The theoretical plans Marcus and I had discussed, should I decide to tell my mother, was more of a flow chart than a list—each avenue existed as a result of the action before it. If his mother found out, then we would sit down with her and try to explain. If my mother found out after the trial, we would see where her wrath left us, and I would likely leave her once and for all. If she found us out before the trial, our hope would be lost. She would ruin us, the Bennets most of all. At least if we waited, it’d just be me who would pay.
That I could live with. The alternative I could not.
The only faint chance at a happy ending we had was that my mother would somehow accept what I’d done—what I’d keep doing, if I had my way. Maybe she’d assume it was temporary, a rebellion, a thing to work out of my system. That I’d get bored and fall back in line. This was likely the best outcome I could hope for—acceptance based on disbelief of my dedication to the cause.
Our worlds were shaped by perception, and hers was so wildly skewed that our Venn diagram didn’t even overlap by a sliver. In fact, we existed in such a state of deep misunderstanding, there might have been space between the circles.
As such, we all knew anything but nuclear warfare was a long shot.
But for now, I’d keep that hope quietly shining in my back pocket. I’d work at the charity. Help the Bennets escape my mother’s clutches. Plan for two futures—one with Bower and one without. And if I didn’t get to keep any of it, at least I would have Marcus.
When we pulled up to Harvest Center, every other thought slipped out of my mind and into the ether.
I didn’t know what struck me most about the sight of this place that I’d missed so much. The sunlight dappling the gardens or the twitter of spring birds in the air. The warmth of the day after an endless winter or the people coming and going from the place I’d helped create. But any way I colored it, I was struck with a bolt of rightness that this was the place I belonged.
It felt nearly identical to the feeling Marcus gave me.
Eyes followed me as I entered, but I didn’t recognize any of the faces I found as I took happy stock of the full tables and soon-to-be full stomachs. It had been so long since I left. A pang of sadness struck me at how far away I’d drifted and a covetous sort of joy at the prosper here that I’d been no part of.
Jess stood at a stock pot next to an older man I barely recognized, but when I heard him laugh, I knew.
“Jacob?” I said, and they turned to smile at me.
Two years hadn’t aged him at all. In fact, he seemed to be aging in reverse. When I knew him before, he wore a scraggly beard shot with white, tattered and thinning clothes, an expression of exhaustion so deep that the lines of his face seemed to be etched all the way down to his soul. He’d started by coming for food. Then to volunteer. Just before I left, he joined our support group and stopped drinking—a road I’d hoped he reached the end of.
By the looks of him, he had.
Now he wore a clean-shaven jaw, neatly combed hair, fresh clothes. And those lines of strain were no longer deep, smoothed by his health and erased by his levity.
“Miss Maisie, I can’t believe it. Will you come give an old man a hug?”
I laughed, moving to fill his request. “Look at you. Look at you! I … I can’t believe my eyes.”
We parted, and he rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks flushed and lips smiling. “Been too long since we seen you down here. Jess said you were back, but I thought she was pullin’ my leg.”
She shrugged. “Nobody ever believes me. I don’t know why.”
“Maybe it was all those whoppers you told, trying to hide Clint’s surprise party.”
“Well, they don’t call it a surprise for nothing, Jacob.”
“Still. Can’t blame us.” He turned back to me. “You can’t be here to cook or garden, not in that pretty dress.”
“Says who?” I hung my coat and bag, exchanging them for an apron. “What are we working on for lunch?” Slipping the loop over my head, I peered into the pots.
“Chili,” Jess answered. “The tomatoes are from our hydroponic garden in the basement.”
Surprised, I asked, “How’d you finagle the money out of my mother?”
“We didn’t.” Jacob gave his pot a stir. “We had a fundraiser.”
My heart fluttered with pride. “Bikini car wash?” I joked.
A laugh shot out of Jacob. “In your dreams, Miss Maisie.”
Jess bumped his hip with hers. “We had a bake sale. Everyone pitched in back here, and a few of us canvassed local vendors to see if they’d be willing to help. Some sponsored, some donated goods, and nearly all of them put up fliers in their windows.”
“We sold outta banana bread in two hours,” Jacob crowed. “Two hundred loaves. When’d we sell out for good?”
“Four in the afternoon.” Jess let loose a happy sigh. “We’re lucky to be in a neighborhood that cares so much. Harvest is kind of a legend around here, if you didn’t know.”
“You never told me,” I said on a laugh, but a pang of sadness struck me. I’d been so cut off, I hadn’t known.
“Dennis—from our division at Bower, the one always in flannel? His degree is actually in agriculture. We came here every night and weekend for two months to get the basement garden set up and planted. That was a year ago.”
Pride and longing plucked at my heart. “You have done so much. I knew you would.”
“Well, there’s always more to do,” Jacob said. “We’re ’bout to plant the spring garden outside.”
“I did hear that,” I said. “And then we move for solar. I’ve been working with our team on the proposal and set aside the money in our budget, so as soon as we have our permits and plans together, we’ll go green energy.”
“Heard you’re openin’ a new Harvest Center,” Jacob started tentatively. “Where’s it gonna be?”
“Hell’s Kitchen,” I answered with a smile. “I’ve found the perfect building, and once we have all our plans and blueprints ready, we’ll propose them to the city and make a bid on the property.”
“Figure you’ll need help over there? Getting things started and all?”
With a fond glance, I said, “Why, are you offering?”
The earnest expression on his face stopped me. “I’m offering. If it weren’t for you and Jess and everybody, I don’t know where I’d be—I only know it wouldn’t be good, assuming I was still alive. I got my life back, and in exchange, the center will get anything it needs from me. So you just tell me how I can help, Miss Maisie. I’m ready.”
It took everything I had not to either cry or launch myself at him for a hug. “Thank you, Jacob,” I said quietly.
“Don’t you thank me. I didn’t do anything good in my life until this, and who knows if I’ll do anything good after.”
“Oh, you will,” I promised without a single doubt in my mind.
The morning flew by in a rush. Jacob was right—there was always something to do, whether it was loading or unloading the industrial dishwasher or setting dishes out at the window to the cafeteria where we served. Moving lunch to the window or prepping for dinner. Mopping up or wiping down. And I settled into the rhythm with the ease and contentment that came along with busy hands and helping others.