Again Tomorrow

by LobeliaSackvilleBaggins

Summary:

Elliott is stuck, and he knows it. Harvey is stuck, and he doesn't know it.

When Lucy moves to Stardew Valley to revive her late grandfather's farm, she finds more than a dilapidated farmhouse; she finds an entire community in decline. Pelican Town is just a few bad years away from becoming a ghost town.

Lucy's only goal is live in pastoral peace away from the city and her previous life as an attorney for JojaCorp. But she soon realizes that the success of the farm is inextricably tied to the success of Pelican Town. So she gets to work. In her efforts to whip the town into shape, she ignites long-dormant embers of hope and action in Elliott and Harvey.

Chapter 1

Elliott

Elliott gazed at the whirlpool of merlot swirling in his glass, hoping rather than believing that letting the wine breathe before his next sip would make it more palatable. Elbows resting on the saloon table, he twirled the stem between his fingers, held the rim to his nose, sniffed, then sipped again. Elliot set down his glass and sighed. No change. 

Elliot enjoyed everything about wine. Well, everything but the taste, that is. A clumsy palette was Elliott’s secret shame, but he hid it expertly, his aficionado pretense undetectable to even the most critical connoisseur. Elliott loved wine’s aesthetic. He fancied himself mysterious, thoughtful, refined; and he wanted others to think he wasn’t just an author, but an artiste. A glass of wine was one of the accessories needed to achieve the look. It paired well with his threadbare pomegranate blazer, his long strawberry gold hair, and his roguish good looks. 

Even more than the wine’s aesthetic, Elliott loved the endless daydream fodder that wine offered; eons of mythology, history, religion, all aging in dusty casks and bottles in cellars across the world. There’s power and weakness in wine; it turns gods into fools and fools into poets, he mused. Good line. Maybe one for the novel? 

He swirled and sniffed again. No, it’s mawkish. Well, maybe not. I should’ve brought a pen. 

Elliott was among Friday night’s first arrivals at the Stardrop Saloon, which he preferred; people-watching inspired his pen. Well, people-watching would inspire his pen if he hadn’t been watching the same people for two years now. At the Stardrop tonight were the regular sots, Pam and Shane, two loners seated at opposite ends of the bar, sharing the bond of insobriety, but not friendship. 

Pam slurred her woes to Gus, the Stardrop’s owner, as he tended bar. Gus hadn’t listened to Pam for years, his “Hmms” and “You don’t says” the absent-minded beat to Pam’s perennial song and dance. Gus delegated Shane’s care to Emily, the Stardrop’s part-time bartender. Shane said little (if anything) to anyone, and Emily returned the favor by never letting his mug go empty. Watching Gus and Emily ping-pong between Pam and Shane depressed Elliott, but it was still early, and more patrons would trickle in as the daylight died. 

The bell above the saloon door chimed, calling Elliott’s glance away from his drink. Marnie, a rancher who lived near Cindersap Forest outside of town, hurried in, escaping a downpour. She shook off the cold spring rain like a robin in a bird bath and scanned the room. Elliott met her eyes and raised his glass in greeting, receiving a nod and a smile in return. Marnie claimed her usual table nearby to wait for Pelican Town’s mayor, Lewis, her companion and not-so-secret secret lover. 

Marnie and Lewis had long been the subject of town gossip, and not without good reason; they’d been caught trysting in dark corners and public parks throughout Pelican Town. If that weren’t enough, Lewis was casual about leaving his calling card (purple polka dot drawers) all over the hamlet. Elliott chuckled remembering an incident a few months prior when some civic-minded hooligan strung up a pair on a flagpole with a sign: “Pelican Town is Not a Laundromat.” Lewis had tried to rally a posse to hunt down the perpetrator, but quickly abandoned the cause when he realized the public favored the vigilante.

Could I work that tale into the novel without giving Mayor Lewis an aneurysm? Elliot thought. Is it funny, or is it only funny because I know the man?

Elliott adored Pelican Town and its characters nestled in Stardew Valley. He was drawn to the area’s natural beauty, with low mountains cascading into dense forests and a sparkling beach where his cabin stood. More pragmatically, and as a typical starving artist, he also appreciated the cost of living: Pelican Town was not an up-and-coming place, and its remoteness was a deterrent to most would-be transplants. 

More than anything else, Elliott loved the histories and antics of Pelican Town’s people. He longed to be a part of it, a character in the town’s storybook. But like so many small-town migrants before him, he had trouble breaking through the well-woven web of society that the natives maintained. For two years, Elliott dwelled in a bystander’s limbo, observing, but not participating. 

Elliott heard the bell again, but his thoughts governed his attention, and he paid the ringing no mind until he heard footsteps approaching him.  

“Well, if it isn’t my good friend Hemingway.” 

Elliott glanced up from his glass to see Harvey, the town doctor, shedding his soaked green jacket and waving a hand to Gus for his usual merlot. A fellow urban defector, Harvey was one of Elliott’s only friends in town. 

"Sawbones!” boomed Elliott, clapping a hand on Harvey’s shoulder. “Take a load off. Maim anyone this week?” 

Harvey snorted. “Not yet, but the night’s young, and the kids aren’t here yet.” Elliott and Harvey, two bachelors on the downward slope to forty, referred to anyone in the town younger than them as The Kids. 

Gus delivered Harvey’s wine with an “Evenin’, Doc,” using the break from Pam to make rounds to the other tables. The Stardrop was starting to look like the beginning of a modern Canterbury Tale, Elliott thought; a fisherman, a carpenter, a scientist, a blacksmith, two lushes, a rancher, a mayor, a doctor, and a writer all shared the roof now. 

Elliott and Harvey’s standing Friday night drink was the highlight of the week for Elliott, and had been for far too many weeks. And months. And years, now. An aging boredom gnawed at his mind, and its teeth only sharpened with time. Routine was the opiate of Elliott’s inspiration, and his months-long struggle with writer’s block was proof. Elliott once cherished the beauty of the coastal town and found delight in the multi-faceted townspeople. Lately, however, familiarity dimmed the appeal of both. 

Harvey

Dr. Harvey Lambert, MD relished in routine. 

He knew the steps of conversation with Elliott like an old recipe. The ingredients were always the same: discussion of books they’d read and movies they’d seen. Debates on well-trod controversies like whether the moon landing was real. Rehashed stories of the antics of their youth before migrating to Pelican Town. Personal details were not part of the recipe–neither Harvey nor Elliott asked about the other’s day, no inquiries were made on career or family, and they certainly did not discuss future plans. Every Friday, they had a drink, recited their conversation, parted ways, and were not troubled with it again until the next Friday. The recipe worked, yielded consistent results, and Harvey liked it.

He had the same coffee (one sugar, no cream) and the same breakfast (two eggs over medium on sourdough toast) every morning at 7:00. He had one shirt, one tie, and one pair of slacks for each day of the week, laundry completed on Sundays. His clinic opened at 8:00 each morning, closed at 3:00 each afternoon, and he spent two hours after closing completing paperwork and professional development courses. Friday nights he socialized at the Stardrop, though calling it “socializing” was generous, as he only ever spoke with Elliott. Any energy he had for the unexpected was spent on the odd emergency call after hours. 

As Harvey listened to Elliott rant about the decline of real literature (another well-worn topic), he combed the room. The Stardrop and all its usuals were exactly where they always were, in the same condition they always were in. The hardwood floors and wall panels shone softly in the warm light from the antler chandelier and fire roaring in the rock hearth. Strummy old folk songs crackled out of the jukebox, and the local carpenter Robin and her husband Darius swayed together in the corner, keeping clumsy time to the tune. Footsteps, clacking billiard balls, and the rainfall’s rooftop pitter-patter percussed the music of the evening.

Harvey could feel his shoulders releasing tension, the predictability of his surroundings soothing as a hot bath. He relaxed his posture, leaned back in his chair, and retuned his ear to Elliott. 

“...All popular ‘literature,’ if one could even deign to call it that, is trope-laden and caters solely to the prurient interest,” Elliott continued. “It’s a shame. Has the muse abandoned us? Are we to forever wallow in mundanity?” The writer wasn’t expecting an answer from the doctor, and the doctor had none but a shrug to give. 

“And you know,” Elliot added, “that’s why film is dying, too. If a good novelist is elusive, just think of locating a script writer or a playwright. Not to mention art’s ever-losing battle to commerce.  There’s no script involved because no studio wants to pay a writer. They just set up a camera, the actors improvise a thousand hours of footage, and editors cobble it all together like fairytale elves in a sweatshop. They slap that slop on our beloved silver screen, and we’re expected to pay twenty dollars a ticket for the privilege.” 

Harvey scoffed. “Twenty dollars? No way movie tickets cost that much–who would pay that?”

“Twenty dollars for the ticket, then more for the popcorn and drinks, Sawbones. Gone are the days of the cheap date,” Elliott sighed. “How long has it been since you’ve been to the cinema?”

“You know,” Harvey started, stroking his mustache, “I think the last movie I saw in theaters was Fellowship of the Ring.” 

Elliott gave Harvey a pitying look. “That is bleak. Well, in your defense, that might have been the last movie worth paying to see.” 

“I took a girl to see it,” Harvey reminisced, the wine softening his usually guarded edges. “Amber Taylor. It took me a good two months to work up the nerve to ask her out. We went to see Fellowship of the Ring, and God help me, when Gandalf fell off that bridge, I wept. Actually cried tears. Amber was appalled and never called me back.” 

Elliott was in stitches. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks, doc,” he wheezed. Harvey chuckled, too, but a kernel of embarrassment lodged in his throat. He couldn’t believe he’d shared so much. I should lay off the wine, he thought. 

When Elliott caught his breath, he continued, “You dodged a bullet. Amber was a moral degenerate if Gandalf’s fall didn’t move her.” 

“Clearly. She’s probably in prison now.” 

Elliott laughed again and raised his glass. “To dismal dates and girlfriends past, both inside and outside the penitentiary system.” 

Harvey grinned, returned the cheers, and drained the last swallow. Elliott headed to the bar for another pour, leaving Harvey a moment alone. Heat bloomed in Harvey’s face as the wine settled in him. The old ego bruise throbbed, but seeing the Stardrop’s patrons all in their assigned places, ticking along like the hands of a clock, was a balm for the doctor. 

Elliott returned with two merlots. “I know you usually don’t go for two,” Elliott said, “but it’s raining.” Harvey didn’t question Elliott’s reasoning, but nodded a thanks and indulged. A second serving was another departure from Harvey’s routine, but only a small one. 

Halfway through the glass, Elliott abandoned conversation in favor of humming along with the jukebox and drumming on the table while Harvey’s finger and foot tapped the beat.

A glass-shattering shriek split the air. 

Elliott startled out of his chair, and Harvey leapt to his feet, scanning the barroom for an injured patient. His eyes landed on Shane, drenched in beer and holding an empty mug, cursing. 

“Dammit, Em!” Shane growled. “You tryin’ to give me a heart attack?” 

Emily was nearby, squealing and jumping in an embrace with a stranger. The newcomer, laden with duffle bags and a suitcase, nearly toppled under Emily’s hug. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, Shane!” Emily cried, tossing him her bar cloth. “But look! Lucy’s here!”  

Harvey exhaled when he realized there was no danger. He shuffled back to his table and drained the rest of his glass, tension gripping his shoulders. Elliott regained his chair and watched Emily and the Stardrop’s newest arrival with a languid interest. Harvey spectated, too, but with what he hoped was more subtlety than Elliott, who was already a couple of sheets to the wind.

Shane toweled his shirt and grumbled. “I don’t give a rat’s ass who’s here, Em, you gotta watch where you’re goin’.” 

