Cherry War (1)
The party—which had amounted, for all practical purposes, to Fredrick’s victory lap—finally wound down. He had stumbled off home thoroughly drunk, leaving behind a single bottle of Ruby Quartz as if bestowing a royal favor, and for a moment a strange silence settled over the terrace.
“Why don’t we move this somewhere else? Come on over to my place.”
When William looked around at the co-op members, they nodded. You couldn’t very well keep a party going in another man’s yard. Besides, Cooperative President William Hartford’s second home sat right on the grounds of Deer Ridge Country Club—there was nowhere far to go.
In less than thirty minutes a second drinking session was underway. The Ruby Quartz Fredrick had left was the star attraction, the bottle every co-op member had his eye on, but the other wines William poured were no cheap plonk either.
“Whew… that’s something else. I’m jealous.”
Samuel Reed murmured in admiration as he tasted the Ruby Quartz. Everyone present felt it, though: the praise for the liquor was real enough, but underneath it lay envy directed squarely at Fredrick.
“That… the stuff that came out this year seemed like a different variety. Anyone know the name?”
Thomas Cromwell quietly asked the member beside him, and William Hartford, watching, wore an openly displeased look.
“You should’ve asked earlier.”
“This liquor made me forget, didn’t it? I got so absorbed I completely blanked on asking.”
That the cherries from Harris Orchard were exceptional quality was a conversation the co-op had worn threadbare. Even so, there had been fruit among them that was especially large and exceptionally sweet, and that was what he’d meant to ask about—and forgotten.
“Royal Tioga, I believe? That’s what they said.”
“Royal Tioga…”
“Why? Thinking of switching? If you start swapping varieties now, it’s going to cost a fortune. You’d better think carefully. You know the market’s bone-dry for cash these days.”
William’s warning wasn’t pure jealousy talking. After the subprime crisis hit, farms already short on capital and then hit with a poor harvest had begun declaring bankruptcy one after another—a double bind.
To replace a variety you had to take out new loans for saplings, clear out the old trees, accept that next year’s revenue would drop, and still service principal and interest right away. There was a great deal to weigh.
“You’re not wrong… but the unit price on that Royal Tioga is just so good…”
Thomas had heard the rumor that the best of Harris Orchard’s cherries traded at least thirty percent higher than other farms’ Bing cherries on the open market, and he couldn’t let go so easily.
Thirty percent—easy to say. The co-op members knew exactly how many cherries you’d have to sell to capture that kind of extra margin, and they frowned.
“Selling cherries at a premium, Ceracia as a steady income stream, and now Ruby Quartz on top of it… everyone says the best cherries in Brentwood come from Harris Orchard. When you hit the wholesale market, the way they treat Fredrick is completely different.”
At another member’s words, heads nodded all around.
“It’s true. Whole Foods Market, Gelson’s Markets, Bristol Farms—the moment Fredrick shows up at wholesale, they come running. I hear half of next year’s shipment is already under contract.”
“Enviable. For all practical purposes the premium markets are a Harris Orchard monopoly.”
They shook their heads, unable to hide their envy. Cherry prices swung every year with yield and demand; locking in half of next year’s volume in advance meant someone had pre-bought at a fixed price. And with several high-end markets all chasing Harris fruit, no one could have beaten him down on price—how large the windfall must have been was almost beyond imagining.
“Hmph. And still he has to hand a cut of the profits over to Redwood, I hear. What’s to envy? All that farming just to fatten Redwood’s belly.”
William Hartford, unable to listen any longer, tried to play the cold realist—but most of these men were veterans who had run orchards for decades, and they could calculate profit with clear eyes.
“Still, plenty left over, right? Even with part of the orchard mid-conversion, so he wasn’t harvesting the full hundred acres, I hear revenue still went up…”
“Is that true?”
“Fredrick said so before. Once profit per acre rose, sixty of the hundred acres were already out-earning what the full hundred used to bring in.”
“That’s impossible…”
The mood grew steadily heavier. If everyone had been struggling together, the atmosphere wouldn’t have sunk like this—but when one farm shot so far ahead, the ones left behind couldn’t help feeling defeated.
It was then that William Hartford looked around at the co-op members, leaned in, and spoke.
“I’ll tell you something. I think Harris Orchard has a problem… what do you all think?”
“A problem?”
Thomas tilted his head at the incomprehensible remark.
“Do any of you understand the real nature of that ‘strategic partnership’ Fredrick was crowing about today? You can’t see how strange it is just looking at it? Those people just declared war on the supply-chain power our Brentwood families have guarded for decades.”
Samuel Reed narrowed his eyes.
“Declared war? What does that mean?”
“Think about it. That Brian fellow from Redwood took advantage of Fredrick’s foolishness and locked him into a partnership, didn’t he? Then didn’t our co-op’s top-secret seed data, soil information, harvest timing—all of it—pass straight into that man’s hands? And in exchange, Fredrick got a ‘premium’ label slapped on his farm alone and secured a monopoly position.”
The sudden claim left everyone looking bewildered, but William pressed on without pause.
“So what happens in the end? Once Redwood seizes control of our cherry market, every farm except Fredrick’s becomes a subcontracting base that just grows whatever cherries suit their taste. From that point on we’re not farm owners anymore—we’re sharecroppers.”
They nodded along, though doubt still showed in their eyes.
“So is there anything we can actually do?”
The question meant: even if that’s true, so what? But William had been waiting for it. He slammed his fist on the table.
“That exclusive premium Fredrick is walking off with was supposed to belong to this entire co-op. He sold the co-op’s secrets to outsiders and disrupted the order—so he ought to pay the price. And the authority he forfeits, I intend to redistribute fairly among all of you.”
