Hens and Chickens Page 9

  “Mmmhmm,” Hobart mumbled. He took the short yellow pencil out of his mouth, and jotted down a figure in a small notebook. “Two inches by three-quarters,” he said. He glanced up at Lila, curiously. “She sounds old school to me; pretty much what I would expect from Rebecca,” he continued. He pushed his cap back on his head. “Does it bother you that much?”

  “That’s the point! It’s soo old school,” Lila proclaimed. She was removing the compacted, cruddy sawdust from the nest boxes with a gardening trowel, but paused to wipe her face with her hand. “I know so many women who’ve helped men buy and fix up a house or build a business, and then, 10 years later – when the guy replaced them with a younger version – they got NOTHING! Why? All because they never insisted on legalizing their partnership!”

  “Sounds like you knew the wrong kind of men,” said Hobart, calmly. He leaned over and brushed a piece of dirty sawdust from Lila’s cheek.

  “I didn’t say that happened to ME,” she said, blushing.

  Their eyes locked and Lila experienced a hyper-awareness of his presence. Moist body heat emanated from his muscular chest and shoulders. She felt the ground spin and heard a ringing sensation in her ears.

  Hormones at work! she cautioned herself. Beware! Instinctively, she retreated closer to the double-row of whitewashed wooden nest boxes.

  Hobart observed Lila’s retreat with amusement. “I’m not going to eat you,” he said, closing the pencil into the fold of his notebook and placing the book upon a nearby sawhorse. He took off his cap and ran his fingers through his matted hair. He reached for a bottle of spring water, tipped the bottle up and took a long drink. The fresh water gurgled down his throat. Hobart set the bottle and his cap onto the saw horse, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt. “Listen, I don’t know what crappy stuff men have done to you in the past, but I can guarantee you that this is one man who only wants good things for you. I don’t have any ulterior motive here except to help you and Rebecca get this egg business off the ground.”

  Lila, a little taken aback, could think of no immediate retort. Instead, she tried not to notice how strong and capable his hands were as he reached for the tape measure. But the more she attempted NOT to focus on Mike Hobart, the more her brain honed in on minutia like the boyish curl of hair growing on the nape of his neck and the peculiar ironbark brown of his eyelashes.

  “And since I seem to be on my white horse at the moment,” he continued, hearing no response to his prior declaration; “I want to know if you’ve taken a close look at the financials for this egg business. Do you know what your expenses will be? Who your market is? How much you can sell the eggs for? Do you know what it takes to get an organic certification in Maine?”

  Facts, figures, numbers, marketing—these were all Lila Woodsum’s territory. She was an expert at business matters however much she might be deficient in other areas. His questions instantly pushed her hot buttons. “Of course I have!” she retorted, hazel eyes flashing. “I don’t have all the answers to your questions at the tip of my fingers, but I’ve run enough numbers to justify The Egg Ladies.” She admonished him with the garden trowel. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I can show you those numbers at lunch!”

  ‘Whoaa!” Hobart said, with a smile in his eyes. He took a half-step back and raised his palms in mock defense. “Don’t hurt me! I was just asking a few questions; as a friend.”

  Embarrassed, Lila laughed shortly, and dropped the trowel into the nest box. “Sorry, I’m a little defensive,” she admitted. “I have a Master’s in Business and I’m not used to having my projects questioned.”

  “I can see that,” Hobart said. He paused. “Wendell said you were the marketing manager of some big insurance company in Boston?”

  Lila nodded curtly. “Rebecca and I shared the marketing director job until she got downsized,” she said. “Then our boss offered it to me, as a PROMOTION—sarcasm intended. That’s when I told him to take the job and shove it. Sorry,” she added quickly; “I’m trying to clean up my potty mouth. Bad for business, you know.”

  “No problem,” Hobart said, reassuringly. “I used to be pretty rough around the edges when I was first self-employed.”

  “When was that?” asked Lila, eager to learn more of Mike Hobart’s history.

  “When I had my paper route,” he replied. He grinned. “I was the toughest, 10-year-old dude in Maple Grove.”

  They both laughed. Hobart sensed Lila relax. Sensitive area avoided, he thought. At least for now.

