Starting the Hard work, and a bump in the road. Well, not really?

CHAPTER 46 – Storefront Dreams

I ain’t much of a dreamer. Never was. When you spend most your life patchin’ fences and squintin’ at the sky to see if it’s gonna ruin your day, you learn to keep your sights low and your plans practical. But ever since that market day, somethin’ shifted.

Maybe it was the way folks smiled when they tasted our honey liqueur. Maybe it was Lu already sketchin’ next steps before we’d even packed up. Or maybe it was the fact I’d finally slept in my own bed again without Dies tryin’ to cuddle my boot for warmth.

Either way, that next mornin’, I sat at the table with a pencil and a cup of chicory and said out loud, “I think we oughta build a store.”

Lu looked up from her notes. “Already ahead of you. I drew three layout options while the boys were asleep.”

“Course you did.”

She unrolled a big piece of parchment across the table. Neat little boxes showed counters, shelves, a front porch, even a bell on the door.

“This here,” she said, tappin’ the drawing, “sits just inside the front fence. Folks can walk up from the road, buy what they need, and never set foot in the fields.”

I nodded. “Makes sense.”

“The only thing we need,” she added, “is lumber. And labor.”

“We got both,” I said. “The boys’ve been restless. They’ll be glad to swing hammers again.”

She gave me a smile that said I already figured you’d say that.

I gathered the crew after breakfast. Ten boys, two new helpers on the way, and a farm full of muddy projects. They sat on overturned buckets and barrels while I explained the plan.

“A storefront?” Uno asked, brows high.

“Small,” I said. “Simple. Shelves, counter, maybe a porch if y’all behave.”

Nueve raised a paw. “Can we sell pickles?”

“Eventually,” Lu said before I could open my mouth.

“Will there be a snack section?” asked Quattro.

“I ain’t buildin’ a general store,” I muttered, but they were already jabberin’.

After we calmed ’em down, we split into groups. Uno through Quattro would handle disassembly of the old shed near the pasture—we’d reuse the wood for framing. Cinco through Dies would clear and level the patch of land by the gate. Lu and I took stock of nails, hinges, and old paint cans.

Then came the other matter.

“I’ve been thinkin’,” I told Lu as we walked the property line. “That bunkhouse’s gettin’ tight. And now that we got Once and Doce comin’, we’re gonna need more space.”

“You want to build an addition?”

“I was thinkin’ a second bunkhouse. Near the still.”

She blinked. “You want them livin’ in the booze district?”

I shrugged. “They’re already workin’ there. Makes sense. It’d keep the walk short, cut down on late-night trompin’ through the orchard, and give the younger ones some quiet in the main house if needed.”

Lu tilted her head. “You don’t think they’ll drink too much?”

“I think they’re smart enough to know what happens when you mix fire and foolishness.”

“Fair.”

We marked off a flat patch near the still—dry, shaded, with a breeze and a view of the back field. I figured it could house six, maybe eight, if we double-bunked. We’d build it raised, to avoid any future water issues, and add a stovepipe and solar panel hookup like the main bunkhouse.

That night over stew and cornbread, I told the boys the plan.

“You’re buildin’ us a stillhouse shack?” Seis asked.

“Bunkhouse,” I corrected. “And it ain’t a shack.”

“Will it have a porch?” asked Dies.

“No.”

“Can it have a porch?”

“…Maybe.”

They cheered anyway.

Construction started next morning. Lu managed the storefront crew—markin’ the beams, paintin’ signs, pickin’ out decorative trim like we were openin’ a boutique. I oversaw the new bunkhouse project with Once and Doce takin’ lead on measurements. Turns out Once had been a builder back on the home planet, and Doce knew plumbing better than anyone I’d met in years.

In three days, we had frames up for both.

In five, we had roofs on.

By the end of the week, the storefront had its first coat of paint—sun-washed green with yellow trim—and the bunkhouse near the still had a proper front step, tin roof, and even a weathervane in the shape of a cat’s tail. I didn’t ask who welded that, but it spun true in the breeze, so I let it be.

Inside the new bunkhouse, we laid down floorboards, bunked the beds, and stocked the cabinets with clean linens, towels, and a few books Lu picked out from the shed. When we opened it up for inspection, the boys clapped like they were seein’ a theater show.

“Claimin’ top bunk!” yelled Quattro, vaultin’ in.

“Too bad,” said Once. “Already took it.”

They argued all night, but it was a good kind of noise—the sound of folks makin’ a space their own.

That evening, Lu and I stood in front of the storefront, watchin’ the sunset paint the hills gold. The sign she ordered was still wrapped in canvas, leanin’ by the door.

“You ready to hang it?” I asked.

She nodded. “You do the honors.”

I climbed the stepladder while she unwrapped it—beautiful hand-lettered wood, sun and barley logo carved deep, painted with care.

Earthshine Goods

Clean. Simple. Ours.

The boys gathered behind us as I bolted it into place. When I stepped down, they all cheered again, like it was ribbon-cutting day.

I looked at Lu. “You think it’s too soon to open?”

She shook her head. “We’re ready.”

Then she reached out, took my hand, and gave it a little squeeze.

“We’re more than ready,” she said.

CHAPTER 47 – A Visit from the Trade Guild

I was up on the roof of the new stillhouse bunkhouse—patchin’ a corner where a bored woodpecker had taken a shine to the tin—when I saw the dust trail.

Not a normal dust trail either. This one was clean, tight, rollin’ straight down the co-op road like a needle through fabric. That usually meant one thing: somebody official. Maybe somebody nosey.

I climbed down slower than usual, wiped my hands, and called out, “Lu!”

She was down by the storefront, settin’ out jars of pickled okra in a basket with gingham cloth. She straightened and followed my gaze to the horizon.

