Chapter 1

Two years ago, I got the whole town into raspberries, signed a guaranteed-price agreement with every household, and the only thing I asked for in return was ten percent of the total.

Two years later the harvest came in big, and now they wanted to cut me out of my share.

The whole town was up in arms at the council. "He's not my son. Why the hell does he get ten percent? He's not getting a dime out of me!"

I smiled and pulled out the signed pledge from back then.

The room went dead silent. The town chief's son asked, his voice shaking, "You... when did you slip in that clause?"

1

This year the raspberries came in strong, and I put in real effort to lock down a price with an old classmate.

Miles Finch laughed. "Eddie, only for you. Because you vouched for it, I'll give fifteen. Anyone else, eleven at the most."

I thanked him a couple of times and told him to come out to the town the day after tomorrow to load up.

That same night, my childhood friend Wayne Fletcher sent me a video.

He made a point of warning me, "Edmund Dickerson, don't pass this around. Just watch your own back."

I opened it. Inside were a few of the people with pull in town, hashing things out at the council.

I knew every one of them.

Usually they couldn't be sweeter, calling me their boy every other breath.

But the faces in that video were ugly.

Short, stout Glen Lambert slammed the table first. "No way! Why should the Dickerson boy get ten percent?"

"All he did was supply the seedlings, then walk the fields a couple of times, and now he wants ten percent?"

"That's daylight robbery!"

The town chief's son, Tyler Glass, sat there smoking, his brow knit tight.

"Glen, didn't you all agree to this back then? Edmund provides the seed and the growing know-how, and takes ten percent when we sell the fruit."

Glen went red in the face, spit flying. "That was a trap he set for us! Where in the world is anything that easy?"

Then Old Mrs. Parsons, the sharpest tongue in town, spoke up too, her yellow teeth showing in a way that turned your stomach just to look at.

"Exactly! Edmund knew folks in this town are honest, so he asked for the moon."

"Have you all done the math? How much does ten percent take away?"

Tyler flipped open a notebook. "Rough estimate, sixty-three households in town, about five acres each."

"An acre yields two thousand pounds of raspberries. Edmund said fifteen dollars a pound."

Someone right away handed over a calculator, and everyone crowded in.

Some rubbed their fingers together, some craned their necks.

Tyler started scribbling in the notebook, the click of the calculator keys coming through clearly.

Finally the calculator spat out a cold number: 945,000.

When that total came up, everyone froze.

Then the cursing started, and the council turned into a farmers' market.

A madhouse.

Glen ground his cigarette out on the floor, fire in his eyes.

"We bust our asses growing this for two years and clear maybe a hundred grand all in, and Edmund walks off with over nine hundred thousand in one shot."

"How is that okay?"

Old Mrs. Parsons chimed in with a snide little dig. "Right. That's why they say young people know how to do business."

"Walk the fields, run his mouth a little, and pocket over nine hundred grand for free."

"Over nine hundred thousand. We couldn't earn that in a lifetime!"

Everyone burst out talking at once.

"No deal! Whoever agreed to give him ten percent can pay it themselves."

"Glen Lambert isn't giving a cent."

"Neither am I!" "Me neither!"

"Enough!" Tyler barked, low and heavy.

"What are you all carrying on about? When we were planting the raspberries, why didn't anybody say a word? And now you want it all for free?"

"Here's what we do. I'll go talk to Edmund on the town's behalf and give him five percent."

They grumbled a bit but went along with it, a few still cursing under their breath.

That was where the video ended.