Burgundy blouse.
Huge sunglasses.
Patricia Kessler.
She spotted me.
Even from fifty yards away, I saw her posture change.
The golf cart stopped.
She stepped down slowly.
“Jack.”
“Trish.”
“You’re back early.”
That was an interesting sentence.
Not hello.
Not we tried contacting you.
You’re back early.
“Apparently.”
She glanced at the volunteer.
“Melissa, could you give us a moment?”
Melissa disappeared toward the tents.
Trish walked closer.
“I was going to call you.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“After installing forty fence posts?”
Her mouth tightened.
“It’s temporary.”
“So is trespassing if you leave quickly enough.”
She exhaled.
“Jack, I understand how this looks.”
I looked toward my cornfield.
Someone had cut pathways through roughly twenty-six acres.
Not harvested.
Cut.
Curved corridors disappeared between the stalks.
There were wooden arrows at intersections.
Decorative scarecrows.
Solar lights.
Someone had even erected a ten-foot wooden observation platform near the center.
“It looks,” I said, “like you built a corn maze on my farm.”
“We’re using an existing agricultural area for a community fundraiser.”
“You’re using my corn.”
“We have authorization.”
That got my attention.
“From whom?”
“The association’s legal counsel has reviewed everything.”
“Not what I asked.”
She smiled.
“Jack, maybe we shouldn’t do this standing beside the road.”
“I’m comfortable here.”
A box truck came rattling down the lane.
Trish waved it toward the barn.
I stepped into the lane.
The driver braked.
“What’s inside?”
Trish’s voice sharpened.
“Jack.”
“What’s inside?”
The driver lowered his window.
“Portable coolers and cider dispensers.”
“Delivery address?”
He checked his clipboard.
“Mercer Farm. North event lot.”
“There is no north event lot. Turn around.”
Trish came beside me.
“We’ve already paid for delivery.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“You can’t disrupt contracted vendors.”
“I’m not.”
I pointed toward the county road.
“I’m telling a stranger he can’t unload equipment on my property.”
The driver looked from Trish to me.
“You the owner?”
“Yes.”
He shifted into reverse.
Trish stepped toward his window.
“Wait.”
He didn’t.
The truck backed down the lane.
I watched until it reached the county road.
Then I faced Trish again.
For the first time, her confidence cracked.
Not much.
Just enough.
A little stiffness around her mouth.
A little calculation behind the sunglasses.
“How many tickets did you sell?”
She said nothing.
“How many?”
“This weekend’s event has been very successful.”
