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As is the generation of leaves, so is that of humanity.

The wind scatters the leaves on the

ground, but the live timber burgeons with

leaves again in the season of spring returning.

So one generation of men will grow while another

dies.

—HOMER, ILIAD

I wished to possess all the productions of nature, but I wished life with them. This was impossible.

—JOHN JAMES AUDUBON

18

ARLEN SCARLETT WAS DISTRACTED. MARYBETH COULD tell. Though he was looking at her across her desk with the well-practiced face of an eager-to-please canine, his mind was clearly elsewhere. Even as she explained that she had broken Opal’s code when it came to her record keeping for the ranch, something Arlen should have been ecstatic over, his mind was elsewhere.

The previous week, Arlen had shown up at Marybeth’s office with five banker’s boxes full of paperwork—envelopes, statements, invoices, files. He complained he could not make hide nor hair of them. Opal had kept the books on the ranch, he said, and she’d never explained to anyone how she did it. Arlen claimed he had no true idea if the ranch made money and if so how much, or if they were in trouble.

Marybeth had reluctantly agreed to take a look at the contents of the boxes to see if she could find a method in Opal’s madness.

“It didn’t really take me as long as I thought it would,” she explained to Arlen, who looked at her but not really. The antenna of a cell phone extended out of a snap-buttoned breast pocket of his white cowboy shirt. Even though he never looked down at it or reached up for it, Marybeth got the distinct feeling the phone was what he was concentrating on, even as she spoke. He was waiting for a call.

“At first,” Marybeth said, “I couldn’t figure out why she filed things the way she did. It seemed like random collections of paper held together with rubber bands. Some of the papers went back years and some were as current as two months ago, just before she . . . went away. All in the same bundle. It was obvious she wasn’t using monthly P and Ls, or any kind of cash-flow records to keep track of things. But we know Opal was not the type of woman to maintain haphazard records, so I figured there must be some kind of formula she was using. It came to me last night,” she said, widening her eyes, trying to engage Arlen. “I realized she grouped records by season and category. It kind of makes sense, when you think about it. For example, you grow and sell grass hay, correct?”

Arlen nodded.

“Well, Opal’s approach was to start a file with a receipt from the first hayseed purchased for a specific meadow and go from there. She’s even put the purchase of a new tractor in that hay file if the tractor was used for cutting and baling. If one of your employees fell off the hay wagon and busted his arm, the workers’ compensation hearing materials would be put in the hay file.”

“We paid workers’ comp?” Arlen asked, surprised his mother had been so progressive.

“No, of course not,” Marybeth said, shaking her head. “Opal fought every single claim to the death. My point is that the only way to figure out what you’ve got here is to understand how Opal kept track of everything. It was her own system, and I still don’t have everything figured out yet, but I’m getting there. There are a few bundles of invoices I can’t assign to a specific project or category yet.”

“You’ve done a great job,” Arlen said. “I looked at that stuff for a month and couldn’t make anything out of it. My lawyer looked at it for ten hours, which he charged me a hundred dollars per hour for, and handed it all back and said there was no logic to it. But you figured it out. Damn, you’re good.”

Marybeth thought, Yes, I am.

“So?” Arlen said.

Marybeth arched her eyebrows, not sure what he was asking.

“Are we making money?”

“You’re making a ton of money.”

“Did you find anything that will help me in my battle with Hank?”

“Actually,” Marybeth said, “Hank’s side of the ranch seems to make more money than yours. It’s more efficient.”

Arlen said dismissively, “You mean he’s more ruthless.”

“If that’s possible,” Marybeth said, thinking of the workers’ comp claims.

Arlen’s cell phone rang and he jumped in his chair, clawing for it. Marybeth sat back and observed. He plucked the phone out of his pocket and stared at it for a moment while it rang. She realized he was unfamiliar with it, and didn’t know for sure how it worked.

“New phone,” he mumbled to her. “The buttons are so damned small . . .”

But he pushed one and held it up to his face, tentatively saying, “Yes? This is Arlen?”

From where she sat, Marybeth could hear a loud, deep voice on Arlen’s phone. As he listened, Arlen peered around her office. His expression was anticipatory.

“You’re here now?” Arlen said, looking at Marybeth as if she should be as amazed as he was at the identity of the caller. “You’re right outside on the street?”

Arlen signed off, dropped the phone in his pocket, and stood up. His face had drained of color.