“What happens next?” I demanded.
“Thirty days to reduce the cultivated area or obtain approval. And the permit process could take six months.”
I nearly exploded.
Thirty days?
My father was supposed to destroy half a garden that had survived generations because a rich newcomer disliked looking at corn?
But before I could say anything, Dad rested his hand gently on my arm.
Then he turned to Tyler.
“Could you come back Saturday morning?”
Tyler looked puzzled.
“What time?”
“Six.”
“May I ask why?”
Dad glanced toward the garden.
“There’s something you ought to see before making your final decision.”
After a moment, Tyler agreed.
I asked Dad what he had planned.
He offered no explanation.
“Saturday will explain itself,” he said.
That evening, I walked next door and confronted Brent.
He answered in expensive golf clothes, holding a glass of wine.
“You complained about my father’s garden,” I said.
