This was true. “Now, is there anything I need to know about the Kubota?” Not only was Zach a model employee, he was a skilled mechanic.

“She’s running fine. I’m more worried about the milking rig in the big barn.”

I swore under my breath. Most of our dairy cattle lived across the street on a neighbor’s property. The bulk of our milk went to an ordinary dairy. On our own property, we raised a dozen organic cows, and that milk was sold to friends down the street who made fancy cheese from it.

“Did the pump give you trouble again?” Every farm had aging equipment, because no farmer could afford to upgrade his tools like the rest of the world upgraded their cell phones every year. I was a chemist by training, not a mechanic. So Zachariah was the one who coaxed all our most difficult equipment into performing. And the milking rig was about the most important machine on the whole property.

“It’s not going to last much longer. Some of the gears are stripped, and I can’t find those parts anymore. Odds are we’ll have to taker ’er out back and shoot ’er before New Years.”

I groaned. “Never tell me the odds.”

“Right, Han.”

“Thank you, Chewie.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Chuckling, I walked off through the July morning toward the tractor barn, my head full of worry. I tried to imagine walking a hundred cows across the road to be milked in the smaller of the two dairy barns twice a day. Investing in new equipment on land I didn’t own sounded like a bad idea.

I’d figure it out somehow. I’d have to.

THIRTY

The Twist

Boston, Massachusetts

I wore a halter top to be fired.

Since the bigwigs at Boston Premier Group had asked me to appear at corporate headquarters at nine, I assumed I’d be pounding the pavement for a new job by nine-thirty.

I was a trained chef, and a damn good one. But my cleavage would be more interesting than my knife skills to most of the restaurateurs of Boston. I’d already learned this the hard way.

These were my thoughts as I rode the elevator up to my doom.

Getting fired was nothing new for me. I’d been kicked out of two colleges before I turned twenty. Disgusted by my lack of academic achievement, my mother fired me next. She took away my car and withdrew all financial support.

Things seemed to turn around after that. I put myself through culinary school, which I really enjoyed. But now my first job had proven to be a disaster.

As the doors parted on the fifteenth floor, I checked my watch. At least I was one minute early. My mother, wherever she was, would be thrilled that I was prompt to face the firing squad.

Go me!

“Mr. Burton will be right with you,” the receptionist said from behind a beautiful desk outside several C-suite offices.

“Thank you.” Nervous, I slipped into one of the deep leather chairs in the waiting area. I picked up a copy of Boston Magazine from the selection of periodicals on the table and hid behind it.