“Good to see you too, Shane,” said the newcomer who must be Lucy as she set down her bags by an empty barstool. 

Shane squinted through the beerfog, and recognition broke a crooked grin across his face. 

“No way…Lucy Ballinger? Oh, for crying out loud, how ya doin’, kiddo?” Shane threw a sloppy arm around Lucy’s shoulders and pulled her to his side. “Em, you didn’t tell me this weirdo was comin’ to town!” 

Harvey and Elliott shared a look; neither of them had ever heard Shane speak more than two consecutive words, let alone smile. And he hugged someone?

“It was a surprise!” chirped Emily. “I thought it might cheer you up, seeing your old neighbor.” 

Shane’s smile sunk, and he withdrew his arm from Lucy. Plopping back on the barstool, he mumbled, “Good to see ya, Luce.” He held up his mug to Emily, who rolled her eyes and stepped back behind the bar to refill his drink. Lucy grabbed a stool nearby and caught up with Emily while she tended bar. 

Harvey gave up his eavesdropping and turned his attention back to Elliott, who traced a finger on the rim of his glass, his eyes pinned on Lucy.

“Ballinger,” muttered Elliott. “Where have I heard that name?” 

Lucy

Lucy perched on a barstool a few feet from Shane, side-eying the man with concern nesting in her chest. She remembered Shane McCall as the handsome captain of the gridball team, energetic and funny, the object of Lucy and Emily’s shared adolescent crush so many years ago. She would have never known that the beer-bellied barfly in the stained hoodie and day-old stubble was the same Shane. 

Well, not the same Shane, she thought. Lord, he looks bad. What on Earth happened to him? She glanced at Emily, who shook her head at Lucy. “I’ll tell you later,” she mouthed. 

Lucy nodded and took a steadying breath. She felt like she hadn’t breathed all day. She rooted in her purse for her notepad, where she had planned her migration to Stardew Valley down to the minute in a series of schedules and checklists. She flipped to the page with today’s checklist; the page was stiff and crunchy from her mottled last-minute amendments and dried raindrops. The cosmos conspired against me today, she thought. Well, joke’s on them. I made it here. 

Twelve hours ago, she walked out of her cramped ZuZu City apartment for the last time, and the day only spiraled from there. Her car broke down an hour into her journey, and the mechanic said it wouldn’t be ready to drive again for at least a week. She couldn’t find a cab willing to shlep her and her luggage all the way out to Stardew Valley, so she had to wait four hours at a bus stop in a cold downpour. The bus arrived, sure enough, but was filthy and fetid, as any last bus bound for nowhere is sure to be. 

Lucy rolled her shoulders, sloughing off the trials of the day. All she wanted was a soft pillow and solitude. That would have to wait, though; Lucy was spending her first night in the valley on Emily’s sofa, so she was at the mercy of her best friend's shift.

She slipped her hand into her raincoat pocket, brushing her fingers against an envelope soft and smooth from years of handling. She carried her late grandfather’s letter with her always, but had long since stopped opening it. Lucy knew its contents like a favorite song. She closed her eyes and pictured her grandfather’s scratchy handwriting, his signature, his words that bequeathed to her his life’s work: Eureka Farm in Stardew Valley. Even though five years had passed from when she’d first opened Pop’s letter to now, Lucy still had trouble believing the gift was real. 

A sweet, aching gratitude curled in her chest, kneading her heart like a cat with a cushion. When a strong hand squeezed her arm, the scar of Lucy’s grief nearly split open again. She turned to see Gus standing beside her, his face crinkled in a broad smile. 

“Glad you’re finally back with us, darlin’.” Gus’s voice, low and gruff, was a tonic for Lucy’s rumpled spirit. She stood from her seat and embraced him before emotion got the best of her. 

“Oh, Gus,” she murmured into his shoulder. “It’s been too long.” 

He patted her back and shushed gently. “Nevermind that, now, nevermind that.” Gus released the hug, but kept an arm on hers, appraising her. He tsked and shook his head. “Rough journey?”

She looked down at herself. Her navy blue raincoat was wrinkled and damp, her brown leather boots muddy and scuffed. Her silky green scarf fell frowsy around her neck. No telling what her hair and makeup looked like after the day’s ordeals. 

Lucy ribbed the old barkeep. “I get all dressed up just for you, and this is how I’m treated? I should take my business elsewhere!" 

Gus’s chuckle rumbled in his throat. “All right, all right, no need for that. First drink’s on the house, how ‘bout that? Bourbon’s still your poison?” 

Lucy knit her brows together in a plea. “Make it a double?” 

Gus soughed. “Here all of five minutes, and the girl’s already drinking me out of house and home. Comin’ right up, but you mind yourself, now, you hear?” 

Lucy crossed her heart in a scout’s honor, and Gus waved her back to her barstool before plodding behind the bar to fix her drink. After a moment, he delivered her heavy pour with a wink. 

The whiskey seared on Lucy’s tongue and down her throat, stoking a flame in her lips and cheeks. She could already feel the day’s worries softening, melting like snow in the sun. 

Emily returned from her rounds and leaned on the bar beside Lucy, her excitement fluttering like a bird. “I’m inexpressibly jazzed about our sleepover tonight, and so is Haley, though she would never let on,” Emily bubbled. “I can fill you in on what little news there is, and then I can show you the new designs I’ve been sketching, and oh, we could maybe do an aura cleanse? I say this with all love and concern, but your aura is looking dim, and I can’t have your light burdened with dark energy, or else how are we supposed to enjoy ourselves at all?” 

Emily’s dizzying enthusiasm poured onto Lucy, warming the weary traveler every bit as much as the whiskey had. Lucy took in the sight of her oldest friend. She was a whirl of color; her bright blue bob framed her fay face. Her broad smile set her hazel eyes alight. Tonight she wore a matching red blouse and skirt of her own design. Seeing Emily made Lucy feel at home for the first time in ages. “Em, I missed you so much, I could weep. Weep. But my aura’s going to have to stay dim at least for tonight. I am bone-tired.” 

Emily pivoted her plan like a pirouette. “Oh my goodness, of course you’re exhausted, you’ve had the longest, longest day. Sleepover is still happening, of course, but we’ll save the funtivities for after you’ve gotten some decent rest; maybe next week? No commitment, we’ll keep it open.” Lucy could practically see the ideas flitting in and out of Emily’s vision like fairies. 

“In the meantime,” she continued, “You gotta socialize, and no, you can’t take a rain check on that. I won’t have you holed up at that farm like a hobbit.” 

Lucy puffed. “Fine, yes, I’ll mingle. Point out a stranger and watch me glitter.” 

Emily flicked her head towards a table in the corner where two men sat in low conversation. “How about I introduce you to that writer I was telling you about? He’s a total kook, you’ll love it.” 

“It’s the pot calling the kettle black for either of us to call anyone kooky, Em,” Lucy chided. “But I’m game.” 

Lucy grabbed her drink and hopped off the barstool to follow her friend to the writer’s table. 

Harvey

Lucy Ballinger. Harvey pondered for a moment before it came to him. “You know Eureka Farm outside of town?”

Elliott replied, “That I do. It’s haunted, you know.” 

Harvey ignored Elliott’s bait to discuss the paranormal, one of the writer’s favorite topics after a few drinks. “The farmer who ran it was named Ballinger.” 

Walt Ballinger solidified slowly in Harvey’s wine-dulled memory. Harvey only knew Walt briefly, as the old man died shortly after the doctor took charge of Pelican Town’s clinic. But Walt left a kindly impression on the doctor, Walt’s pride in his work and his affection for Stardew Valley evident in every conversation with the old farmer.  

Harvey attended Walt’s funeral only a year after arriving in Pelican Town himself. It was an uncommonly sad affair, and Harvey recalled feeling a morbid envy that he didn’t have the chance to better know Mr. Ballinger. 

“She’s likely a relative,” he continued, nodding his head in Lucy’s direction. “Kinda strange, though; it’s been half a decade since Walt died, and his place has just been sitting there, empty.” 

“Ah, there it is,” said Elliott. “Probate’s done, and the relations descend like vultures. Executors and executioners.” He tipped back his glass for the last swallow before continuing. “I bet this enterprising lady’s here to sell the property and abscond with the proceeds.” 

“An ungenerous assumption, wouldn’t you say?” imposed a cool voice.

Harvey and Elliott startled at the interruption like it was gunfire. Emily and Lucy had approached the gentlemen’s table, but in their scandalmongering, neither man had noticed. Emily planted a hand on her hip and glared an unspoken reproach at Elliott. Lucy stood there with her highball glass, one dark eyebrow cocked, her mouth tugged in a smirk. She murmured to Emily from the corner of her mouth. “Looks like the gossip mill is alive and well.”

Emily sighed and shook her head. “I’ll say,” she admitted. “You haven’t been here ten minutes, and you’re already the most interesting thing to happen around here in months.” 

Elliott paled and his eyes widened. Harvey’s mouth clamped shut under his mustache. He felt redness creeping up his neck and ears, stinging his cheeks like a sunburn. On some invisible cue, both men remembered their manners and rose from their chairs with a clatter to greet Emily and Lucy. 

The writer and the doctor stammered overlapping apologies, their words stumbling over each other to find footing. Between Elliott’s frantic chatter and Harvey’s tight-lipped mumbling, nothing coherent could be gleaned. 

They must have looked ridiculous, as Emily and Lucy couldn’t maintain indignation in the sight of such bumbling remorse. Both women exchanged glances, grinned, then dissolved into laughter. Elliott’s color returned in relief, and Harvey’s face cooled from an alarming burn to a warm flush. 

Emily exhaled another chuckle and took up the reins of the introduction. “Elliott, Dr. Harvey,” she started through her giggles, “Meet my dearest friend, Lucy Ballinger. She’s taking over old Walt’s farm.” 

Harvey raised his eyes to meet Lucy’s, and what little nerve he had withered. He recognized her. 

Harvey remembered her at Walt’s funeral. She stood by Emily then, too. The service was held on a sweltering summer day, but Lucy’s face was colorless, icy stone. Grief frozen over her like an arctic lake. Her glacial stillness and silence amidst the heat and murmuring mourners struck Harvey at the time; but seeing Lucy now thawed his first impression. 

She was disheveled: clothes damp and creased, her brunette hair wild from the weather, the dark circles under her eyes standing stark against her winter pale skin. But she was smiling, and the heat from the room flushed her cheeks pink. 

Lucy held out her hand to Elliott first. “I’m one of the vultures,” she gibed. “Walt Ballinger’s granddaughter.”

The writer recovered his composure expertly and took her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Ballinger,” Elliott said. “I’m Elliott Kingsley. Please forgive me for my remarks earlier–-I’m a gossiper and a speculator, as well as a hack writer, and I’ve just finished my fourth glass of the evening, which has eroded both my chivalry and my better nature.” Elliott raised both hands in supplication, a sheepish grin cracking his face. “Are those enough excuses to earn your pardon?” 

Smooth. He should teach a class, Harvey thought.

Lucy’s easy laugh drained any remaining tension to the dregs. “Pardon granted, Mr. Kingsley, and your speculation wasn’t far off the mark-–the estate has been tied up in probate, and I do have some buzzard relatives.”

Elliott beamed and raised his glass to Lucy. “Slow to anger and quick to forgive, a woman after my own heart.”  

A whistle from behind the bar pierced the air, and the four glanced to see Gus beckoning Emily back to her shift. 

“Oh, right, I’m on the clock!” Emily said. “Gotta split for a bit.” Emily flew away. 

Lucy blew a kiss to Gus across the room, and the old barkeep grinned and caught it in his weathered hand. Harvey reddened as Lucy turned toward him. 