  “You seem to like your own way pretty well,” Lila agreed. She leaned back against the row of faded, white-washed nest boxes and regarded the carpenter with a challenging smile. “So do I.”

  “Well, that’s not going to be a problem,” he said, stretching a long arm out and leaning against the nest boxes, perilously near Lila.

  “Why not?” she asked, in a low voice. She felt the pull of his mesmerizing blue eyes cinching her closer, and could practically taste his earthy scent. Lila closed her eyes and swayed toward the inevitable.

  “Because I’m going to do exactly what you want me to do,” he replied, in a matter-of-fact tone. “You get to call the shots, Lila—not me.”

  Startled, Lila opened her eyes, and blinked.

  Hobart pushed away from the nest boxes and straightened up. “Here you go,” he said, reaching for the trowel and tossing it to her. “Shouldn’t we go back to work now, boss?” he asked.

  An astonished Lila caught the gardening tool automatically. “Umm…yeah,” she said. “Sure.”

  Lila felt a momentary sinking feeling of disappointment. That certainly wasn’t the outcome she’d expected! But what was she hoping would happen? What did she want from him? Was it more than friendly advice, support and his carpentry help?

  Someday – soon – she would need to take a look at those questions. Because they were every bit as important as the questions Mike Hobart had asked her about The Egg Ladies!

  “So, what DOES it take to get an organic certification in Maine?” she asked him, unwilling to let their conversation drop.

  Hobart finished his next measurement before answering. He let the end of the yellow tape go, and it zipped back into the silver metal case. “I don’t know,” he replied, honestly. He reached for the short pencil, which was now stuck over his ear. “You should talk to Tom Kidd. The locals call him ‘The Organic Kidd.’ Tom’s a big mover and shaker in the organic movement in Maine and with MOGG.”

  “MOGG?”

  “The Maine Organic Growers Group,” he replied, jotting his measurement in his book. “Tom Kidd is on the MOGG certification committee. He might even be the head of it, now.” Hobart hesitated. “Tom and I went to college together. We’re not exactly friends, but we’re not enemies, either. He lives in Unity. I usually run into him at Gilpin’s a couple of times a week—want me to ask him to stop by sometime and talk with you?”

  “That would be awesome,” said Lila. “Rebecca’s daughter Amber has been involved in the organic movement for years, but I’m, well, pretty clueless.”

  “If you’re absolutely sure you want to go the organic route …?”

  “Totally sure,” Lila affirmed.

  “Then Tom Kidd is the man to talk to. Just as long as you stick to business with him.”

  “That sounds like a warning,” said Lila, raising a dark eyebrow.

  “It is. Tom Kidd is not a man I would recommend to my sisters.”

  “Or a friend?” suggested Lila.

  “Or a friend. Just keep your eyes open, and you’ll be alright. Tom Kidd doesn’t kiss with his eyes open.”

  “You, you …!” Lila scooped up a handful of dusty gray sawdust from a nest box and hurled it good-naturedly at Mike Hobart. “Don’t think I was going to kiss you, because I wasn’t!”

  Hobart shielded his eyes from the sawdust, and smiled, disarmingly. “I know you weren’t. I was just teasing,” he said. He brushed the sawdust from his curly blond hair and sweatsh
irt. “But not about Tom Kidd,” he continued, seriously. “Tom has a reputation of being charming with the ladies. A little too charming, if you ask me.”

  Mike Hobart’s warning had an interesting effect on Lila. The rest of that day she found herself contemplating what might be behind the handsome carpenter’s heads-up.

  Was Mike Hobart jealous? Or was there something about Tom Kidd that really would bear watching?

  Or both?

  Chapter 11

  The Organic Kidd

  Tom Kidd had been a major player in the Maine organic movement for the past 12 years, since he’d arrived from New Haven, Connecticut with his shoulder-length black hair not exactly wet behind the ears. Kidd landed on the doorstep of Unity College to major in environmental studies and to make Tom Kidd a name in the blossoming national organic movement. Not coincidentally, Unity was also home to the Maine Organic Growers Group (MOGG), one of the earliest organic associations in the country.