Life sparked in the co-op members’ eyes. Whether William’s argument was forced or not, the notion that the rights to Fredrick’s golden cherry orchard might be reallocated had them listening hard.
“Can that actually work?”
Thomas’s doubt was natural—and William Hartford had clearly anticipated even that.
“First of all, I intend to suspend Fredrick’s farm from next year’s co-op joint marketing brand. He signed an individual partnership—he no longer has any right to shelter under the co-op’s umbrella.”
That, at least, had the look of a legitimate pretext, and heads nodded. An individual partnership, a new variety debuted this very year, and talk of gradually replacing Bing altogether—William’s claim had a persuasive sheen.
“Once he’s out of the Costco and Walmart supply contracts, that enormous gold-quota volume sits empty. I’ll fill those slots with produce from your farms. Next year your revenue will climb at least twenty percent without any of you lifting a finger.”
Everyone swallowed hard. Gold-quota volume carried a relatively high unit price; everyone wanted a piece of it.
William did not stop—he rolled on like a runaway train.
“Same for the fertilizer and agricultural supply co-purchase subsidies funded by members’ dues. Fredrick is already backed by Redwood’s massive capital—he hardly needs our modest co-op subsidies.”
The members nodded, and William drove the spike home.
“I’ll cut the subsidy that would have gone to him and lower your fertilizer purchase price another fifteen percent next year. We need lower production costs if we’re going to compete with cherries from other regions, don’t we?”
Hesitation vanished from their faces. Whether the justifications still held water had already left their minds. The profit right in front of them was simply too tempting.
“And finally—the most lethal piece. I’ll reduce Fredrick’s farm’s credit limit. An opaque revenue-sharing contract with an outside party muddies the collateral value of the farm. As a matter of risk management, I’ll notify him that fifty percent of the co-op’s collateralized loans extended to him must be repaid in full by year-end. He’ll be under considerable cash pressure… and who knows? He may have to put part of the orchard on the block.”
Wearing the smile of a man who had just played his trump, William Hartford raised his glass.
“The recovered funds will convert into a members-only low-interest loan pool to support your capital investments. Well? This isn’t about punishing Fredrick. It’s about normalizing Brentwood’s assets and returning them to you—a matter of justice.”
Silence fell. The co-op members rolled their eyes, glancing at one another… and then, little by little, awkward but unmistakable smiles touched their mouths.
This was a temptation no one could refuse.
“Fredrick crossed the line first. He deceived us so he could live well on his own.”
Samuel Reed broke the tape. Thomas Cromwell followed without hesitation, stepping forward for his own gain.
“An unavoidable decision—to protect tradition.”
There was no trace of conscience left in Thomas’s voice. If anything, he sounded exalted, as if he had become a warrior defending some grand cause.
William Hartford smiled the smile of a victor. He knew it well: what moves human beings most reliably is not fear, but the certainty that they can legally carve up and eat another man’s flesh.
One week later, morning.
Fredrick woke with the usual mild hangover, stretched contentedly, and stepped out onto the terrace. The broad, open vista of the golf course never failed to lift his spirits.
In particular, the sight of his son Brandon—lazy though the boy could be—working hard to keep up always made his days pleasant. Brandon had grown skilled enough at managing the beehives that Fredrick barely had to touch them anymore.
“That kid…”
The image of his son’s face beaded with sweat brought an involuntary, fond smile—and then he saw a black pickup truck, the Cherry Growers Cooperative logo stamped sharp and clear on its side, rolling into the luxury residential enclave. The man who climbed out was Jim, the co-op’s office manager, a man Fredrick had always treated like a brother.
“What’s Jim doing here…?”
Fredrick threw on some clothes and went out. Unlike usual, Jim couldn’t meet his eyes. Head bowed, he held out a plain white envelope.
“Fredrick, I’m sorry. An emergency board meeting was held at midnight last night.”
“A board meeting? Out of nowhere—what happened?”
Fredrick tore the envelope open without much concern. But the moment he read the first line of the document, he doubted his own eyes.
Notice is hereby given regarding the temporary suspension of your cooperative membership rights and the complete reassignment of distribution quotas.
“What is this…?”
He couldn’t finish the sentence. Jim patted Fredrick’s shoulder with his head still down, then turned back to his truck. Fredrick stood as if turned to stone, unable to move for a long time.
“Brian! We’ve got a problem!”
Chloe’s urgent voice, first thing in the morning, sent me past the winery for only a moment before I headed straight for Brentwood.
The cherry orchard had stabilized, and the pear and almond operations were steadily laying down their foundations, so I hadn’t been particularly worried. More than anything, Chloe’s growth had been dazzling; she’d piled up enough knowledge that most working farmers couldn’t hold a candle to her.
If Chloe—who could handle most things on her own—was calling this urgently, there had to be a reason. I didn’t press for details over the phone and simply arrived at Deer Ridge Country Club.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Chloe came running out before I’d even killed the engine and threw her arms around me. I held her almost by reflex and asked,
“What’s going on?”
Then Fredrick stepped outside, and one look at his face told me something serious had happened.
“Come inside.”
Once we were in the house, he handed me a document. Curious, I read it slowly…
“Suspension of co-op joint marketing brand rights. Zero allocation of next year’s Costco and Walmart joint marketing volume. Full clawback of agricultural supply co-purchase subsidies. Two million dollars in co-op-collateralized operating funds to be repaid by December thirty-first… They’re effectively kicking you out of the co-op, aren’t they?”
“That’s right.”
Fredrick nodded, face dark. I tilted my head.
“And this is what has you so worried?”
“Of course it is. Don’t you see how powerful the co-op’s influence is?”
But I handed the papers back to Fredrick with a smile.
“Ah… the co-op president made a mistake.”
“Huh?”
“This is actually a good thing.”