The tangy scent of freshly baked cranberry scones wafts under the door and a second wind of full-bodied coffee follows.
When it comes to my sister, fresh-baked pastries are never a good sign.
It’s her tell that she wants to have a talk and is planning on softening me up with something sweet and warm.
When I was twelve, and she wanted my basement game room for her bedroom because being twenty-two and living at home was stifling, she baked apple crisp.
At fourteen, she wanted to talk to me about how she was moving out of the house to live with Tom, her now husband, but wanted to make sure I knew she wasn’t leaving me. I got brownies and a brother-in-law out of that one.
And when she wanted to talk to me about Dad’s cancer, she baked a whole ass cheesecake.
God, I hate cheesecake.
But cranberry scones? If she wants a kidney, she can have it. No questions asked.
I pull a crew-neck sweatshirt over my white t-shirt, still in my boxers. Goosebumps rise on my arm. I’m sure it’s a lot warmer in the central part of the house, but I need a few minutes to wake up before whatever Simone wants to talk about.
Stretching, I open the blinds in my room, hoping the streaming sun will warm the room up during the day.
The blinds shoot up after a firm tug, and the sun instantly floods the ten-by-ten light blue room, transforming it with a cheerful, warming effect that exudes my sister’s personality.
I blink a few times. Two soulless eyes laser their way through the window.
I jump. My heart hammers against my chest. “What the fuck?”
A goat.
With its brown and white spotted coat and deadened gaze, I get the sense that it’s the same goat from Gus and Aulie’s. His gaze levels…at my crotch?
I breathe. I’m inside. The goat—what did Gus call him? Gio? Is outside. This is fine.
After a minute of mindless staring, Gio opens his mouth and lets out a long boisterous bleat. His head flails, and his eyes widen to an alarming size, as if to sayI’m a goat, and I’m going to mess you up.
I step back on my heels.
And just as quick as the bleating began, Gio closes his mouth. His long floppy tongue hangs out the side. Like a hiccup, he follows with a tiny “maa.”
I don’t break our stare as I retreat into the center of the room because I’m seriously concerned he can somehow Houdini his ass through the window. Pulling my sweatpants on, I back out into the hallway and close the door behind me.
Silverware clatters in the kitchen, and I follow the alluring mixture of coffee beans and warm pastries through the maze of rooms tacked on to the back of the house. Warmth grows as I near the hearth and a crackling fire.
“Simone?” I ask.
“Ah, there’s the bad boy of the National Hockey League,” my sister teases as I bow under the doorframe to the small galley kitchen. I doubt bad boys are worried about goats hexing them, but sure. “I made your favorite scones.”
I want to prompt her to get the inevitable conversation over with, but if she’s not jumping right in, I’ll take a second to eat my scones in peace.
She smoothes down her chocolate brown hair, slightly lighter than mine, and rubs her pregnant belly—her midlife crisis, as she likes to refer to it. “You okay?”
“Yeah, fine.” I try to shake off the memory of Gio’s blank stare. I’m unsure how good goats are at witchcraft, but I feel cursed “You guys didn’t get a goat, did you?”
“Oh, is Gio out again? I’ll call Mr. Martin.” Simone wipes her hands on her apron. “He’s been getting out and wandering the field ever since Tom fixed him a few weeks ago—actually—Tom!” Simone calls her husband down the long corridor leading to their dining room. “Gio’s out again. Are you going up to Mr. Martin’s farm today?”
“Yeah, I’ll bring him back.”
“Make sure he doesn’t get into the flowers before then.”
“He’ll be fine. The fence I built should keep him out.”