“It’s good to meet you, Dr. Harvey.” 

Harvey was unready for interaction with a stranger, and he was grateful that his mannerly autopilot took over for him. He shook her hand and returned her smile. “The pleasure’s mine,” he managed. 

Elliott pulled out an empty chair for Lucy. “Please, won’t you join us?” Harvey’s jaw tightened; this was not part of his routine, and after two glasses of wine, he didn’t trust his ability to adapt to new people on the fly like this. 

Lucy nodded and shed her raincoat and scarf, revealing a robin-egg blue dress that stopped just above her knee. Lucy smoothed her hands across her skirt and took her seat. With Lucy settled, Elliott and Harvey reclaimed their chairs. 

“So Dr. Harvey,” Lucy started, “Are you a GP?” 

Harvey wasn’t prepared for any question, no matter how innocuous. “Oh! Yes…um, I have a clinic up by Pierre’s, the, uh, the general store. And you can just call me Harvey, no need for the doctor business,” he sputtered. “Last name’s Lambert. Everyone just calls me Dr. Harvey, though, since I’m the only doctor in town. Well, everyone but Elliott here, who calls me Sawbones.” He cringed at his rapid-fire over-explanation. 

“I like ‘Dr. Harvey,’” said Lucy. “It’s like the doctors on the radio and TV–they always go by their first names. Dr. Laura, Dr. Phil, Dr. Harvey.” Harvey barked a too-loud laugh, and he saw Elliott roll his eyes. But Lucy just twinkled, looking pleased that her mildly-amusing remark hit its target.   

“So, Sawbones, will you remember us poor folk when you’re a famous TV doctor?” Elliott taunted over his empty glass. Harvey was too flustered to articulate a reply. Blessedly, Lucy opened her mouth to volley the banter before she noticed the round of drained drinks on the table. 

“Next round’s on me,” she offered. 

Elliott, a free drink enthusiast, looked like he could kiss her. “Lovely and generous! You’re a most welcome addition to our town, Ms. Ballinger. I’ll do the fetching–what’s your order?” 

Lucy handed her glass to Elliott. “Double bourbon on the rocks, thanks.” She glanced at Harvey. “For medicinal purposes only, doctor.” 

Elliott guffawed. “And she drinks like a vagabond! We’re keeping her, Sawbones!” The writer gathered the empty vessels and sauntered to the bar, leaving Harvey alone with Lucy. She watched Elliott with some secret amusement that Harvey couldn’t make out. 

“Emily said you’re taking over Walt’s farm,” he said. “Does that mean you’ll be farming it?” 

Lucy turned her eyes back to Harvey. “That’s the idea,” she answered, “but it’ll be quite an undertaking. I’ve spent my career hovering over a desk at Joja corporate, so I’m looking forward to spending some time in the fresh air and sunshine like the good old days.”

“I’m sure you’ll turn the place around,” he encouraged. “If you sprinkle a few seeds, what’s to keep them from growing?” 

Lucy laughed, “Exactly! How hard could it possibly be?”

She laughed, okay, this is good, I’m doing good, Harvey thought. 

“So, Joja corporate, huh? You’re a captain of industry.” That earned Harvey another smile from Lucy, emboldening him to inquire further. “What did you do over there?” 

Lucy’s smile didn’t falter, but a wince touched her eyes. Harvey saw it. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, “It’s none of my business, especially if you’d, uh, rather not share.” Regret ricocheted through him. Elliott better hurry up, he’s better at this. 

Lucy shook her head. “Nothing to apologize for, you’re good,” she assured him. “I’ve been at Joja for the past eight years…” 

Elliott interrupted with his return and passed out the drinks. “Merlot for the gentlemen, and the hard stuff for the lady.”

They clinked their glasses before Lucy said, “I was telling Harvey that I just quit Joja after an eight-year stint. I was an attorney for their real estate division.” 

Harvey’s eyebrows rose over his hornrimmed glasses while Elliott teased. “You’re a lawyer? You do not strike me as the shark type,” Elliott scoffed. “Where’s your power suit?” 

Lucy waved a dismissive hand. “Joja doesn’t hire sharks. They want piranhas. Death by a thousand nibbles.” 

Elliot laughed, but Lucy didn’t. Harvey noticed. 

“Anyway,” she resumed, “I had my fill of Joja, and I decided to recuperate with a new career. I worked on Pop’s farm in the summers my whole childhood until I went to university, so I’ve got experience on my side.” She sipped her bourbon again. “As for the power suits, most of them are in plastic bags at the Salvation Army.” 

Elliott slapped a hand on the table. “Well, I, for one, am ecstatic about your new venture, Miss Piranha. What say you, Sawbones?”

He swallowed. “You’ll do great, no doubt about it.” 

Lucy beamed bright at Harvey and Elliott. “Thanks for the confidence, gentlemen.”

"The confidence is merely a byproduct of the wine, Piranha, but we're happy to oblige."

"You're living up to the sterotype, Elliott—write drunk and edit sober and all that," Lucy teased.

Elliott slapped his knee. "Indeed I am, and enthusiasically—nothing's better for writer's block than good drinks and reparte."

"Writer's block, hmm? I hope it's not a stubborn case."

"I'm afraid it is," Elliott sighed. "I can parry words here with you and Sawbones, but when faced with the blank page, my pen flinches. 'Mightier than the sword,' they say, but my experience says otherwise."

Harvey stared at his friend. He never told me he was having trouble. A small shame sprouted between his ribs.

Lucy turned her face to the rafters, her brows furrowed like she was searching for an idea to pluck from a midair shelf. After a beat, she turned back to Elliott.

"Have you tried having an archnemesis? Someone to foil? He doesn't have to be real, but spite is a great motivator. I've done some of my best work out of imaginary spite." She thought a moment longer. "Though in my previous line of work, spite was easy to come by; I didn't have to look hard for foils." She shrugged and took another sip of her whiskey.

Elliott stared at Lucy, mouth agape, then erupted. "That is brilliant! I'm trying it tomorrow, so help me—even if it doesn't work, my word, it'll be a good time, at least." He wheezed. "Spite! Leave it to the lawyer to dabble in such sinister means of inspiration!"

Lucy smirked. "Sinister? No! Call it…unconventional productivity solutions."

Their laughter, lubricated with liquor, rolled around the table. Though Harvey was still uneasy at the detour from his typical Friday night, he had to admit to himself that he was having fun.

He saw Lucy spot someone across the room. “Hey, fellas, do you mind watching my drink and bag for a minute? I need to see a lady about some goats.” 

"Is that a euphemism?" Elliott quipped.

Lucy chuckled. "If it isn't, it oughta be. I'm going to talk to Marnie for a sec."

As she walked past Harvey on the way to Marnie’s table, she patted his shoulder. “Thanks Harv, Elliott."

Harvey went rigid. She’s already nicknaming me. The title of “doctor” maintained a roomy distance between Harvey and the rest of the townsfolk. A distance to which Harvey was accustomed. A distance that Lucy eroded with a touch and a “Harv.” 

Elliott watched her greet and embrace Marnie. "A breath of fresh air, and not a moment too soon." Harvey nodded from reflex rather than agreement.

She was back. “Congratulate me. You’re looking at the owner of not one, but two goats.” Lucy sat down, took a notebook from her handbag, and scribbled. 

"And just like that, another goatherd is born." said Elliott.

Lucy grinned. “I’m glad I talked to Marnie tonight–-one less thing to do tomorrow.” She flipped to another page and crossed out a line with her pen. “Nothing better for clearing land than goats; they’ll eat almost anything, you know.” 

“Work smarter, not harder,” Harvey said. 

Lucy beamed. “Now I’ve just gotta name them. They’re a nanny and a billy, so I’m thinking Bathsheba and Farmer Oak.”

“Ah, Thomas Hardy! I do love a Victorian pastoral drama," said Elliott.

"It's one of my favorites," Lucy replied. "Fitting for my current situation, too—I'm actually rereading it now."

Harvey didn't know what Lucy and Elliott were talking about, and he fidgeted.

Lucy noticed and offered explanation. “It’s a novel called Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy. It’s about a woman who inherits a farm from a relative and has to whip it into shape. I mean, there's more to it than that, but that's the gist."

“Oh, I can see why you're reading it, then,” said Harvey. “Is she successful in fixing the farm?”

Lucy smiled. "Maybe you should read it and find out."

Harvey chuckled. "Oh, well, yeah, maybe I should. I do prefer non-fiction, though, if I'm being honest…" Harvey trailed off when he saw Lucy studying his face. He reddened under the examination.

The Stardrop door chimed again. Elliott straightened in his chair when he saw Leah enter, patting the rain off her jacket and long red braid. She said nothing to anyone, but raised a finger to Gus, who nodded and poured her drink. She strode to her usual lone table in the corner and settled in. 

Anxiety gripped Harvey. This same moment happened every Friday night; Leah would arrive, Elliott would desert Harvey with the bill to finish the evening at her table, and that was Harvey’s unequivocal permission to leave the Stardrop. 

Dozens and dozens of Fridays ended the same way: Harvey strolling home alone to his cozy apartment where his books, his model airplanes, and his ham radio welcomed him with familiar, comfortable silence. Before Harvey arrived at the saloon this evening, he already knew the Miles Davis album he would play and the tiny propeller he would paint after Elliott understandably ditched him for fairer company. 

But tonight, a disruption to his routine sat mere inches to his left, and the buffer across the table had already spotted Leah. Please don’t leave, please don’t leave, please don’t leave, was Harvey's silent plea. 

Elliott did not receive Harvey’s telepathic entreaties, and likely would have ignored them if he had. He rose from his seat with a wobble, righted himself, bowed to Lucy and took her hand. “Madam counselor, it was an unmitigated delight to meet you this evening, but alas, I must depart. May I hope beyond hope to see you here often?” 

What a ham, thought Harvey. 

Lucy assumed an air of royal dignity and antique refinement to match Elliott’s flamboyance. With her free hand to her heart, she declared, “Fare thee well, good scribe. May our parting be brief and our reunion swift.” 

Elliott roared as he strode away, and Harvey snorted at the theatrical exchange. Lucy watched Elliott over the rim of her glass, a taunt playing in her eyes before she took a drink. Nerves pricked the back of Harvey’s neck like a needle, bound his tongue, and he couldn’t for the life of him pick up the reins of the conversation. 

Silence slipped between them. Harvey’s mind oscillated between desire to fill the quiet and fear of breaking it. Say something, just pick it up, she’s a person, not a wolverine, she’s not going to bite. He almost startled when Lucy spoke first.

“Hey…have we met before?” she asked. “I’m sorry if we have and I’m not recalling; blame it on the drink.” 

Harvey felt caught somehow. “I…yes, well, no, we didn’t meet, but, uh, you probably saw me at, um…at your grandfather’s funeral.” 

Lucy softened. “Of course,” she said. “I recognize you. Forgive me for not realizing it sooner. But in my defense, the mustache is new. Well, new since last I saw you, anyway.” 

Harvey was stunned. She remembers me?

"Thank you for being there, Harvey. So many people from town showed up—it made a hard day a little easier."

Harvey warmed at her frank gratitude. “Walt was one of my patients,” he said, “when I first moved here. I wish I’d gotten to know him better; people around here always say great things about him.”

Bittersweetness curved Lucy’s lips. “What a kind thing to say. He and I were close; I miss him all the time.”

Harvey knew the feeling, and an old ache settled in his chest. He searched for a reply and came up empty; no words felt adequate. A silence sunk between them, and the doctor fidgeted in his seat.

