He examined the peas in the basin.
Then looked toward the machine.
For several seconds, he was quiet.
Finally, he asked, "How much can you shell?"
Hazel considered the question.
"Depends on what you're bringing and how quickly you need it."
Rafe looked toward his truck.
Then sighed.
"I've got a lot coming ready."
She nodded.
"How much?"
"More than I can get through."
Hazel looked surprised.
Rafe continued.
"I was planning to use the commercial sheller across town. Now they're closing."
She nodded.
"I heard."
He stared toward the machine.
Then asked, "You taking outside work?"
Hazel hesitated.
She wanted to say yes.
But she also knew the little sheller couldn't handle unlimited volume, and the big drum wasn't ready.
She took a breath.
"Small batches right now. I don't want to promise more than I can finish properly."
Rafe looked disappointed.
Then nodded.
For a moment, he seemed ready to leave.
But Hazel spoke again.
"If you tell me what you're trying to process, maybe we can figure out a schedule or another option."
He looked back.
For several seconds, he studied her face.
Then said quietly, "You'd do that?"
Hazel nodded.
"If it makes sense."
Rafe looked toward the wooden machine again.
Then toward the rows of peas.
For a moment, he seemed embarrassed.
Finally, he said, "All right."
He told her about his crop.
It had matured faster than expected, and he was worried the pods would deteriorate before he could get them shelled. He'd already lost money on a portion of the harvest and didn't want to waste more.
Hazel listened.
Then asked whether he'd considered selling some pods fresh.
Rafe sighed.
"Market's crowded."
She nodded.
They discussed possible arrangements.
She didn't promise to save his entire crop.
But she agreed to test a manageable batch and help him understand what his options were.
Before leaving, Rafe looked toward the small sheller.
Then smiled awkwardly.
"Guess those old machines weren't completely worthless."
Hazel looked at him.
For a moment, she remembered the laughter at the estate sale.
The way he pointed at the rusted equipment.
The prediction that she'd be hauling it to the scrap yard within a week.
Then she smiled faintly.
"Guess not."
Rafe nodded.
He climbed into his truck.
And drove away.
For the first time, Hazel understood that the three-dollar shellers had begun changing something beyond her grandmother's harvest.
They were changing the way people looked at her.