That’s what I was going to keep telling myself, anyway. Because I was sick of letting my mother influence my life. I’d thought that moving away from Beacon Hill would be enough to shake her off. Turns out I should have left the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Maybe Vermont was far enough to avoid Mom’s bad juju. I hoped so, anyway. Outside my car windows, everything was green. Meadows lined the hillside, and the tree branches that framed the country road created a leafy tunnel. I didn’t have the first clue where in the hell I was. But it was very beautiful.

Thank God for GPS, because navigation wasn’t my strong suit. Again—put me in the kitchen with a knife and I’m a happy girl. But if you want me to run your business or negotiate your multi-farmer purchase agreement in the wilds of Vermont in a rental car? Dicey, people.

According to the dashboard indicator, I was just a half mile from the first grower on my list—the Shipley Farm. I’d known a Griffin Shipley during my first unsuccessful year of college. He was a football stud and party boy, and we’d hooked up a couple of times. I remembered those nights with perfect clarity. Every thrilling moment.

But I hadn’t known Griff very well, except in the biblical sense. And I couldn’t remember whether he was from Vermont or not. Maybe Shipley was a common name. The man I’d been sent to find today was someone else, anyway. My instruction sheet listed August Shipley: Apples and Artisanal Ciders.

I’d picked the Shipley Farm as my starting place not because of the name, but because of the artisanal ciders. Perhaps Mr. August Shipley would let me taste them. If you were drinking for business purposes, it didn’t matter that it wasn’t quite noon yet, right?

The ciders were the most interesting product on my shopping list, with a few gourmet cheese products tying for second place. Before driving out of Boston, I’d put in a call to Bill Burton’s son, Bob. He was the buyer who’d made up the list. “We’re a bulk buyer, so we need the bulk price,” Bob had said. “The rates on this list ought to do the trick. Call me if you need to wiggle some numbers around, but we can’t negotiate much.”

That was no surprise. I was already familiar with BPG’s take-no-prisoners approach. But I was determined to make the whole thing work. I needed this job. My arrogant mother had made sure of it when she took away my car and my tuition money. Yet she still emailed me all the time and demanded updates on my progress at adulting. She left voicemail messages, too.

I responded only occasionally—just frequently enough to let her know I was still alive. But I thought about her more than I liked to admit. I often fantasized about the day a restaurant critic would give me a favorable review in the Globe. I wanted her to read it. Though I’d probably blacklist her on my reservations list, just because I could.