on days when she would rather have stayed in bed. The professor's respect mattered because it had been offered to the work rather than to the story the county told about a woman who had bought strange chickens. It reminded her that the strongest proof of success was not a compliment but a result that another person could examine.
Daniel arrived later with a replacement hinge for the Henderson gate. Vera told him about the visit, and he listened as she explained the professor's questions and the possibilities for a longer research partnership. He did not immediately ask how much money the college might spend, though it would once have been the first question he asked. Instead he wanted to know whether Whitfield believed her records were sound, and when she said yes, he took off his hat and smiled with open pride. Vera realized then that something between them had moved beyond two neighbors wondering whether an unusual business would succeed.
"I'm proud of you," he said.
"I haven't paid the place off yet."
"I wasn't speaking about the note."
She looked away toward the creek, where the waterfowl she had begun raising moved through the reeds. The small duck operation was still experimental, more useful as another source of eggs and a way to make good use of the land than as a major source of income. Daniel had helped construct its shelter without asking whether she had gone mad a second time. The sight of those birds beside the moving water made the world seem unexpectedly full, and Vera felt tears threaten for no reason she was willing to explain aloud.
He did not press her. They sat on the old gatepost together until the sun lowered, listening to the hens settle and the creek continue its slow course through the property. Vera eventually told him that she had been afraid of enjoying the success because every time she allowed herself to hope, she expected something to be taken away. Daniel answered that he understood the feeling, though he did not believe fear deserved the final vote over what either of them chose to do. It was not a promise that nothing would go wrong, and she trusted him more because he did not offer one.
September brought cooler nights and the first sense that another year was preparing to close. Vera rose before daylight one morning and discovered that the air inside the house no longer felt heavy with summer heat. She lit the stove, drew a line beneath the August totals, and opened a fresh page for the autumn accounts. The figures were better than anything she had written since her father's death, but she examined them with the same suspicion she had given the first college letter. Money received was real; money merely expected was not, and she had become too fond of the difference to abandon it now.