The first payment under the new bank schedule came due in December. Clara made it on time with money from autumn produce, clerical work, small nursery orders, and wages from the dime store. The payment did not leave her comfortable. She had to postpone fixing the parlor wallpaper and mend her old coat instead of buying a new one. But she kept the receipt in Evelyn's blue ledger and wrote, in letters larger than usual, PAID FROM WORK DONE HERE. She understood perfectly well that work done elsewhere had helped make the payment possible too, and she was no longer ashamed of that.
Tom Blackwell arrived shortly before Christmas. The weather was cold and wet, and the cornfields on his property had been reduced to bare stalks and rutted ground. He parked his truck beside the gate but did not come toward the house until Clara called to him from the porch. For the first time he asked permission to walk down to the creek, and the small courtesy startled her enough that she stood silent for a moment before answering.
"You said those trees might help hold a bank," he began, once they reached the lower field. "I've got a washout behind my north pasture. It gets worse every spring. Thought perhaps you and Vance might take a look when the weather clears."
Clara looked at him. "You told me last summer the trees were brush I couldn't sell at the elevator."
He glanced away. "I did."
"You said Grandmother would be ashamed."
His jaw tightened. The creek moved quietly behind them, carrying brown leaves around the roots of the older trees. Blackwell removed his hat, not quite meeting her eyes.
"That wasn't fair," he said. "I was angry you wouldn't sell, and I let it make me mean. I still think there are risks in keeping this place, and I still would have liked to buy it. But I shouldn't have spoken to you that way."
Clara waited, surprised by the simple difficulty of hearing the apology she had wanted for months. She did not feel required to forget every conversation that had led to it. She could see how hard the season had been on Blackwell, and she knew the drought had frightened him in ways he was unlikely to describe to a girl half his age. Neither fact excused what he had done. Both made him more human than the villain she had carried in her mind.
"I'll look at your bank with Margaret," she said. "You should know I charge for travel now if it's far enough, and I won't promise willows will solve the problem."
Blackwell gave a rough little laugh. "Fair enough."
"And I won't sell you my land."
"I gathered that," he replied.
He left without another offer. Clara watched his truck go, then returned to the creek with her notebook. She thought about how often people asked others to change while reserving the right never to change themselves. Blackwell had made one decent admission after months of unkindness. She would judge what came next by his actions, just as she had learned to judge the field by what grew rather than what people predicted.