“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s ugly. I spent a fortune on my property. I shouldn’t have to look at a farm every morning.”
“That’s a seventy-nine-year-old man’s life’s work!”
“Then perhaps he should have checked the zoning regulations.”
I felt my hands shaking.
“He even offered you strawberries!”
Brent rolled his eyes.
“Look, your father is obviously running some kind of business. I see him loading boxes into his truck before sunrise every week. He’s probably selling produce without a license.”
I stared at him.
Boxes?
Truck?
Before sunrise?
I knew Dad occasionally delivered vegetables, but I’d never asked where he went.
When I returned home and confronted him, he chuckled.
“Selling vegetables? That’s a good one.”
“Dad, where do you go on Friday mornings?”
He continued shelling peas.
“You’ll find out Saturday.”
Friday morning, I woke at four-fifteen to the sound of his pickup.
