But the most important change was still hidden behind the farmhouse, inside a freezer Pearl had been filling for reasons Hazel didn't yet understand.
Rafe returned the following afternoon with four baskets of freshly picked purple-hull pods.
He parked beside the packing shed, climbed out, and stood awkwardly near the tailgate while Hazel finished inspecting another batch.
For several seconds, he seemed uncertain where to begin.
Then he cleared his throat.
"Brought what we talked about."
Hazel looked up.
She smiled politely.
"Good. Let's see them."
Rafe carried the baskets to the table.
Hazel examined the pods, checking their condition and separating the ones that were unsuitable for immediate shelling.
He watched her.
For a moment, he seemed impatient.
Then he noticed the notebook.
She recorded the intake weight, date, and owner.
Rafe frowned.
"You're writing down everything?"
Hazel nodded.
"Helps me keep track of what belongs to who."
He laughed softly.
"Seems like a lot of trouble for peas."
Hazel looked toward him.
"Would you rather I guess how much you brought?"
Rafe opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Finally, he smiled.
"Fair point."
She finished the record.
Then showed him the expected charge for the shelling work, including the need to account for cleaning and losses.
He studied it.
The price was modest.
But he looked surprised.
"That's all?"
Hazel shrugged.
"That's what the work costs at this scale."
Rafe examined the little wooden machine.
Then nodded slowly.
"All right."
He helped move the baskets into the shaded work area.
For the next hour, Hazel operated the sheller while Pearl supervised sorting and checking. Rafe watched the first batches carefully, occasionally asking questions about why some pods moved through the machine more easily than others.
Hazel answered.
She didn't treat him as foolish.
She explained what she'd learned during the summer and which parts of the process still caused problems.
Eventually, Rafe sat on a chair near the table.
He watched the peas collect.
Then said quietly, "My wife used to do this by hand."
Hazel looked up.
"Really?"
He nodded.
"Every August."
For a moment, his expression changed.
"She'd sit on the porch for hours."
Hazel continued working.
Rafe looked toward the garden.
"She died seven years ago."
Hazel stopped.
"I'm sorry."
He nodded.
"Thank you."
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then he looked toward the machine.
"She would've liked that little thing."
Hazel smiled faintly.
"I hope so."
Rafe looked toward Pearl.