The chest freezer hummed quietly against the wall. Beside it stood a shelf containing thermometers, packing supplies, and a carefully maintained inventory notebook. A second smaller freezer, borrowed from a neighbor after being checked and cleaned, stood against the opposite wall.
Rafe looked around.
For a moment, he seemed confused.
Then Hazel lifted the lid of the larger freezer.
Cold air rose into the room.
The three farmers stepped closer.
Inside were rows upon rows of carefully packaged purple-hull peas, arranged in labeled baskets with the newest batches separated from older stock. Each package showed its packing date, quantity, and inventory code. The remaining space had been planned carefully so the freezer could maintain proper operation without being overloaded.
Rafe stared.
He'd expected a handful of bags.
Perhaps a few dozen.
Instead, the freezer contained a substantial portion of the summer's preservation work, with the contents carefully counted and organized rather than thrown together at random.
Clay leaned closer.
"Good Lord."
Ned looked toward the second freezer.
"How much have you got?"
Hazel reached for the inventory notebook.
She explained the recorded quantities, the different batches, and the system Pearl had developed to make sure packages were used and distributed in the proper order. The operation wasn't enormous by commercial standards, but it represented more carefully preserved food than the family had ever managed in a single season without exhausting Pearl's hands.
Rafe looked toward one basket.
Then froze.
On one of the packages was a handwritten inventory code that included the initials E.S. and a note referring to a winter delivery.
His face changed.
He reached toward it, then stopped.
"Where did you get this?"
Hazel glanced at the label.
Then toward Pearl.
Her grandmother stepped closer.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Finally, Pearl answered carefully.
"That package belongs to someone who asked me to keep her arrangements private."
Rafe swallowed.
He stared at the initials.
Then looked toward Pearl.
"Edith Slone?"
Pearl didn't answer.
But something in her expression made him look away.
Edith was Rafe's mother.
She was eighty-six years old and lived alone in a small house near the river. Her husband had died years earlier, leaving her a modest income and a fierce determination not to become a burden to anyone. Rafe visited when he could, brought groceries occasionally, and assumed she had enough because she never complained.
He knew she loved purple-hull peas.
He remembered her serving them every Sunday when he was a boy.