Lucy swallowed the last of her whiskey, then broke the quiet with an abrupt resumption. 

“So, you said you’re more of a nonfiction man. Tell me about it–-are you reading anything interesting?” 

Grateful for the pivot, Harvey answered. “Oh, uh, actually yes, I’m on a B-24 kick right now.” The sparkle of interest in Lucy’s face encouraged him to continue. “That’s a type of airplane used in World War II. The book I’m reading now is about the pilots who flew those planes–-where they were from, how they trained, you know.”

Lucy nodded, expecting more. So Harvey delivered. “Those pilots, you know, most of them were farm boys and factory workers. Some of them weren’t finished with school yet, or they never even attended school to begin with. And suddenly, they’re flying these enormous machines that changed the course of history. Imagine being sixteen years old and sitting in the cockpit of one of those things.” Harvey’s insides roiled; it felt unnatural to say this much. 

Lucy affixed to her thinking spot on the ceiling again. Harvey felt like an intruder watching her, so he skimmed the barroom again. 

“It’s incomprehensible,” she said. “No wonder they were the Greatest Generation. When I was sixteen, I was worried about quiz bowl and choir practice.” She turned back to Harvey. “I wasn’t even trustworthy with my parents’ station wagon, let alone a fighter plane. Tell me more.” 

Harvey grinned, but swallowed his reply when he saw Emily approaching Lucy from behind. Nearby stood Shane, laden with Lucy’s luggage, a sway in his step.  

“Gus is letting me go early!” Emily sang, throwing her arms around Lucy. “You ready to scurry?”

“God bless Gus,” Lucy said. She eyed Shane. “I can’t believe you let Emily rope you into being our beast of burden.”

“Yeah, yeah,” huffed Shane, “Hurry up, your stuff is heavy.”

Lucy slipped on her raincoat, then smiled at the doctor. “Harvey, thank you for a great chat; this was a good first night in town.” 

Harvey stood. “Glad to be part of the, uh, the welcome committee,” he replied.

Lucy turned to go, then paused and turned back, pulling the pen and notepad from her handbag again. “What was the name of that B-24 book?”

“Oh, um, it’s called The Wild Blue, but I can’t remember the author.” 

Lucy jotted in her book. “No worries, the Internet will know. Thanks again, Harvey. See you next time.” 

The doctor watched her go, the saloon door chime lingering a moment in his ear. He took a deep breath and looked around the room. Harvey paid the bill to Gus, same as always. He strolled home alone, same as always. And his apartment welcomed him, same as always. 

But the peace that coming home usually brought the doctor evaded him. He combed over every word of his conversation with Lucy while he brushed his teeth, washed his face, and got into bed. I can’t talk with people, he decided. I sound like a fool every time. At least the ice is broken, I guess. And it’s over. Back to normal again tomorrow.

Just before Harvey drifted off, a warm thought took residence in a cold, abandoned corner of his mind. She remembers me. 

Chapter 2

Summary:

Lucy starts her battle with the farmland.

Elliott continues his battle with writer's block.

Harvey loses a battle with livestock.

Lucy

Lucy, Emily, and Shane trudged down the overgrown muddy path to Emily's house. The evening's downpour had dwindled to a drizzle, haloing the streetlamps. Emily practically skipped; nothing as trivial as the weather could dampen her spirits.

"Thanks again, Shane, for being our bellhop," she said. "I'll knock a few bucks off your tab next time."

Shane grumbled. Although Lucy didn't catch the words, she knew they weren't "You're welcome."

"So," she started, "I was glad when Emily told me you'd moved back to Stardew. I bet Marnie's happy to have you around."

"Marnie's not the only one!" Emily chirped. "Everyone was thrilled when Shane came back to the motherland!"

Shane huffed, but didn't reply. Rude, thought Lucy. He'll have to do better than that to throw me off.

"What have you been up to since coming back?"

Shane rolled his eyes. "I'm one of the stock boy slaves at Joja Mart. Really knockin'em dead over there."

Lucy winced. He sounds so defeated. "I don't envy you—just escaped the Joja machine myself."

"Yeah, but you really were knockin'em dead. Didn't you work for corporate?" He whistled. "Big wig in a fancy suit, corner office." Bitterness barbed his words.

"The boss clown had the corner office—I had a grungy cubicle about the size of a fish tank. But I did wear the fancy suits."

Shane scoffed. "Your boss couldn't be a bigger bastard than mine. Morris is a reptile."

Lucy nearly stumbled. "Wait a minute…your boss is Leonard Morris?"

"Yeah, he's the store manager. What, do you know'im?"

"Oh, I know him, alright," said Lucy. "Bastard is a good word for him. Is he still weird about the Joja secret handshake?"

That earned her a scornful laugh from Shane. "Jeez, what's up with the handshake? It's like a cult."

"Right? And how secret could it possibly be when a hundred thousand employees know it?"

"Here we are!" interrupted Emily. "Home sweet home—Shane, just put the bags inside the door there." Shane dumped the luggage where Emily pointed, then turned to go.

"Thank you, and I meant it about your tab! See you, Shane!" He waved a lazy hand without looking back.

Lucy saw Emily's smile droop. She stood still and somber as Shane shuffled away into the dark. The sadness in her face stung Lucy's heart.

Lucy sidled up to Emily and put an arm around her. Emily shook off the frown and beamed. "Okay, I'm beat, and I know you are too, so let's just call it a night and tomorrow I'll make you a farmer's breakfast so you can go and take Eureka by storm. Sound good?"

"Sounds the best, Em."

—

Two sets of humorless yellow eyes stared at Lucy in the chill spring dawn. They betrayed no warmth, no coldness, no desire, no contentment. Only hunger. Lucy stifled a shudder. I don't remember goats being so creepy.

"What beauties!" she said. "Thank you so much for bringing them to me so early, Marnie."

Marnie handed each goat's tether to Lucy. "No trouble at all, sweetie! They're just the thing to take care of all these weeds—they'll have this cleaned up in a jiff, you'll see." Lucy appreciated Marnie's sunniness, especially this early in the morning. The middle-aged rancher was short and plump and pretty, dressed in her signature long skirt and boots that gave her a country-western flair. Her curly brown hair was plaited over one shoulder.

Lucy smiled at Marnie, but after seeing the state of the property, doubt darkened her enthusiasm. There's a fine line between optimism and delusion, she thought.

Her gaze wandered across Eureka Farm. The place had been a little shabby in Pop's final years, but never as bad as this. In the half-decade since his passing, nature invaded and conquered the land. A sea of waist-high weeds and grass spanned all the way to Cindersap Forest at the southern edge of the acreage. The grasses and morning mist obscured a minefield of rocks and small boulders. Hordes of wild trees swayed like weary soldiers, dead brush and rotting logs surrounding them, their fallen comrades at battle's end. The skeleton of a greenhouse loomed on the far end of the field, its broken glass panels a taunting, jagged-toothed grin.

Lucy patted each goat's head. My siege weapons to take back the kingdom. "They'd better be hungry," she said.

Marnie giggled. "Just about bottomless; I don't know where they put it all."

"Well, Bathsheba and Farmer Oak, bon appetit!" Lucy untied the goats, and both tucked in to their feast. While the two women watched the goats graze, the previous evening played over in Lucy's mind. She wanted more information about Shane, but after seeing Emily so crestfallen, Lucy couldn't bring herself to press her.

But now Shane's aunt was there. It's not straight from the horse's mouth, but it's the next best thing.

"So, neighbor, I was happy to see that Shane's back in town," said Lucy. "I bet it's been good having him around, for the extra set of hands as much as the company."

"Oh, yes, it's been…" Marnie hesitated. "…Oh, Lucy, I'm so worried about him." The ready admission almost startled Lucy, and she regretted her prying. Why do I always go searching?

She stepped closer to Marnie and put a hand on her arm.

"Marnie, you don't have to tell me about it if you'd rather not, but please, let me know if there's anything I can do."

Marnie's eyes misted. "He's in a bad way. Drinking every night, not takin' care of himself. It's bad enough that he's doin' it to himself, but now he's got that little girl to think about. Nothin' I do seems to help."

"Little girl? Does Shane have a daughter?"

"No, he…well, yes, I reckon he does. His goddaughter, Jas. Shane has custody of her, and he's makin' a mess of the whole thing. Jas has been through enough, what with losing her parents, and now the only father she has is actin' like this."

Whatever Lucy was expecting, it wasn't this. Pity pierced her. "Marnie, I had no idea. I'm so sorry. I mean it—anything I can do, please just say so. You were always such a sweet neighbor to Pop, and if there's even a small chance for me to return the favor, I'll take it."

Marnie's voice cracked. "Bless you, girl. Just talkin' has helped, believe it or not. You remember Shane how he used to be; everyone else has gotten used to how he is now."

After a few more minutes of conversation, Marnie and Lucy parted with an embrace. As Lucy watched her neighbor go, a thought nagged her. Why didn't Emily tell me about any of this?

Lucy turned to the ramshackle farmhouse. The movers wouldn't arrive for hours yet, but she figured the place would need a deep cleaning before they arrived. But when she stepped through the creaky screen door, her heart sank.

The house was empty. She figured it would be, but she had nursed a foolish hope that some of Pop's things would still be there. Of course Aunt Shelley and Uncle Rick picked the place over. Why wouldn't they? They probably ransacked the house the day of Pop's funeral.

She checked the cabinets, the closets, both bedrooms, and the bathroom. She found nothing but a mop and broom and a bucket of rags. At least this is enough to give the place a once-over.

She rolled up her sleeves and got to work.

Elliott

Elliott awoke and rued it. The wine that caressed his senses only hours before had grown claws, digging into his head, his neck, his sinuses. 

The writer’s shack by the sea shivered. Cold sunlight streamed through the windows, pooling in a chill creeping across the floorboards. Spring’s warmth was still hours away. 

Elliott crawled from his bed and guzzled a day-old glass of water left by the bathroom sink. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and shuddered. He looked derelict, his hair tangled around him like weeds, some caught in his morning stubble. The bags under his bloodshot brown eyes aged him. I don’t know how many more nights like that I have in me, he thought. 

The memory of the Stardrop tugged a smirk from him. At least a pretty girl bought me a drink. He ignored the fact that she’d bought Sawbones one, too. He also swallowed the swelling bitterness that the girl buying was not Leah. 

In the corner of the cabin, Elliott's typewriter sneered. Still blocked, huh? Makes sense; no game, no girl, no ideas. No wonder all these pages are blank.

Elliott stomped to the desk and slammed his fist by the typewriter.

The machine didn't flinch. That won't work on me, and you know it.

Elliott closed his eyes and controlled his breath. He panned his mind, hoping to uncover even the smallest nugget of gold. Lucy's words from last night surfaced in the current, and Elliott gleamed.

"Spite! All right, you brick of bolts. You are my arch-nemesis, and I will vanquish you, and nothing will stop me!"

The writer poised his fingers over the keys, and remained that way well into the day.

Harvey

The frozen food case whirred a toneless taunt in the face of Harvey's indecision. The doctor always bought the same mediocre microwave meals in his weekly shopping trip at Pierre's General Store, routine obscuring all thought in the matter. But this week, an uncommon craving for something new gnawed at the doctor.

He stared at a prepackaged convenience meal. What on Earth are Chicken Tikka Masala Lasagna Eggrolls?

Before he could choose between the eggrolls and the Sweet and Sour Mexican Pierogis, he heard her.

"Pierre, this arugula is beautiful."

Harvey leaned around the aisle and craned his neck to see Lucy holding a bouquet of greens, admiring the leaves.

