Clara had written an entire notebook section on the danger of confusing gross revenue with income.
Money passing through your hands is not the same as money belonging to you.
By the end of July, money was passing through Cole's hands faster than it ever had before.
He hired fourteen seasonal workers at the peak, although not all worked every day. Some were local college students. Others were farmhands whose regular employers had reduced hours after crop losses. Cole assigned them by function: harvest, sorting, field maintenance, packing, and delivery preparation.
Every fruit was graded by hand.
Grade A went to restaurants and specialty grocers. Grade B went to sauce makers, local markets, and mixed boxes. Cracked fruit that remained safe and sound was processed through a licensed kitchen partnership. Diseased or questionable fruit was removed from food channels entirely.
The harvest reached several thousand pounds on the heaviest days, though not five thousand pounds every morning as county legend later claimed.
The peak weeks were exhausting.
Cole woke at four. Picking began before sunrise while fruit temperature was low. Crates were in shade by eight. Sorting continued through late morning. Deliveries left before noon.
He ate standing up.
He slept five hours on a good night.
Martha Bell began bringing sandwiches because she said somebody had to prevent him from becoming another bad smell on County Road 7.
Edwin sat near the packing shed and inspected fruit when his breathing allowed.
"Too soft," he would say.
Or, "That's restaurant fruit. Put it top layer."
He became so accurate that the students stopped arguing with him.
The newspaper returned in August.
This time the reporter, Nathan Pike, did not stand at the road.
Cole made him wash his shoes before entering the rows because disease pressure remained high.
Nathan looked embarrassed.
"You didn't ask Arthur Vance to wash his shoes when he came here in April."
"Arthur never entered the field."
"Right."
Nathan photographed the packing shed, the varietal tags, and the cooler. He interviewed Elise by phone. He asked Teresa Nolan whether the county had changed its position.
"The county's position is that Mr. Evans must comply with the same environmental and land-use requirements as everyone else," Teresa said. "He has. The original odor citation was valid. His current operation is also valid. Both things can be true."
Nathan wrote that sentence down.
The follow-up article ran beneath a headline that irritated Cole less: FROM LANDFILL TO HEIRLOOMS: EVANS FIELD FINDS A MARKET.
Arthur Vance read it at the diner.
Cole knew because the next morning Arthur's truck stopped at the gate.
He did not get out.
"How much?" Arthur asked through the open window.
Cole stood beside a stack of crates. "How much what?"
"The tomatoes. What are they paying?"
Cole hesitated.
"Depends on variety and grade."
"Give me a number."
"Average so far, around eight dollars and change on premium channels. Less on seconds."
Arthur stared at him.
Commodity contract tomatoes that year were worth a fraction of that per pound.
"Nobody pays eight dollars a pound for tomatoes."
"They do if they only need forty pounds and their customer is paying thirty dollars for a plate."