But attention did not pay bills.
Autumn arrived badly.
A heat wave stressed production.
Then an early cold snap damaged another cycle.
One major restaurant customer changed ownership and cancelled its local supply agreements.
Revenue dropped.
The bank asked questions.
The executive noticed.
Of course he did.
He returned to Carter Farm carrying a folder.
Three million dollars.
The woman stared at the number.
Land.
Greenhouses.
Brand.
Production data.
Customer relationships.
All development rights.
She could remain as managing director for eighteen months.
Then the company would control everything.
The executive sat across from her in the farmhouse kitchen.
“You’re under pressure.”
She said nothing.
“This clears every debt.”
Silence.
“You can take care of your mother.”
Silence.
“You can start something new afterward.”
She finally looked at him.
“Using what?”
He frowned.
“My ideas would belong to you.”
He leaned back.
“This isn’t personal.”
She almost laughed.
People usually say that when something is deeply personal to the other person.
He tapped the contract.
“Three million dollars for a property that was failing eighteen months ago.”
She looked at him.
“You mean before I rebuilt it.”
“I mean before the market recognized its value.”
“The market?”
“Yes.”
She smiled without warmth.
“You rejected it.”
“I rejected its original scale.”
“No.”
“You told me it was too small to matter.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It was when you wanted me to believe it.”
His expression hardened.
“We can argue history, or we can talk about what exists now.”
“All right.”
He pointed toward the greenhouse outside.
“What exists now is an operation carrying debt, facing unstable production, competing with a company that can deploy ten times your capital.”
He pushed the pen toward her.
“You can be proud and broke.”
“Or practical and secure.”
She looked at the contract.
Three million dollars was not imaginary.
It would erase debt.
Protect her mother.
Give her security she had not experienced since losing the Atlanta job.
The executive stood.
“I need an answer by Friday.”
She walked him to his truck.
He stopped before getting in.
“Everything has a price.”
She folded her arms.
“Maybe.”
“When the bank calls in the loan, call me.”
She watched him drive away.
That night, she carried the contract into the greenhouse.
She sat on the ground.
Back against the north wall.
The glass above her held moonlight differently than sunlight.
The building was imperfect.
Some bottle colors were mismatched.
A section of the west wall had been rebuilt twice.