"Grew it myself in a little greenhouse I have out back," Pierre replied. "It's hard to get quality produce shipped here in decent shape." He peered at Lucy over his tinted spectacles. "Hoping you'll solve that problem for me once you get the farm up and running."

Lucy gleamed. "It'll be a few weeks yet before I have anything to show for my work, but I'd be happy to revisit then."

Pierre glowered. "A few weeks? Not all of us have the time to wait around, farmer. I have a business to run."

Lucy's smile sharpened. "If you know a way beyond fertilizer to make crops grow faster than God intended, grocer, then by all means, share your wisdom."

Harvey's mustache twitched a small smirk.

Pierre narrowed his eyes, then pushed a mirthless chuckle. "You got me there. But I expect good things—it'd be in both our best interests for you to turn out a crop before summer. Any leg up I can get on your old Joja friend in town, the better."

Lucy ignored his remark. "I stopped in for some supplies to get started, then I have to hurry back. It'll go faster if you help me with my list. Time waits for no farmer. Or grocer, for that matter." Pierre snorted, and they walked off to tackle her shopping list.

Harvey faced the freezer case, his stomach knotting. Can I sneak out of here without running into her? Wine had tempered the stress of conversation last night, but in broad daylight and total sobriety, the doctor didn't think he had more in him. He winced remembering his droning on about the pilots. Ugh, she was probably bored to tears, and I just kept going.

Her voice jerked him out of his thoughts.

"Hey, Harvey!"

The doctor turned to see Lucy strolling up the aisle to meet him. She wore blue jeans and a red flannel shirt, and her hair was tied up in a wind-swept ponytail. Last night she'd looked a little tired, but today, her eyes were bright and her smile broad.

"Oh, hi there." Harvey returned her smile. "Uh, doing some shopping?" Of course she's shopping, you fool, why else would she be here?

Lucy waved a hand toward her cart. "I intended just a little, but I might've gone a tad…overboard." The basket was full to bursting with garden and hardware supplies. "Do you know if Pierre does delivery?"

"Uh…you know, I've never asked. I live next door, so I don't, uh, really have to worry about it." Shared a wall with the man for six years, and you don't know if he delivers?

"I envy that convenience right about now," Lucy said. "If he doesn't, then I may have to make a few trips. Oh well, it's a pretty day out, at least."

"Yeah, it, uh, it's a very nice day." Harvey's cheeks and ears burned from his lackluster remarks. In truth, he had hardly noticed the weather. After shopping, he intended to spend the day in his apartment like any other Saturday.

Lucy didn't seem to mind Harvey's clumsy conversation. Instead, she eyed the box in his hands. "Sweet and Sour Mexican Pierogis, hmm? A bold choice," she said.

Harvey had almost forgotten why he was at the store in the first place. "Oh, yeah, um, they also have something called Firecracker Chili Matzo Pizza Bombs if you're looking to, uh, dine dangerously." God help me, that was lame.

Lucy apparently disagreed; her laughter bubbled, soothing Harvey's shyness like a tonic. "Maybe one day I'll work up the courage to try those," she said, "but today is not that day."

Harvey grinned. "That's probably wise. As a doctor, I really can't, uh, endorse the consumption of anything in that freezer." He realized his own hypocrisy when he saw Lucy's eyebrow raise.

"I'll be sure to do as you say and not as you do, doctor," she teased.

Harvey's blush bloomed again. "Another wise choice on your part," he replied.

She giggled, then put a light hand on his arm. "I gotta get going, but hey, I'll see you around?"

"Oh yeah, of course! I, uh, hope you have a good day."

"Thanks, Harv—you too."

Lucy strode off with her cart, and the doctor exhaled. All right, that wasn't bad. He glanced down at his arm where she'd put her hand, then back to the freezer case. By the time he'd chosen his meals and walked to the register, Pierre was bagging Lucy's purchases.

"Pierre, I don't suppose you offer delivery?" Lucy asked. "My car's in the shop, something I should have thought about before I went on this little spree."

The shopkeeper scoffed. "I don't have the time to run deliveries all over the place. Whatever you can't take now, I'll just keep it behind the counter and you can come back for it later, as long as you're quick about it."

Harvey frowned. Give her a break, Pierre, she just bought out your whole gardening section. Probably the best customer you've had in weeks.

Lucy shrugged. "Then that's what I'll do—half now, and I'll be back for the other half in about an hour."

Pierre grumbled. "Can't do it sooner than that?"

Irritation flared in Harvey. Before he could think, he blurted, "No need for that, Pierre—Lucy, I'll help you with the bags."

Lucy lit up in momentary surprise, then she shook her head. "Oh, thank you, but I can't ask you to do that. I don't mind making the trips."

Harvey reddened. "Well, uh, you didn't ask, I offered. Plus, I could use the walk."

His chivalry was rewarded with Lucy's shimmering smile. And for Harvey, that was payment enough.

—

High clouds dappled the sunbeams, painting the red-soil lane in brushstrokes of golden light and blue shadow. The busy breeze clung stubbornly to winter, and fresh green leaves shivered in the early spring chill. When the sun spilled out from cracks in the clouds, a fleeting heat caressed earth and grass with coaxing fingers, teasing tiny, slumbering seeds and creatures with the promise of warmer days.

Harvey noticed none of this.

All of his focus was on his breathing. I've gotta get in better shape, this is ridiculous. Lucy had the rapid gait of cityfolk, a quality that Harvey's lungs and limbs had long forgotten after years in the country. In keeping her pace, laden with the heavier half of her shopping bags, the doctor was getting a workout like he hadn't had since…well, he couldn't quite remember when.

Thank heavens the farmer was chatty, shouldering the burden of the conversation for the winded doctor.

"Thanks so much again, Harvey, you're too kind. I can't tell you how much I appreciate you going out of your way."

"No trouble at all, honest," Harvey managed through his huffing.

"I have a list a mile long today, and another trip to Pierre's really would've thrown a wrench in the works. I've already set the goats to grazing, given the house a once-over, found all of Pop's old tools in the shed, and started cleaning out the barn for Bathsheba and Farmer Oak. Once the movers show up, I'll probably be unpacking the rest of the day, but hey, not bad progress so far! I'm actually a little ahead of where I thought I'd be." Her smile flashed at Harvey. "Thanks in part to you, Dr. Lambert."

Harvey blushed at her praise, but a small concern scratched at him. It's not even noon yet; she's going to wear herself out.

Before Harvey could reply, Lucy gasped. "Leeks!" She dropped her bags and trotted to a wild patch off the path.

Oh, thank God, Harvey thought. He laid his half of the bags beside hers and stretched his arms behind him. I'll be feeling this later. He glanced to Lucy kneeling in the weeds, and she beckoned him over with a wave. "I can't believe they're almost ready, we're still so early in the season! I'll have to come back in a week or so; these would make fantastic leek and potato soup."

Harvey had never worked up excitement over vegetables before, but Lucy's energy was contagious. "That sounds really good," he said. "You know, I have a patient who's mentioned liking leeks before—George Harriman. I'll have to let him know they're here."

Lucy beamed. "When they're ready, we'll bring some to old George." She stood and dusted herself off. "I can't wait until later in the season; it's still a little early for most foraging, but the bounty will be here before we know it."

The two reclaimed the shopping bags and set off again. Before long, they stood at the edge of Eureka Farm. "Home sweet home!"

Harvey gawked at the state of the place. He hadn't seen the farm since Walt's funeral; the old man kept the place organized and tidy, for the most part. But now, were it not for the house and the barn, Harvey would have assumed the land was pure wilderness, an overgrown extension of Cindersap Forest to the south.

She can't possibly clean this up all by herself, he thought. He looked down at the bags he still held. Pierre wouldn't have been so pushy with her if he'd seen what she's up against.

Harvey turned to see Lucy studying him. "Unrecognizable, isn't it?" She surveyed the feral field in front of them. "I was pretty shocked, too."

Harvey schooled his face. "You, uh…you really have your work cut out for you."

She chuckled. "True. But bigger dummies than me have done it, and for thousands of years, at that. They didn't have anything that I don't."

Lucy's plainspoken optimism surprised a laugh from the doctor. "You know, when you put it that way—"

A blunt blow from behind broke Harvey's words to bits.

—

The knock sent Harvey staggering, bashing straight into Lucy. She yelped and lost her balance; both she and doctor tumbled to the hard-packed ground in a heap. The grocery bags flew out of their hands, their contents sprawling.

Harvey groaned. "What the…" He lifted his head and realized he'd landed right on top of Lucy, pinning her on her back . Embarrassment eclipsed the pain of the collision, and he pushed himself off of her, sputtering apologies. "Oh no, oh my gosh, I'm sorry, are you okay, here, let me help, uh, I'm so sorry…" He knelt next to her and scanned her for injuries, his own forgotten in his mortification.

She cringed and propped herself up on her elbows. "I'm okay, I'm good, really…what on earth happened? Are you all right?"

Harvey managed to stand up and help Lucy to her feet, stammering. "I don't know, I mean, yes, I'm all right, but something hit me from behind, bowled me right over, I'm so sorry…" He was still looking Lucy over when he saw her spot something over his shoulder. A grin replaced her grimace.

"Harv, I think I've identified the culprit."

He turned to see a goat staring at him, its yellow eyes unapologetic. It chewed a mouthful of weeds with vacant indifference.

Lucy planted her hands on her hips. "Farmer Oak, you head-butted Dr. Lambert? We have a distinguished visitor who was kind enough to help me this morning, and this is the welcome he receives?"

If a goat could shrug, Farmer Oak would have.

"Harvey, I am so, so sorry, even if Farmer Oak isn't. He's been my goat for less than a day, and already he's bringing shame upon my house." She looked the doctor up and down. "Are you all right, really?"

Harvey's flush faded, and he laughed. "An excellent guard-goat you have there."

Relief softened Lucy's eyes, and she joined Harvey's laughter. When she dropped her hands from her hips, blood trailed across the hem of her shirt.

"Hold on, let me see your arm," he ordered. Lucy held out both arms and gasped when she saw the back of her left forearm scraped and bloodied from elbow to wrist.

"Oh my gosh, I…wow, I barely even felt that. It looks awful."

Harvey held her wrist and examined the wound. "It looks worse than it is, just some surface scratches. Still, we need to clean and bandage it. Walk back with me to the clinic, and I'll patch you right up."

Lucy frowned. "The movers are due any minute, I really should be here—I've got a first aid kit in the house. Will that work?"

Harvey nodded, and they headed inside. Lucy fished around in a packed suitcase and pulled out a sparkly tie-dye plastic case covered in faded stickers. Harvey raised an eyebrow.

"Don't judge me, Dr. Lambert, I've had this thing since Girl Scouts. I change out the contents every year, though, don't worry."

He took the case and snorted at the boy band stickers. Then he spotted an unusual one. "Is that Legolas?"

"Yes, it's Legolas, lay off, I was 12."

Harvey grinned and led her to the kitchen sink, where he rinsed the wound with water and a small bottle of saline from the kit. "So you were a Girl Scout? Me, too, actually. I mean, uh, I was in Boy Scouts."

He glanced up to meet Lucy's eyes, but her attention was on her arm. "You know," she said, "I feel like I could have guessed that about you." She turned her gaze to him. "Were you good at selling the popcorn and candy bars or whatever it was?"

Harvey patted her arm dry and started wrapping it in gauze. "Oh, no, I was terrible at it. The only reason I got the Salesmanship Merit Badge was with help from my father. He set up the popcorn tins at a table in his drugstore, and they sold themselves." Harvey's mustache curved over a small smile. I haven't thought about that in years.

"Dad to the rescue, I love it."

Harvey's cheeks warmed as he secured the gauze with a piece of medical tape. "All done."