  Tall, thin and devilishly handsome, the Organic Kidd had begun his working career as a MOGG apprentice. But Tom Kidd didn’t intend to work as an apprentice for long, slogging away at weeds in hot, dirty fields that smelled like cow shit. No, actual physical work was NOT his strong suit. Utilizing his natural sales abilities, a charming smile, coaxing brown eyes and a marketing finesse (for which Maine farmers, even organic ones, are not known) which WAS his strong suit, Kidd soon landed a desk job with MOGG. Once he was graduated from Unity, Kidd secured an advanced degree in organic marketing from a mail-order college, and before long he was promoted to the MOGG certification committee where he quickly became the “go-to guy” for organic certification in the now-exploding Maine organic movement.

  “Hey, hey, hey Hobart—whaddaya say?” Kidd greeted Mike Hobart when they ran into each other Sunday afternoon at Gilpin’s General Store, a few days after Hobart’s conversation with Lila. “Met the new babe up on Russell Hill yet?”

  Hobart stiffened instinctively at the allusion to Lila. He didn’t like the way Tom Kidd had chosen to live his life, but he tried not to let it affect the way he treated his former Unity College classmate. “Yeah, I’m helping renovate the old hen pen,” Hobart replied, pulling a gallon jug of milk from the cooler.

  “Hen pen, my ass,” said Kidd. “I heard she’s a young chick. I should’ve known you’d be onto her like a guinea hen onto a tick, Hobart. You never did miss an opportunity.”

  Hobart let the cooler door drop with a whoosh. “I think the only opportunity for me with Lila is …”

  “Lila?!” Kidd interrupted. He whistled through a mouthful of white teeth, which he never hesitated to show off. “Hey, we’re on a first name basis, are we? Good job, buddy!”

  “… the only opportunity is to help her rebuild the hen house and pens,” Hobart calmly continued. “It’s a long time since anybody raised chickens at the old Russell Place. By the way, Tom, she’s interested in becoming certified organic.”

  Kidd fingered his fainéant black goatee. “Hey … maybe I should drop by?” he mused, almost to himself.

  “Maybe you should,” said Hobart. “In fact, I told Lila if I saw you I’d point you in that direction. She wants to know what it takes to sell organic eggs.”

  “Well, I’m not used to taking pointers from you, Hobart – especially about women – but you could be onto something this time if all I hear about your friend Lila is true. Pretty hot, is she?”

  Hobart winced. “She’s pretty, anyway,” he admitted lamely, beginning to feel uncomfortable. “Why don’t you go see for yourself? Her name is Lila Woodsum.”

  Tom Kidd slapped Hobart on the back. “Hey, buddy, you’re the man!”

  Hobart moved away from Kidd and toward the cash register, where Ralph Gilpin was warily eyeing the two men. Hobart thought his old friend and former employer looked as though he expected a dog fight to break out at any moment. Tom Kidd queued up behind Hobart with a single can of cold beer.

  “What’s the best time for me to drop by?” Kidd asked, as he carelessly flipped through a selection of candy bars at the counter.

  “Lila’s around most days,” Hobart replied, opening his wallet to pay for the milk. Hobart should have let it go at that, but the guy on the white horse couldn’t resist affixing a note of warning. “So am I,” he added, with a meaningful look at Ralph Gilpin that stopped the old shopkeeper’s open mouth.

  “Hey, thanks for the heads-up, buddy. I’ll be sure to drop by at night!”

  Mike Hobart mentally kicked himself. Dammit! Now, I’ve let the wolf in the door!

  Hobart exited Gilpin’s without uttering the biting response to the Organic Kidd that was perched on his lips. Lila would have to fight her own battles—plus she had never said she wanted him to protect her in the first place. It wasn’t his job. He had said he would help her rebuild the chicken house, and that’s what he was going to do.

  Unless … But, no. It was no good speculating on what hadn’t happened, might not happen.

  Hobart’s philosophy was that life – and love – would take their natural course. He just hoped that in Lila’s case that natural course wasn’t like the course of water—taking the lowest route.

  Hobart alerted Lila that he had seen Tom Kidd, and that the MOGG certification “go-to guy” would be stopping by imminently to see her. But Tom Kidd knew how to play his cards better than that. He knew that he could make more of an impression with Lila if he didn’t make an appearance TOO soon. Kidd also was pretty sure that longer he waited the more likely he was to catch her without her carpenter-bodyguard.

