Chapter 3

Prices. What was there to negotiate about prices?

For a moment I was genuinely puzzled.

I pointed at the sky, which had already gone dark, and let a little urgency into my voice.

"Bartholomew, it's getting late. If we don't load the trucks now, we won't make it."

"Mr. Joyce, this really isn't something to rush."

Bartholomew said it gravely, and the villagers around him nodded along.

"Bartholomew's right. We've got to get this sorted out."

"You've been buying our vegetables cheap for all these years. Can't we even talk about the price?"

"I hear his company in the city is worth over a hundred million. And where'd all that come from, if not out of our pockets?"

A few ugly words rose up out of the crowd. I frowned slightly and turned to ask Antonia under my breath.

"What's going on? Is somebody stirring the pot? Or is a competitor behind this?"

Antonia's expression was odd. She nodded toward the villagers.

"You'd better just listen to what they have to say."

Bartholomew brought both big hands down in a chopping motion, and I could see the calluses on them clear as day.

His father, Sam Finch, was a lame old man, and even so, back when I was leaving for college, he'd handed over the last thirty dollars in the house.

Thirty dollars!

I knew better than anyone what that meant in those days.

"All right, Bartholomew. Say your piece."

Bartholomew gave a small nod, as if pleased with my attitude.

"It's been ten years now since your company got started, hasn't it?"

He rubbed his palms together, looking a little embarrassed, and then said something that stunned me.

"For ten years you've leaned on Greenhill Village's vegetables to build your company up to a valuation over a hundred million, and made yourself a well-known name in the city."

"I've got that all right, haven't I?"

I wanted to deny it, but looking at those plain, honest faces, I found myself nodding instead.

Bartholomew's face lit up. He pointed at the dozen-odd heavy trucks in front of us.

"You can haul the vegetables today, and I guarantee the produce out of those greenhouses is top quality, no problem there."

"After all, Greenhill Village got its start on this. We can't let our name go bad."

"It's just that everyone talked it over, and in the end they put me forward to raise one point. One very, very small point."

Bartholomew held up his little finger, and a bad feeling settled in me.

"The price on all the vegetables, on top of what it was before, goes up sixty percent."

I frowned. Bartholomew acted as if he didn't see it.

"Of course, that's the price for outsiders. You're a college man who came out of Greenhill Village, so naturally you can't be lumped in with them."

"So we talked it over a good while, and for you it only needs to go up fifty percent."

"Mr. Joyce, that price is fine, isn't it? We're still looking out for you, aren't we?"

In that instant I felt the urge to turn and walk away.

But there were still a few familiar faces in the crowd.

Only now they looked so strange to me.

Where Greenhill Village's greenhouse hub had come from, they knew better than anyone.

"Bartholomew, this isn't really right, is it?"

I chose my words carefully and didn't tear off the mask right there.

But the moment I finished, someone in the crowd shouted.

"What's not right about it?"

"You feeling like your conscience won't let you earn a little bit less?"