Lucy examined his work. "Thank you, Dr. Lambert—mind sending the bill to Farmer Oak?"

Harvey chuckled. "First one's on the house, but tell the goat I'm not letting him off so easy next time."

"I can't apologize enough, I don't know what got into him. I hope he didn't hurt you."

Harvey could already feel an angry bruise blooming on his backside, but he didn't mention it. He stood a little straighter and grinned. "No, no harm done, it was more of a surprise than anything else. And you know, uh, kids will be kids."

That earned the doctor Lucy's lively laugh and her hand on his shoulder. His ears burned, but not unpleasantly so. "Come by the clinic any time Monday, and I'll change the bandage for you, check on your healing."

"Will do, thanks, Harv."

Truck breaks squealed outside. "Oh, that'll be the movers!" Harvey walked with Lucy to the porch. "Well, I'm sure you didn't expect to be victim to a goat attack when you agreed to come out here, but hey, at least you have a story to tell."

Harvey ruddled. "Oh, I'd, uh, I'd actually appreciate it if we didn't share that one—I have enough trouble getting patients to listen without a livestock assault tarnishing my reputation."

"I understand," said Lucy, amused. She held out her pinky for a swear. "What happens on the farm stays on the farm."

A relieved Harvey hooked his little finger with hers, sealing the secret. "Thanks, farmer."

Notes:

Chapter 2! I hope everyone enjoys. <3

Chapter 3

Summary:

Lucy spars with a snake.

Elliott sees a ghost.

Harvey considers upholstery.

Lucy

One down, thirty to go. Lucy perched her boot on the stump of the young tree she'd just chopped and leaned on her ax, almost completed winded. Might as well be a million. Heavens, I thought I was in better shape. She tried to recall the last time she'd done hard manual labor like this. Summer, senior year of high school. Has it really been fifteen years?

Bathsheba and Farmer Oak emerged from the surrounding grass like jungle predators and chomped on the fallen tree, gnawing the tender twigs and leaves with mechanical efficiency. "Thank you for your tireless efforts, Team Eureka." She patted both goats on the back.

Lucy took a breather to reassess her plan for the day. She would not be able to cut down half the trees like she'd originally thought; the quickening pain in her back and arms was evidence enough of that. She pressed on her bandaged forearm to feel the bruise blossoming underneath. Fingers crossed that won't get worse.

She smiled thinking of yesterday's antics with the awkward doctor. Poor man. He offers to help, and gets rammed in the rump as thanks. No good deed goes unpunished.

Lucy grabbed her project planner from under her water bottle nearby and flipped to today. Maybe five trees? Yeah, five I could do. She scribbled her amendment. Then I'll start outlining the gardens. Then lunch with Em at Gus's. Lucy glanced to the sun peeking over the bluffs to the east. The damp dawn was still and sharp with chill. The fragrant zest of chopped wood tangled with cool grass and moist earth to invigorate the air. Lucy inhaled deep and long. A better pick-me-up than coffee, hands-down.

She put her gloves back on, gripped the ax, and trudged off to the next tree.

—

It was nine o'clock when Lucy felled her final foe for the day. She could feel blisters burgeoning on her hands in spite of her gloves, and the sting awoke nostalgia in the back of her mind. She knew from experience that she was two weeks away from calluses, and she'd have to play through the pain until then. She crossed off "5 Trees" in her planner, then marched to her next task.

With a mallet, stakes, and twine in hand, Lucy marked the perimeter for the first of six gardens. She was attempting an ancient gardening technique that she'd researched for the past few years; if she could successfully raise a half dozen beds, she would expand from there. She hammered the stakes in a twenty-foot circle, then tied the twine between them. Lucy consulted a rough diagram she'd drawn in one of her notebooks. Twenty feet looks smaller than I'd imagined. Maybe I should scale up—

A holler from the other end of the field interrupted her thoughts. "Hello there, farmer!"

Lucy squinted through the sunlight. Oh, for heaven's sake, it's the mayor. She looked down at her t-shirt and jeans, mucky from the morning's exertions. She would've preferred to be clean, at the very least, when she reacquainted herself with Pelican Town's sole elected official. But that couldn't be helped now.

She waded through the tall grass to greet him. "What a pleasant surprise! Welcome back to Eureka Farm, Mayor Lewis." Mayor Lewis Martin was stocky and fit for a man of his age. Lucy guessed that the mayor was in his sixties, but since he looked the same now as he did the first time she met him in her teens, she couldn't be sure. His neat gray hair was tucked under a flat cap, and his handlebar mustache was well-combed. He dressed brightly in a shamrock green shirt, a yellow tie, and red suspenders.

"It's been quite a while, quite a while," said Lewis, going in for a handshake. "Thought I'd drop in to see how your first day went."

Lucy met his hand. "Well, I'm honored you did. As you can see, there's a lot to do before I can plant, but the goats and I are making good headway."

Lewis nodded and surveyed the land. "I gotta say, I was pleased to hear Walt's granddaughter was taking over the place. I remember what a tough little farmhand you were," he chuckled. "Walt always bragged about you, you know; said you had more grit than sandpaper."

Lucy's cheeks warmed. "I hope I do him proud." She shook off the emotion before it overtook her. "I'm still working on clearing the land. The goats have enough of the grass and weeds cut back so I can start plotting the beds. That's what I was working on before you got here."

"You don't say? Show me what you got so far." Lucy lead the way to the the first garden she'd mapped. Mayor Lewis cocked an eyebrow. "Round beds?"

Lucy grinned. "Round beds! It's an old permaculture technique called keyhole gardening." She stepped into the middle of the circle. "Right here will go a chicken-wire compost bin, and the surrounding soil and plants will pull nutrients from it. That means a greater yield and higher-quality produce." She pointed to the outside of the circle. "I'll grow companion plants like marigolds and basil around the garden to repel pests while attracting pollinators. Plus, the beds are raised, so that will deter rabbits and moles from the feast." Lucy turned back to the mayor. "It's much more effort up front than just tilling rows, but if the beds work, they'll be reusable forever. Well, reusable for as long as Eureka Farm's running, anyway."

Lewis stared at the plot, arms crossed, rocking back and forth on his heels. "Well, it's mighty…unconventional." He cleared his throat. "Call me old-fashioned, but I really liked seeing the rows and rows of crops like Walt used to grow; you sure you're married to this whole, uh, peephole garden thing?"

Lucy smirked. "Firstly, this is a keyhole garden, not a peephole garden. I don't want to know what a peephole garden is," she said. "Secondly, this is far from unconventional—this method has been used for hundreds of years. The rows you're talking about didn't become popular until World War II. I've got a book on it; I'll loan it to you. It's fascinating."

The Mayor stroked his mustache. "Sure, sure, yeah, I'll take the book. Though if rows were good enough for FDR, I don't know why they're not good enough for you." That tickled Lucy. I gotta write that line down.

Lewis shuffled one foot in the dirt. "I gotta bring up another matter: Pierre came to me. He's worried about…well, the words he used were 'concerned about the timeline of the farmer's harvest.' He said you'd told him it'd be a few weeks before you could plant?"

Of course. I should have known that Pierre wouldn't let me be. "Yes, sir, I told Pierre that I had a lot of work ahead of me, and it could be a few weeks before I have anything to harvest and sell to him. Now that you've seen the state of the place, you can understand how much I have to do before I can start planting."

Lewis nodded. "I get what you're saying there, farmer, I really do, but you need to be thinking about the community. Pierre's got some stiff competition there with JojaMart, and the more help he can get, the better. Plus, the town needs the revenue. Sales tax. You know." He lowered his voice, dripping with condescension. "Now, can't your little new-age hippie gardens take a backseat for a while? Just get some seeds in the ground, help out a neighbor; it's what Walt would have done."

Ice froze over Lucy's voice and countenance. Enough. I'm nipping this in the bud.

"Mayor Lewis, I am not responsible for Pierre Fontaine's success, nor do I have any part in his failure. Pierre hounded my grandfather for years about his productivity, to the point where Pop ended their business relationship all together, as I'm sure you recall." Lewis flinched. Lucy ignored it. "I am not interested in continuing that feud, but I won't compromise my long-term goals to satisfy Pierre's desire for short-term gains."

Lewis's mouth tightened under his mustache. "Of course I remember the…difficulty between Walt and Pierre very well, but you—"

"I patronized the General Store yesterday. Quite generously, in fact. Something I imagine Pierre failed to mention to you. And I will continue to shop there; I have absolutely no intention of stepping foot in another JojaMart ever again. When my crop is ready, I will be more than happy to negotiate a contract with Pierre. But I have spent years—years—planning the cultivation of this property, as much for Pop's memory as for myself. And I will not alter those plans on the whim of Pierre or anyone else."

Lewis was dumbstruck. Oh, this did not go how he expected it to, Lucy thought. She wanted to tie this up on a positive note, and flattery was not beneath her. She thawed her voice.

"It's clear that you want what's best for everyone in the community, sir, and that's what makes you an excellent mayor. It's no wonder you've won every election for the past twenty years." She smiled, omitting the fact that Lewis always ran unopposed. "You were a good friend to Pop, too, and that's something I'll never forget. I'm working my hardest to turn this farm into an asset for Stardew Valley, and I appreciate you being generous with your patience and wisdom. It means so much to have your support."

Lewis looked her up and down, then clapped a hand on her shoulder. "I just want to make sure you make the most of this opportunity. Apologies if I came off a little strong there, farmer. As for Pierre…well, you know he can be a little pushy sometimes. He just wants the same success we all do."

Good, it landed. Now to get him out of here.

"Absolutely, and no worries at all, Mayor Lewis. We all have good intentions here." She waved her arm to the field. "I hate to cut our conversation short, sir, but I still have a mountain of work ahead of me, and I need to make hay while the sun shines."

The mayor guffawed. "Of course, of course, I don't want to stand in the way of progress. I'll be keeping tabs on you, and you just knock on my door if you need me."

She flashed a sparkling smile. "I can't thank you enough, Mayor." Laying it on a little thick, but I doubt he'll notice.

He didn't. Lewis grinned and strode away, leaving Lucy tense and distracted. Ache settled in her arms and legs. She decided to postpone marking the other gardens. I'll go clean up and take a walk in town. I can kill some time before meeting Emily. Her encounters with Pierre and the mayor played over and over in her mind. If they only knew.

—

Of Pelican Town's denizens, only Emily knew the lengths Lucy had gone to in securing this chance at living a life she could be proud of. Fighting a years-long battle with her relatives in probate court was just the tip of the iceberg; her parents and younger brothers defended the validity of Pop's written bequest, but the list of her familial allies stopped there. Outside of the estate filings and hearings and discovery and depositions, Lucy toiled upwards of sixty hours a week for JojaCorp in a job that knotted her chest with shame.

But the salary had been good. Too good to pass up. And the bonuses. All means to her end. She lived like a pauper in ZuZu City, not from lack of means, but because she was planning her escape. In pinching every penny, Lucy had amassed a small fortune. That by itself didn't guarantee the farm's success, but it certainly bought her ample time to turn the place around.

Pierre and Lewis unwittingly struck a nerve with Lucy; like Joja, they want things done fast, and they want it done yesterday. To hell with building something with a solid foundation, something that could last, something that could feed people for a lifetime and not just a season. The grocer and the mayor couldn't see beyond the ends of their noses. If they could only be patient, Lucy thought, then they would see I know what I'm doing.

