Page 80 of Chasing the Sun
She stopped in front of us, her eyes red-rimmed and wet. “We just got a call. Stan passed away last night. In his sleep.”
I blinked, my uncaffeinated brain moving too slow to process the information. “Wait, what?”
“Stan,” she said softly. “He’s gone. He was supposed to meet with the orchard workers, but when he didn’t show, they got worried. One went into the house and found him. Police and the medical examiner are on the way. Officer Brody called for Cal, but I answered.”
My legs wobbled. Cal swore under his breath.
I sat down hard on the porch step, coffee forgotten, just as a line of police cars and an ambulance filed onto the farm property, bypassing us entirely and heading toward his home.
No, Stan.
I waited for the sobs, for the rush of grief to crash over me like a tidal wave. I felt it in a dull, hollow ache, like something had been scooped out of me without warning. My hands trembled as they covered my mouth.
Helen sat beside me, placing her arm around my shoulder and a hand over mine. “He went peacefully. There was no pain.”
I nodded, though I didn’t really hear her. My mind was already spinning. Sadness swirled with confusion and disbelief.
I looked up, eyes finding Cal’s. He was standing rigid,jaw clenched. Pain flashed in his eyes, but a stoic mask quickly replaced it.
“This changes a lot,” I said aloud to no one in particular. “The farm, the renovation.” A thousand thoughts flipped through my mind. “Did he have any other family?”
“No.” He shook his head, voice rough and thick when he sighed. “Stan was a pillar in this community. He was a good man.”
I didn’t know the extent of their relationship, but I knew Stan had a soft spot for Cal. His shoulders were rigid and my fingers flexed, wanting to reach out and offer some sort of comfort. Despite my nerves, I rested my hand on his forearm. I sneaked a glance up, our eyes meeting. When his brown eyes softened, I allowed myself to lean into him, resting my head on the side of his shoulder with a soft, sad smile.
Standing side by side, we looked out onto the property as the scene in the distance unfolded like a movie. Helen sniffed and stood. “I just can’t watch. I’ll be at the inn if you need anything.” I wasn’t sure whether she was speaking to me or Cal, but I reached for her.
I stepped forward and wrapped her in my arms. “Thank you.” My heart squeezed for her and the loss of her old friend.
As Helen walked away, Cal and I stood in stunned silence, a tear slipping from my eye before I could angrily swipe it away. I couldn’t get a read on Cal as he stood, stone still, with his arms crossed over that broad chest of his.
Was he thinking about the land? My project? The plans he so vocally hated?
It hit me that the one person who had believed in both of us wasn’t here anymore.
Uncertainty rattled through me as I took a deep gulp ofmorning air.Don’t be selfish. This was never about you. It’s about Stan and his dream.
The edges of my vision blurred and narrowed with tears and the weight of what Stan’s passing meant. Star Harbor Farm would be in limbo now.
No one, least of all me, knew what came next.
Stan’s funeralwas a sight to behold. So many people from the Star Harbor community came out to honor him. During the service, I couldn’t help but notice how good Cal looked. I had daydreamed about how he filled out a pair of jeans, but he was downright devastating in a black tailored suit and tie.
Stan was buried at the local cemetery, and during the service many stepped up to talk about the kind of man Stan had been. He always lent a hand, gave back to the community, and cared about every person who’d ever worked for him. The loss of Stan Stafford was a hefty blow to the residents of Star Harbor.
I was proud to have known him, even if it was only for a little while.
Word about the fate of his farm buzzed through his graveside services as gossip spread. Stan had a last will and testament, and if rumors were to be true, he had asked that the community gather to all hear his wishes at once.
My knee bounced as I sat in the community room of the Star Harbor Library. The Keepers were gathered in the circle of cozy chairs that usually held knitting needles and plans for upcoming town events.
Today, the air was different. Charged.
Helen stood at the front of the room alongside a formal-looking man in an ill-fitting suit. Eager ears had gathered, since the information regarding Stan Stafford’s will somehow directly affected the Keepers. Helen’s voice was steady, even though her hands weren’t as she welcomed the group.
The man took a step forward, wasting no time with chitchat or introductions. “Thank you for joining us. It is my duty to discuss the assets outlined in Stan Stafford’s will. It is important to note that when a business owner dies, the ownership and assets of the business become a part of their estate and are distributed according to their will. Mr. Stafford has outlined portions of his assets to be divided among various causes, including the Remington County Humane Society, the Women’s Resource Center of Western Michigan, and other charitable organizations. The majority of his assets, however, are tied to the property known as Star Harbor Farm. Monetary allocations for general upkeep, maintenance, staff salaries, et cetera have been earmarked.” He paused as the room buzzed with silent tension. The man shifted in his loafers. “Mr. Stafford wishes the fate of Star Harbor Farm to lie in the hands of the Star Harbor Historical Society.” He nodded toward Helen. “A preservation easement has been filed, ensuring the land will remain agricultural and community focused in perpetuity.”
Soft, confused gasps and low murmurs undulated through the room as I looked around, trying to understand and gauge the reactions of the group.
