“Please.”
The specialist looked toward the lower ridge.
“Possibly two hundred original planting positions.”
The girl stared.
Her father muttered:
“Lord.”
The older farmer removed his cap.
The extension agent said:
“Could be more if there are terrace blocks.”
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
The girl finally said:
“So I might have bought hundreds of fruit trees.”
The specialist looked toward her.
“You bought fifty acres.”
“Some of which may contain remnants of a historic orchard.”
The girl frowned.
“That sounds much less exciting.”
“It is also much safer.”
Then the specialist pointed toward the goats.
“And those animals are not entering the exposed rows without protection.”
The young woman saluted.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
The specialist looked unconvinced.
The goats looked insulted.
That evening, the young woman sat on the porch steps at home with mud dried to her jeans.
Her mother brought coffee.
Not because the girl needed caffeine.
Because that was what adults in her family did when decisions became large.
The mother sat.
“So?”
The girl looked toward the darkening ridge in the distance.
“Maybe two hundred trees.”
Her mother went still.
“Alive?”
“No.”
“Original planting sites.”
“How many alive?”
“Forty-two in the first section.”
The mother looked impressed despite trying not to.
“Any fruit?”
“One dried apple.”
“Delicious?”
“Like roofing material.”
Her mother laughed.
The girl smiled.
Then quiet returned.
“What are you afraid of?”
Her mother asked.
The young woman looked toward her.
“Who said I'm afraid?”
“You're holding coffee with both hands.”
The girl looked down.
She was.
“I don't want to ruin it.”
Her mother nodded.
Good answer.
“I don't know what I'm doing.”
“Also good.”
“What if everyone gets excited and it turns out they're ordinary trees?”
“Then they're ordinary old trees.”
“What if restoration costs thousands?”
“It probably will.”
“What if they don't produce?”
“Then they don't.”
“What if—”
Her mother interrupted.
“You paid three dollars.”
The girl groaned.
“Mom.”
“I’m serious.”
The mother smiled.
“You have not mortgaged your future.”
“You have not borrowed a million dollars.”
“You have fifty acres that almost nobody wanted.”
“That gives you something very valuable.”
“What?”
“Time to learn.”
The girl became still.
Her mother continued.
“You don't need to decide what the land becomes this month.”
That was the first advice that made the girl breathe easier.
Time.
She had thought ownership meant immediate answers.
Maybe it meant permission to wait.
The next week, the state university sent an orchard historian.
He was not what the girl expected.
She imagined someone elderly, wearing tweed, perhaps carrying old books.
Instead, he was thirty-six, sunburned, wearing muddy boots, and visibly more excited by rotting lumber than healthy trees.