Bathsheba plodded from behind some brush and nuzzled Lucy's hand with her velvet nose. "Oh, Sheba. People are the same everywhere. Especially the men." She rubbed Bathsheba's ears and watched Farmer Oak fruitlessly headbutting a rock in the distance. "You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

Elliott

Elliott slouched at his writing desk, hitting his forehead against a composition notebook. He couldn't face the typewriter after it humiliated him yesterday, so he sought comfort and inspiration in his old ideas book. The book delivered neither.

He moved to the piano. Perhaps music will coax the muse from her hideaway. His fingers danced across the keys, but the melody rang untrue, a product of muscle memory rather than passion. He abandoned the piece after a moment and slammed the fallboard over the keys.

The room felt cramped, the walls too close, suffocating. A walk, then, Elliott decided. Who can think in here, let alone breathe? Fresh air, that's the answer.

—

Fresh air was not the answer. Elliott lounged on a bench near the abandoned community center, one leg crossed over the other, tapping his pen against his shoe. No words came.

His eyes roamed the dilapidated building, hoping to catch the glint of a ghost in the broken window panes. Elliott never knew the place in its prime, nor did he wish to; he had a macabre fascination with the center's rotting columns, cracked clock, and peeling paint, all strangled in nooses of vines and weeds.

It simply must be haunted. I'm certain of it. Elliott hadn't considered writing horror, but sitting in the shadow of the spectral building, a flicker of inspiration danced in his imagination's periphery. I could write this century's House of the Seven Gables—

A pale figure glided past one of the windows. Elliott froze. Was that…no, it couldn't be. The writer time and again indulged fantasies of the uncanny, but to glimpse it only feet from where he sat was another matter entirely. He crept to the window and peered inside. Oh. He smiled. It's the farmer.

He watched as Lucy tiptoed across the floor, testing each floorboard before taking a step. She wore a white cotton dress that fell below her knees, her arms kept warm with a misty blue knit sweater. She gazed around the room, then pulled something from her bag—a notebook. She scrawled, then looked to the rafters with searching eyes. She certainly looks the part, thought Elliott. The curious maiden seeking secrets in a gothic tale.

Both Lucy and Elliott startled when the heavy wooden front door creaked open. Elliott couldn't see who entered, but he caught the revulsion on Lucy's face before she conquered her expression with a plastered smile.

"I was wondering when I would run into you," said an oily voice.

"If it isn't Leonard Morris," Lucy replied. Her smile didn't waver. "Small world."

Morris stepped into Elliott's view. The stout middle-aged man wore a black suit with a red bow tie. His inky over-coiffed hair shone like shoe polish. He resembles a ventriloquist dummy, thought Elliott.

Morris's white teeth glistened. "Aren't you the adventurous one, exploring this old ruin. What are you hoping to find?"

"I'm not seeking as much as sightseeing. Now that Joja no longer commands my clock, I finally have the time." She eyed Morris. "And what brings you here?"

Morris attempted a casual air. "Oh, I'm just surveying my next purchase—if all goes according to plan, Joja will own this building and the land around it by this time next year."

Lucy's brows quirked. "Ambitious. I must say, you have me intrigued; I imagine corporate was reluctant to gamble on Pelican Town to begin with. You could hardly call the place a honeypot. How will you get approval for another land purchase?"

Elliott was enthralled. This Lucy was not at all like the warm, charming woman he'd met two nights before. Her voice was cool, her words measured, her gaze keen. She rejected my shark allegation, he thought, but she was wrong about the piranha bit, too. She's more like a fox.

Morris chuckled. "It's an uphill battle, no mistake. I've been in negotiations with Mayor Lewis about this property. So far, he hasn't budged." He sighed. "He was much more amenable during our last land deal; I'm beginning to suspect he may be sentimental about this dusty shack."

Lucy maintained her smile, but her eyes sharpened. "Oh, the mayor has been selling property to Joja? I didn't realize he was a real estate mogul in the area."

Morris threw back his head and cackled. "Hardly, Miss Ballinger, hardly. The parcel where JojaMart sits was public land, and as the sole governing body in Pelican Town, the mayor has the authority to do with it as he pleases. So he sold it to me." He leaned toward Lucy. "And you'll never believe what I got it for."

She smirked. "Go ahead. Astonish me."

"Twenty-five percent below fair market."

Lucy stilled. Her voice lowered, and Elliott strained to hear her. "Morris, you can't expect me to believe that. That's unheard of—how did you even pitch that to Mayor Lewis?"

"Oh, so easy. The man simply didn't know what he had; ignorance did all the heavy lifting for me. And you should know better than anyone how these bumpkins react when you flash that Joja cash." Elliott's chest flared at the insult. Bumpkins! Better than being an avaricious old adder.

"And that's not all," continued Morris. "I'm expecting a similar, if not better deal whenever the General Store fails. Pierre Fontaine simply can't compete. And he'll have a dreadful time trying to sell that storefront—who would buy a commercial duplex with a ramshackle clinic renting half of the space?" He chuckled. "He'll give it to me for a song."

Lucy's fist clenched by her side, the only indication of her dismay. She maintained her smile. "Goodness, Morris, you're…venturesome. Aren't you concerned about the customer base here? It's meager, at best, and a land grab doesn't change that."

He moved closer to her, glinting conspiratorially. "You're talented, Miss Ballinger, no mistake. But your perennial failing is a lack of ingenuity." His lips curled. "I've got plans for this backwater that will elevate Joja to a new era of profitability. Not just my store, but the whole company." Hunger rumbled in his voice. "I predict that once you see what I have in the works, you'll be clawing to get back in. And I hope you know that I'd be thrilled to have you on my team." Morris ran his gaze over Lucy. "I've seen your…performances. You could sell a kaleidoscope to a blind man." Morris laughed heartily at his own ugly joke. "A useful gift. An enviable one, too, for that matter. You're wasted on that dusty little hobby farm of yours."

Lucy changed neither her stance nor her expression. But Elliott saw her blanch. "You're a tease, Morris—go on, tell me your grand scheme."

Morris checked his watch. "I'm afraid I don't have the ample free time that you do; I must get back to JojaMart. But I'll find you again soon. We can chat more then." He simpered. "I can't tell you how pleased I am to have a fellow Joja colleague in town, even if you are a defector." He held out his hand to her. "Old time's sake?"

Lucy hesitated, then took Morris's hand. Elliott expected a conventional handshake; instead, he watched a bizarre series of claps, snaps, and finger wriggles. He stifled a laugh. What in heaven's name was that?

"I'm glad you remember the secret handshake—we can leave Joja, but Joja never leaves us," Morris sneered. "I do hope you enjoy the rest of your exploring, Miss Ballinger."

"Good day, Morris," Lucy replied.

Elliott watched Morris slither away. Delight coursed through him. I can't remember the last time I saw a show so good, he thought. Perhaps corporate drama is the way to go—would anyone read it?

As soon as the door closed, Lucy inhaled a sharp gasp. Elliott observed as she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. Guilt at his voyeurism gripped him when he glimpsed the glimmer of tears in her eyes. His chest tightened when she clapped a hand over her mouth to smother a sob. He turned and slipped away from the window, careful to keep from being seen.

He jumped at a crash and a cry.

—

Elliott dashed back to the window. Lucy was sprawled on the community center floor, her leg caught up to her knee in a broken floorboard. He bolted around the corner to the front door and yanked it open. "Lucy!" he panted. "Are you all right?"

Surprise and relief flooded her tear-stained face. "Oh, Elliott, thank God! Yeah, I'm okay, I'm just trying to, uh, assess the damage." She swiped her cheeks with her sweater sleeve. Elliott stepped through the door slowly, testing each floorboard with a foot tap, mimicking Lucy's pattern from earlier. "Please be careful; this place is in worse shape than I thought."

Elliott glanced up from the floor and grinned. "Clearly."

Lucy rolled her eyes, but managed a smile. "I'll let that slide, only because I'm so grateful you're here." She paused. "Wait, why are you here, anyway?"

"Oh, well, I was…in the area, and I heard the commotion." Elliott did not look up from his path. "I have a fascination with decrepit architecture." You should have confessed your eavesdropping, you knave, he chastised himself.

Elliott finally reached her and knelt. Lucy attempted to slide the broken debris out of the hole where her leg was caught, but couldn't maneuver the pieces from her angle.

"Allow me," said Elliott. He pulled out the wood fragments and tossed them to the side. "You shouldn't be in here, but I can't say I blame you. I haven't the strength to resist the allure of a crumbling manor, myself."

"Yes, but you were wise enough to avoid its siren song."

Elliott chuckled as he removed the last shard. "I'm going to guide your leg free now—hold yourself steady." He placed his hands around her knee and gently lifted her out of the hole. His stomach lurched when he saw the deep gash along the length of her calf. "Goodness, we need to get you to the clinic."

Lucy examined the wound and sighed. "Yeah, that'll need stitches."

Elliott smirked. "You're being awfully casual about so much blood, farmer."

"Please, this is only the second worst thing to happen to me today." She dug through her bag and pulled out a green scarf. "I don't have any bandages, so this will have to do." She wrapped her calf tightly and secured the scarf with a tidy knot.

"Fine work there," said Elliott. "Sawbones will be impressed." He stood and offered Lucy his hand. "Careful, now." He pulled Lucy to her feet, but her ankle gave way and she stumbled. Elliott caught her.

Lucy winced. "Can't catch a break, El—I think I twisted my ankle."

Elliott tsked and shook his head. "You've landed yourself in quite a predicament here, farmer." He shrugged. "The ruin's claim on you is too strong. I have little choice but to leave you here with the poltergeists."

Lucy nodded somberly. "I understand, and I respect your decision. I only ask that you remember me fondly. Let my hubris be a warning to others."

Elliott laughed. "On further rumination, you're too entertaining to leave behind. All right, put your arm around my neck."

Lucy complied, and Elliott placed one hand on her back, the other behind her knees. He picked her up gently, minding her injuries. "Next stop: Sawbones!" He carried her out of the building and into the sunlight.

"I can't thank you enough, Elliott," Lucy said. "I'm sure I could assimilate to poltergeist culture, but who would feed my goats?"

"No thank you is necessary, dear girl," Elliott puffed. "The opportunities to play knight to a damsel in distress are few and far between—I'll be dining out on this story for an age."

Harvey

Sunday morning was going off without a hitch. Harvey finished this week's laundry early. He wisely stopped at three cups of coffee before the jitters set in. And he only lacked two more propellors to complete his latest model airplane. Goodness knows he needed a normal day to recharge for the upcoming week. The last couple of days had too many detours from his established routine, all thanks to the new farmer. Just two encounters with her had left Harvey embarrassed, bruised, and breathless.

He sat down gingerly at his small kitchen table; yesterday's goat assault had left quite a bruise on his backside that burgeoned overnight. Harvey flushed remembering his collision with Lucy. She was sweet and kind about it afterwards, and that made it even worse, somehow. He pictured her gray-green eyes shining, the blush in her cheeks, the amusement in her rosy lips. He cringed. She probably thinks I'm a buffoon.

He shook off his thoughts and surveyed the table. All of his crafting tools were arranged in neat rows in front of him: fine-tipped paintbrushes, tiny bottles of paint, a jar of thinner, wipes. Two miniature propellors laid side-by-side on a clean white cloth, waiting for Harvey's skilled brush to color them to life. A warm breeze wafted through his apartment windows, Dave Brubeck's jazz piano lilted from the stereo, and stress unwound itself from the doctor's shoulders.

Harvey adjusted his magnifying craft goggles. Picking up one of the propellors with a pair of delicate tweezers, he examined the details, then dipped his brush into one of the jars of paint. The tip of his brush almost touched the propellor when his cell phone rang.

He sighed, carefully putting down his craft materials and checking the phone. He answered.

"Hey, sis, what's up?"

