explained that the bank could pursue its legal remedies if payments failed, but that the property could not be taken simply because a manager disliked her farming methods. The estate had time to negotiate, and Henderson's committee had reason to prefer regular payments over the cost of a difficult sale.
"Land is worth something different to every buyer," Finch said. "Blackwell wants it badly enough to make an offer before the debts come due. That's worth remembering."
"Do you think he wants it for the creek?"
"I think he wants it because it makes his farm a single block and because water has value. I wouldn't assume he cares about the willows except insofar as they're delaying his purchase."
Clara studied the property map on his desk. "I don't want to sell. Not yet."
"Then don't sign anything until you have to. Keep receipts, make payments you can actually afford, and stop measuring your decisions by how angry Mr. Blackwell gets."
She smiled. "That last part might be difficult."
"The first two will be harder," Finch answered.
The bank granted a ninety-day extension on the arrears, subject to scheduled monthly payments and proof that Clara was maintaining the property. Henderson's letter arrived on a Friday near the end of May. It did not forgive a dollar, and it did not guarantee the long-term security of the farm, but it moved the immediate danger away from the front door. Clara placed the letter beneath Evelyn's note in the kitchen drawer. She understood that she had bought time with sold equipment, extra shifts, and hard bargaining, not with willow trees. The trees were still a question, and she wanted them to be allowed the months that a living thing required before it could answer.
June brought warmer rain and a green mist to the branches. The buds that had seemed impossibly small opened into narrow leaves, pale on their undersides and bright where the sunlight caught them. Some cuttings produced only one shoot. Others put out three or four that rose like little fountain sprays, with the most vigorous reaching a foot above the original wood before the month was half gone. About forty of the original two hundred had failed, washed away, softened, or broken, and Clara marked each loss without hiding it.
The difference between rows grew clearer. Cuttings in the stagnant hollows showed yellowing leaves, while those placed along the slowly draining flood margin developed stronger growth. A few where the creek had deposited fresh silt seemed to grow better still. Clara measured each section on Sundays, crouching in the grass with a yardstick and penciling the figures into her notebook. By the second week she could see that there was no miracle evenly distributed through the mud. There were conditions the willows liked, conditions they tolerated, and conditions that defeated them.