“Guild vehicle,” she said flatly.

“How can you tell?”

“Paint job’s too clean. Tires are wrong for gravel. And the windows are tinted so dark it looks like they’re hidin’ sins.”

“Sounds like we’re in for paperwork,” I muttered.

Sure enough, the truck glided into our front drive like it was hoverin’ on good manners. Matte gray, polished trim, no dirt to be seen. Out stepped a fella in a charcoal vest, shiny boots, and gloves that looked like they hadn’t ever touched a shovel.

He gave a tight nod. “Trade Guild Inspector Davin Settle. You must be the proprietors.”

“That depends,” I said. “You bringin’ trouble or opportunity?”

“I suppose that depends on you,” he replied.

Lu stepped forward, already holdin’ a folder.

“We were expecting a Guild visit eventually,” she said. “We’re operating under small-farm clause 7b, non-interstellar distribution, local sale only.”

Settle blinked, caught off-guard. “You already filed a 7b?”

“Four weeks ago,” Lu said. “I also included our distillery blueprints, inventory logs, soil impact report, and water usage caps—all within Code 3312’s limits.”

Now, I should mention—this was the first I was hearin’ of any of that. I’d been busy teachin’ Once how to weld a barrel rack and makin’ sure Diez didn’t try to train bees to fight.

Settle opened the folder, flipped through a few sheets, and adjusted his posture like a man who’d come to catch a loose pig but found it already harnessed and walkin’ on a leash.

“This... is unusually thorough,” he said. “Most farms your size don’t bother.”

“I bother,” Lu said.

He glanced at me. “And you are?”

“Ron,” I said. “The dirt-covered half of the operation.”

Settle gave a ghost of a smile. “Well, Mr. Ron, your partner has done most of the work already. My visit will be brief.”

We led him around the property, showin’ off the distillery, the mash room, the clean barrels ready to ship. Once and Doce were distillin’ a test batch of fig cider and did their best to look serious instead of proud.

“Sanitary,” Settle noted. “Efficient layout. Proper ventilation.”

“Only had two explosions,” I said.

He raised a brow.

“Small ones,” I added.

Lu shot me a look.

We continued past the stillhouse to the new bunkhouse, where Dies was sweepin’ the porch with a broom taller than him.

“Employee housing?” Settle asked.

“For workers who operate the still or pack product,” Lu replied smoothly. “Separate from the main crew to avoid traffic near the farmhouse.”

“Smart.”

We passed the orchard, then the storefront, now stocked with labeled jars, baked goods in sealed tins, and a wooden rack of liqueur bottles that shined like polished gems.

Settle paused at the door, turned toward Lu.

“You’re looking to expand?”

“Eventually,” she said. “For now, we’re testing stability. If demand holds, we’ll register for full local-guild certification.”

“You’ve memorized the procedures,” he said, half impressed, half concerned.

“I rewrote them for clarity,” she replied.

At that, the man blinked.

Inside, he poked through a few labels, checked tax stamps, and inspected the honey storage cabinet for pest signs. He tapped the ceiling beam once, nodded, and turned back to us.

“This is the cleanest, most compliant small operation I’ve ever reviewed,” he said. “Frankly, I’m shocked.”

Lu just gave a polite smile and folded her hands.

“There’s just one thing,” Settle added, reaching into his satchel.

Here it comes, I thought.

He pulled out a small device—square, metal, humming low.

“Random compliance scan. Only takes a moment.”

We let him scan the storefront. It pinged green. Then the barrels. Green again. Then the still room—where it paused.

Once and Doce froze.

“Is something wrong?” Lu asked calmly.

“Residual chemical trace,” Settle said, frowning. “Did you test a non-listed additive recently?”

Doce swallowed. “Just a batch with roasted peppercorn and citrus peel. We scrapped it.”

Lu nodded. “Experimental, and not for sale. We dumped it per waste protocol. Didn’t file because it didn’t enter distribution.”

Settle stared at her for a moment longer, then tapped a few buttons. The light flicked green.

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll note it as internal R&D.”

He stepped back, checked the time, and gave a short bow.

“You’re in full compliance. No fines. No warnings. And if I’m being honest, I’m putting your name in for model site review.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked.

“It means you’ll likely be used as a case study for efficient hybrid operations.”

Lu perked up slightly. “That comes with a grant, doesn’t it?”

He smiled. “It does.”

He offered a final handshake—Lu took it. I did too, even if mine was covered in sawdust.

As he walked back to his truck, I leaned over to her and said, “You really filed all that weeks ago?”

She smirked. “I knew someone would come sniffin’ once Brannigan put in his order.”

“You’re scary smart, Lu.”

She shrugged. “I plan ahead.”

The boys watched from the bunkhouse roof, where they’d been “fixin’ shingles” but mostly spying.

“Did we pass?” Quattro shouted.

“Flying colors,” I called back.

They erupted in cheers.

That night, we had a feast. Roast chicken, cornbread, pecan pie, and a small celebratory toast of the honey liqueur. Lu even let Seis give a speech, though it was mostly just a thank-you that turned into a long story about the time he fell into the mash vat and “saw the face of destiny.”

After dinner, as the boys drifted back to their bunks and Lu cleaned up in the kitchen, I stepped outside and looked at the stars.

We’d passed. Not just a test, not just an inspection—but a checkpoint in this new life. What used to be a patch of dirt with a creaky old farmhouse had become somethin’ else.

Somethin’ real.

I heard Lu come up behind me, and I said, “You always think ahead.”

“Someone has to,” she said. “You’re too busy makin’ everything work.”

She leaned her head on my shoulder.

“Glad you’re here, Ron.”

“Glad you’re here.”