His ear was met with a cacophony—his younger sister, Liz, only ever called him while multi-tasking.

"Harvey! Not much, I'm just fighting off two rabid gremlins who won't let me finish these dishes in peace. Kids, simmer down, I have Uncle Harvey on the phone!"

Harvey's niece and nephew squealed. "Uncle Harvey, Uncle Harvey! Come see us! Do the airplane rides!"

Harvey grinned. "Tell the gremlins I'll visit soon."

"Mabel, Arthur, Uncle Harvey says he won't come visit until you're quiet and listen to your mother!" He heard the children's yelling fade as they ran into another room.

Harvey laughed. "Do the threats work?"

Liz sighed. "Almost never. Anyway, hey, have you talked to dad?" Harvey hadn't, not for a few weeks. "Oh, well, you need to call him. He's been gloomier than usual—mom's anniversary is coming up. And of course it all falls on you and me—Mike has a new girlfriend, so he's useless, and Ruthie is a major downer."

Harvey rolled his eyes. His second-youngest sibling, Mike, could only be located during the void between love interests, and Ruth, the baby of the family, was a professional mourner of the human experience. "And why's Ruth a downer this week?"

Liz sighed. "Oh, you know. She's discovered some new ancestral atrocity that somehow we're complicit in, and we're all monsters for not being devastated enough."

Harvey chuckled. "Sounds about right. And yes, I'll call dad, don't worry."

Liz scoffed. "Man, all I do is worry, I don't know how else to function. Anyway, thanks, Harvey, I'll let you go."

"Bye, Liz."

Harvey ended the call. He knew he should call his father that moment while it was fresh on his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to. I'll ring him up tomorrow.

Harvey refocused on the task at hand: propellers. He readjusted his goggles, picked up one propeller and paintbrush, and carefully steadied his hand for the first stroke.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. A thundering knock at the clinic door downstairs startled the doctor, nearly causing catastrophic contact between brush and plastic.

"Oh, for crying out loud, what now?" he grumbled. He shuffled to the front window to identify the disturber of his peace. Below he saw Elliott carrying Lucy, kicking the door in lieu of knocking.

"Saaaawboooooones!" Elliott bellowed. "Open up, I come bearing a patient!"

—

Anxiety fueled Harvey's feet as he flew down the stairs and flung open the door. Elliott grinned broadly, while Lucy wore a smile more sheepish, blush burning bright on her face. "We regret troubling you on a weekend, Sawbones, but it couldn't be helped. Our farmer fell victim—quite literally fell victim—to the old community center's call to adventure."

Harvey scanned Lucy and saw blood soaking through a makeshift bandage on her calf. "Come in, come in, uh, Elliott, take her to the first room on the left." Once inside, the doctor scrubbed his hands in the corner sink while issuing orders. "Elliott, get Lucy settled on the exam table there—careful, please. Lucy, are you all right? Tell me what happened."

"I'm okay, really. I was in the community center, and I fell through a rotten floorboard. Cut the leg, maybe on a piece of wood or a nail or something? Also may have twisted my ankle. Thank heavens Elliott was there."

Elliott flashed a dashing smile and bowed theatrically. "All in a day's work, farmer. And really, I should be the grateful one—rare is the chance for a scribe to be the hero."

Harvey dried off his hands and moved to the exam table, nudging Elliott out of the way. "Yes, yes, thank you, Lancelot." Lucy covered her mouth, stifling a giggle. Harvey pulled up a rolling stool and took a seat. "Okay, let's see what we have here." He noticed her dress covered part of the bandage. "Do you mind, um, pulling your skirt up a little so I can, uh, get a better look at your leg?" Unexpected heat bloomed in the doctor's face as Lucy folded up the hem of her dress, exposing her calf, knee, and a narrow swath of her thigh.

The bandage was neat and the knot well-tied. Harvey was impressed. "Not bad work in a pinch. That's a good knot."

Lucy smirked. "Well, that First Aid Merit Badge didn't earn itself, thank you very much."

Harvey chuckled, then loosened the knot and unwrapped the scarf from Lucy's calf. The cut underneath was jagged and deep. Blood wept slowly from the wound, and splinters pricked the lacerated skin.

A greenish pallor tinged Elliott. "And that's the cue to take my leave—my apologies, dear girl, but I'm afraid I do not have the constitution to bear witness to Sawbones's…stitchery." He was out the door before either Harvey or Lucy could reply.

Lucy laughed. "Even Lancelot has his limits."

Harvey nodded. "To be fair, this is a nasty wound—you'll need sutures. I'm going to numb it before I start." He put on some gloves and prepared the syringe. "You're a tough one, I've gathered that much."

"Oh, no, you give me too much credit—there were definitely tears earlier."

Harvey's voice softened. "I don't blame you. All right, hold still, you'll feel some pinches." The doctor injected lidocaine around the edges of the laceration. "There. Now we'll give it a few minutes to numb the area." He rose from his stool and strode to the cabinets to gather his tools.

A short silence settled before Lucy broke it, inhaling a tense breath. "Harvey, I'm so sorry to be doing this to you; I'm sure you were not planning on patching up the same patient twice in twenty-four hours." She winced. "And on the weekend, no less."

Harvey turned back to her, arms laden with medical supplies. Lucy was inspecting her hands, running her thumb over fresh blisters on her palms. Worry knit her brows, and her eyes were care-worn, red-rimmed. Concern swelled in Harvey. Why on earth is she apologizing to me? She didn't do anything wrong. He sat down on the stool by her and laid out the tools on a side table.

"Oh, no, please, don't be sorry, accidents happen. And, uh, this is my job, you know—the Hippocratic Oath doesn't just apply to weekdays." He picked up a pair of tweezers. "Besides, yesterday's…ordeal was hardly your fault." He shrugged. "If anyone owes me an apology, it's Farmer Oak."

Lucy raised her gaze to Harvey and laughed. "Thank you, Dr. Lambert, I needed a little levity today." Harvey's mustache curved over a grin. Maybe laughter is the best medicine. He lingered on her. Lucy's eyes were a little brighter, and the flush in her cheeks warm and healthy. Her smile shone, but was fragile; the worry was still there, underneath. But its edges seemed softer.

The beat was too long. Lucy tilted an eyebrow, trailing her glance down to her leg then back up to Harvey. The doctor realized he was staring and broke the eye contact; heat flamed down his ears and into his face. "All right, well, um, let's, uh, let's go ahead and get started."

He plucked the splinters from the wound, then rinsed it with saline and iodine. Once he was certain it was clean, he threaded his surgical needle and began suturing. He could see Lucy watching fascinated in his periphery. "You know," he said, his attention still on his work, "most patients don't, uh, don't enjoy seeing themselves get, um, sewn back together."

"Oh, I'm sorry, do you prefer not to have an audience? I'm a little bit morbid, to be honest—if there's a gruesome sight to be seen, I gotta see it."

Harvey's face still burned. "No, no, I don't, uh, I don't mind at all. Enjoy the show."

Lucy giggled at that. "Thanks, Harv. Plus, I can't resist good workmanship; it's a treat to see someone who's a master of his craft."

Harvey snorted, but his chest warmed at the compliment. "Oh, I don't know about 'master of the craft,' but I, uh, I do know my way around a needle and thread."

A companionable silence settled before Lucy spoke again. "So…how long have you been in Stardew Valley?"

Her question didn't interrupt Harvey's steady hands. "A little over six years now. I was in ZuZu City before that, working at ZuZu Memorial Hospital."

"Quite a different pace, huh?"

"I'll say. The slowness here was an adjustment, for sure, but now I can't imagine any other way. I like being able to decide the hours, and, uh, stick to a routine. When you work at a hospital, the hospital is all there is."

Lucy sighed. "I know the feeling." She watched Harvey for a moment, pondering. "Hey, did you happen to meet Dr. Warner before you took over the clinic?"

Harvey nodded. "He helped me set up here, introduced me to everyone in town. He only stuck around for two weeks or so after I started. The man was ready to retire, I think."

"I should say so, after running this place for fifty years. Gosh, maybe even longer. He and Pop were good friends. I should have known him better—I spent enough time in this clinic, what with my lifelong pursuit of injury."

"Hmm, well, it's my professional recommendation that you give up that pursuit," said Harvey.

"I'll do my best, doctor." Lucy studied Harvey. "You know, you remind me a little of Dr. Warner. You don't look like him, but…your manner is similar." When his eyebrows raised at her, she continued. "It's a compliment; everyone around here loved the old doctor." Lucy's twinkling smile was enough to convince Harvey that she was right.

He tugged the last of the sutures. "Well, I'm glad to, uh, carry on his legacy. Even if I was doing it unintentionally." He tied off the thread. "And there we are—all sewed up."

Lucy admired the stitches. "Beautiful work. Do you do upholstery, by any chance?"

A barking laugh burst from Harvey. "Maybe I should—less blood, no insurance companies to deal with. Could be a good thing." He wrapped Lucy's leg in gauze. "All right, let's take a look at that ankle."

He removed her shoe and turned her foot in circles, then pressed the area gently. "Any pain?"

"It's a little sore, but not bad."

"Mmm-hmm, all right, I'm going to put a compression sleeve on it; treat it kindly for a few days, and don't push yourself." He held out a hand. "Now, let me see those blisters." Lucy placed her palm face-up in his. Harvey examined her hand closely, cradling it while running a light touch over her fingers. "I'm going to bandage these too, but leave them alone, otherwise. They'll heal on their own. I'll go ahead and change the gauze on your arm, too, while I have you."

After a few minutes, Harvey's work was done. Lucy looked down at herself and chuckled. "Dr. Lambert, you've got me looking like a mummy." The doctor inspected her and reddened. Maybe I did go a bit overboard. Her right leg was wrapped from her toes up past her knee. He'd bandaged her hands until they were immobilized, and had to redo them after she remarked that she would need the use of her fingers. Gauze almost completely obscured her left arm.

"Well, you, uh, you only have to wear them until you're healed. I've got you on the books for an appointment on Friday—we'll check your progress then." His brow furrowed. "Also, I'd prefer if you took it easy on that ankle; why don't you let me drive you home?"

Lucy glanced at the clock on the exam room wall. "Thank you, Harvey—I'll take you up on that. But instead of home, can you drop me off at the Stardrop? As of eight minutes ago, I'm late for lunch with Emily."

The two walked to the car lot behind the clinic, where Harvey's compact SUV sat cold and still, covered in a layer of dust, leaves, and fallen spring petals. Lucy eyed the ride. "Looks like she's in dire need of an outing."

Harvey shrugged. "Pelican Town is small enough to walk everywhere. I, uh, hardly use the car anymore." He stepped ahead and opened the door for her, darting a quick glance inside the vehicle. Oh, good, it's clean. Fingers crossed it starts.

It started, rumbling to life with a growl. Jazz tumbled from the speakers. "Hey!" said Harvey. "I thought I'd lost this album! Forgot I left it in here."

"Oh," said Lucy. "That's the best feeling—finally finding the thing you gave up looking for ages ago." Harvey's face heated at her words, but he couldn't say why.

Notes:

Long-time reader, first time writer. I've never written any kind of narrative before, so I thought I'd get my feet wet with fanfic. Encouragement and critique both are welcome.

Though this takes place in "the real world" rather than the Stardew Valley universe, I tried to stay true to Stardew Valley's characters, augmenting rather than changing their in-game personalities. There are references to real world culture and places, but more "timeless" ones--I want the allusions, but I don't want to take the reader out of the story.

I have a plan for the story, but no plan for how long it will take to unfold. The characters are already acting against my wishes in my mind, which is exactly what I want.

Thank you to anyone who took the time to read my work. It means so much.