“It had enough mouse.”
“I can clean it.”
“The floor drains backward.”
“I can fix that.”
“With what money?”
Clara did not answer.
That was the question beneath everything.
Dawson Farm had never been large.
Twenty-seven acres outside Bell Creek.
Vegetables.
Melons.
Small orchard.
Farm stand.
Wholesale accounts.
Her father had built a good living slowly.
Then colon cancer appeared.
Eighteen months of treatment.
Insurance covered much.
Not everything.
Henry kept working until four months before he died.
The farm lost customers during that period because deliveries became inconsistent.
Some came back.
Some did not.
Then Henry died.
Clara came home from Texas A&M, where she had been finishing a food science degree.
She did not return to school for the final semester.
Everyone told her to.
Her professors.
Her mother.
Her younger brother, Luke.
Clara said she would finish later.
The farm needed somebody.
Sarah could handle books and farm stand sales, but not full production.
Luke was seventeen and still in high school.
Two longtime workers remained.
That was not enough.
So Clara stayed.
The first year after a death creates strange priorities.
People worry about grief.
Then the electric bill comes.
Clara learned quickly that sorrow did not pause irrigation pumps.
The farm still owed $176,000 on land and equipment.
Not catastrophic.
Not comfortable.
The greenhouse needed plastic.
The main tractor needed hydraulic work.
The walk-in cooler compressor had started making a grinding noise everyone ignored because hearing it was cheaper than repairing it.
By August, Clara understood the farm was surviving.
Barely.
Surviving was not enough.
They needed something with higher margin than wholesale vegetables.
The sauce had been an idea.
Only an idea.
Until she saw hundreds of peppers about to be thrown away.
Sarah looked toward the canning room.
“What happens if this doesn’t work?”
Clara looked at the peppers.
“Then we lose five dollars.”
“And three days of labor.”
“And ingredients.”
“And bottles.”
“And permits.”
“And your sanity.”
Clara smiled.
“That was already unstable.”
Her mother did not smile.
“Clara.”
“I know.”
Sarah’s expression softened.
“You don’t have to turn everything your father touched into a business.”
Clara looked toward the notebook.
“I’m not.”
“It feels like it.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“He made sauce because he had too many peppers.”
“I have too many peppers.”
“That’s the connection.”
Sarah watched her.
Then picked up another pepper.
“What do you need?”
Clara looked at the clock.
“Help washing.”
Her mother sighed.
“Of course.”
They worked until midnight.
Luke came home from football practice at six.
He walked into the packing room.
Stopped.
“No.”
Clara pointed toward the sinks.
“Yes.”