  As the Organic Kidd had calculated, Lila noticed his absence more than she might have been impressed by his presence. In fact, as the week progressed, Lila was beginning to think that she had met everyone in Sovereign and most of the neighboring towns BUT the Organic Kidd!

  Word about the sale of the old Russell homestead and The Egg Ladies had spread via the local grapevine like news of an open house at which free coffee and donuts would be handed out. Neighbors, relatives of neighbors, friends of relatives of neighbors and the just plain curious stopped in daily to introduce themselves, offer assistance and see how the work progressed. Ma Jean sent up homemade pie from the restaurant by way of various couriers on a regular basis; the entire board of selectmen visited (as well as the planning board); and the code enforcement officer (who was also the fire chief) and his wife came by to say “hello” and put the rubber stamp on Wendell’s re-wiring of the hen pen. And Miss Hastings, who no longer drove and had in fact sold Lila her 1964 Pontiac LeMans, telephoned at least once a day. “Dahrrrling, I don’t want to bother you,” she said to Lila. “But if you get lonely, you know where we live! Matilda and I LOVE your tweets about The Egg Ladies!”

  On Thursday afternoon, Ralph Gilpin, whom Lila had met upon her arrival in town and several times since at the general store, motored up Russell Hill to formally introduce his wife. Gilpin looked like a pole-bean next to his amply-endowed wife, Maude, and the couple instantly reminded Lila of the child’s nursery rhyme: “Jack Spratt could eat no fat and his wife could eat no lean.” Ralph and Maude arrived when Lila and Mike were knee-deep in removing old soiled sawdust from the hen pen.

  Without even waiting to see the state of the house or kitchen, a horrified Maude Gilpin issued an invitation to Lila for dinner on Saturday night. “You need some good food to put some meat on those bones!” she cried. “You, too, Sweetie,” she added, including Hobart in the invitation.

  “I don’t want to impose,” Lila said; “but I’m starving, so I won’t refuse. Thanks.”

  “She can’t cook,” explained Mike, leaning on his shovel. “So ‘til her friend gets here, she’s living on nuts and yogurt.”

  “Heavens!” exclaimed Maud, to whom the thought of going a day without a piece of homemade pie was a tragedy. “We’ll fix you right up with a welcome basket, Sweetie! Trudy Gorse mentioned to me just yesterday that she’d met you, and that the Welcome Wagon Committee ought to put something together for you
BUT I’ve been so busy I haven’t had a chance to cook a single thing since I saw Trudy, except the roast chicken and biscuits I cooked for supper last night, of course, and the custard I baked with duck eggs for Ralph’s dessert last night, too.”

  Lila was so overwhelmed by Maud and her culinary accomplishments that she hardly knew how to respond. “You make custard with—duck eggs?” she said, in wonderment.

  “Only ‘til ya git yer egg business off the ground,” Ralph interjected, squeezing his wife’s fat hand fondly. “Then – I project – my Maude’s gonna be yer best customer!”

  Maude beamed proudly, as her husband steered her out of the hen pen toward the car. “See you Saturday, kids!” she called, with a friendly wave.

  It was late Friday afternoon before Tom Kidd finally stopped in to see Lila. He had cruised the Russell Hill Road several times earlier in the week, but each time he had spotted Mike Hobart’s blue truck parked territorially in the yard. This time, however, Lila was left undefended.

  “Hey, hey—whaddaya say? I’m Tom Kidd,” he said, by way of an introduction when Lila answered the knock at the shed door.

  Lila, however, who had glanced out the kitchen window prior to answering the knock, needed no introduction from him. Mike Hobart’s casual description of the Organic Kidd, combined with his gentle warning, had helped her form a pretty accurate picture in her mind of Tom Kidd. She recognized the type of man he was instantly. “Lila Woodsum,” she replied, hesitating momentarily, unsure as to whether or not she wanted to shake hands with him.

  Kidd, quick to pick up on her hesitation – and suspecting Hobart had warned this slim pretty creature to beware of him – boldly stuck out his hand, and Lila had no choice but to shake it.

  Lila unconsciously compared the organic farmer’s soft, supple hands with those of the sturdy carpenter’s. And unfortunately for Kidd, there was no comparison. Why, his hands are more like a pampered woman’s than a farmer’s!