Colin Harrison - The Havana Room

"I'd say three hundred dollars an acre."

"And what is it now out here?"

"With the vineyards coming in, maybe fifty thousand."

Jay had been screwed, I realized. I pointed up at a local map. "And the future?"

"Easy," she sighed. "Million-dollar homes on the water. Million-dollar homes off the water. Vineyards owned by rich people. Wineries owned by even richer people. All the big farms will go to grapes. The fix is in on that, see, because of the water-use problems. Vineyards are low-impact agriculture. Low water use, low pesticide use. Government loves that. Lot of these grape growers are environmentalists, too." She put her spoon in her teacup. "Amazing it took the world so long to find us."

I liked old Martha Hallock. "Want to give me the whole pitch?"

"What else is there to say? Eighty-two beaches mixed with vineyards. Napa Valley doesn't have that. And quaint New England capes and farmhouses? And the longest growing season at this latitude? And two hours from New York City? For years it was the Hamptons. No more. They ruined it and this is still here. And we've got strict land-use zoning."

"People in your business must feel pretty good."

"If I were thirty years younger, I'd be selling fifty houses a year myself, easy. I'd be selling cabbages to kings. But I'm too old, Mr. Wyeth. People are scared of old people. Think death is catching, I guess. Maybe it is. I sold my last house three years ago and that was my neighbor's. Doesn't count. Got old. No one to blame but myself, I suppose. I own half this business but I don't bring anything in anymore. They'll get rid of me any day now. Waiting for me to die, mostly. Put me in the wheel-barrow in the shed."

I didn't believe this. She still had a lot of moxie for an eighty-three-year-old. "How long can you hold out?"

"Me? Maybe a minute or two."

"Pamela want to buy you out?"

"She wants to live me out."

"What'll you do?"

"Well, I still have an ace in the hole, as my father used to say."

"Which is?"

"I know the territory." She saw me nodding dutifully. "No, no, I really do. I went out with my father and the surveyors. A lot of things don't turn up on regular surveys, you know. I know the creeks and flood lines. I remembered what happened in 1957, that big flood. I remember what the lot lines used to be." She tapped her head. "That's still worth something, Mr. Wyeth. Less and less every day, but still something."

"And I bet you can talk to the old farm widows."

"Yes, I can. They know me, they trust me. Not these little hussies in their convertibles. Half the girls out there are friendly with the developers and contractors. You know, friendly. Long lunches, who knows where! Come back to the office looking like they went through the bush backwards. Pamela hires her own type." She shrugged to herself. "Which is smart, actually. Easier to control."

"Do you have any children, Martha?"

She lifted her face to me and I knew that I had stabbed her with the question. "I made a lot of mistakes, Mr. Wyeth. Most of them involved men's shoes."

"Excuse me?"

"Men's shoes. I saw a lot of empty ones on my rug the next morning, if you know what I mean." Her eyes twinkled devilishly. "I know that seems preposterous, looking at me now."

"I'm sure-"

"No, no, I'm an old bag. Anyway, when it came time to settle down- well, it's my great regret. On the other hand, I don't burden anyone." She examined her tea. I had little doubt that every word she'd told me was true, yet said with absolute calculation, too. The lonely old woman act. I didn't quite buy it, either. Subtract thirty years from her, and you'd have a very formidable fifty-three-year-old businesswoman- a negotiator, tough, precise, perceptive. So the woman I was looking at was that woman, plus thirty more years' experience.

"Now then," she said. "What can I do for you?"

"What do you know about the Rainey farm?"

"Fine piece. Eighty-something acres. North road frontage, some elevation to the west, very few low areas. Probably could use some regrading in spots. The bluff is not perfectly stable- they've lost a good fifty feet over the last hundred years, probably needs some kind of stabilization. Potatoes for the first part of the twentieth century. Had the blight in '66 and switched to cabbages and flowers, switched crops a few times. Nursery trees for a while, then something else. Russell Rainey was a lovely man. I knew him well. It's a very fine piece of land."

"Was Russell Rainey the father of Jay Rainey?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No, no. Grandfather."

"Where's the father?"

"Somewhere very, very hot," she clucked. "I hope."

"Did you sell the land for Jay Rainey?"

She looked at me. "It was a private sale."

"But didn't you have some kind of contact with the buyer, a Mr. Marceno?" I pressed.

"I'm an old woman, Mr. Wyeth. I fall asleep in my chair. I have one eye that's weak, my feet cramp up at night, and I take a lot of heart pills. It's frankly hard to remember what I've done one day to the next." She stirred her tea. "And you know, even though I'm just a country girl who learned to sell a bit of land here and there, I've met a lot of people in my time. I've met businessmen and movie stars and two senators and three governors and buckets of congressmen on the island, all kinds of people. I met the Shah of Iran when he came here for medical treatment. I met Joe DiMaggio and General Westmoreland and Jackie Gleason. So, you see, Mr. Wyeth, I've learned that people who know their business state their business. Sooner rather than later. It's a habit of successful people. Here you've let me blather on about so many things. And I don't know why you're here."

"I'm Jay Rainey's lawyer, Martha. I live in the city. I examined the contract of sale for him for the farm and told him not to do it. It all looked funny to me. He did it anyway. Now, Jay is in- he's got a problem and the buyer is putting big pressure on him."

"Wants to undo the deal? He can't. Why? It's a beautiful piece."

"No, there's something buried in the land and Marceno is anxious to know what it is."

"And he wants to get the soil ready to plant?"

"Exactly. He's putting in Merlot vines and won't be getting any usable yield for three years."

"I know the game," she said.

"And I suppose you know Marceno as well?"

She casually retrieved the biography of the Duke of Windsor and turned a page. Her hair was rather thin on the top of her head.

"I'm on the right team here, Martha, okay? Marceno said he talked with a broker from this agency saying another buyer had come forward and would buy the property if Marceno's deal fell through. I'm figuring he was talking to you."

She flipped another page.

I took a half step forward. "Was there another potential buyer?"

"The world is full of potential buyers."

"You were just pressuring him, then?"

Now she looked up at me. "Yes."

"Why? Why'd you do it?"

"Why'd I do anything?" she cried. "Because it was Jay's chance to be free! All these wine companies are so big! They can pay to dig up a little sand and truck it away. There's been enough pain in that family. How is Jay, Mr. Wyeth?"

"He seems-" She'd changed the topic, I realized. "He seems fine."

"Oh, that's very good. I saw him a few months ago… he seemed a little tired… He was the most, most beautiful boy. A perfectly beautiful boy, very good at football and baseball as I remember… This was more than fifteen years ago." She closed her book. "His father farmed that piece. Didn't do too well. Not a nice man, not in any way. But Jay got his size from him. Mother was lovely, though, saved him from his father. She poured herself into him. Taught him everything. Jay was charming and did very well with the summer girls, you know. Never boastful. Yes, I knew his mother. Sweet. But sad, you know. Wanted more children. Nervous woman. Tired of terrible fights with her husband. But she had Jay, she was just so proud of him, he was her prize. Consolation for her husband."