“Not what I asked.”
She smiled.
“Jack, maybe we shouldn’t do this standing beside the road.”
“I’m comfortable here.”
A box truck came rattling down the lane.
Trish waved it toward the barn.
I stepped into the lane.
The driver braked.
“What’s inside?”
Trish’s voice sharpened.
“Jack.”
“What’s inside?”
The driver lowered his window.
“Portable coolers and cider dispensers.”
“Delivery address?”
He checked his clipboard.
“Mercer Farm. North event lot.”
“There is no north event lot. Turn around.”
Trish came beside me.
“We’ve already paid for delivery.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“You can’t disrupt contracted vendors.”
“I’m not.”
I pointed toward the county road.
“I’m telling a stranger he can’t unload equipment on my property.”
The driver looked from Trish to me.
“You the owner?”
“Yes.”
He shifted into reverse.
Trish stepped toward his window.
“Wait.”
He didn’t.
The truck backed down the lane.
