I nod. Oh, do I ever. “Grew up on a berry and apple farm. That count?”
He chuckles. “I suppose so. Whereabouts? You related to the Johnsons?”
“No, sir. I’m from Western Virginia, around Floyd.”
He narrows his eyes. “Experience with horses?”
My gut twists. Yes, I have ample experience with horses, but it’s almost been a decade since I’ve cared for one. Still, I did enough time that I could do it in my sleep. I sometimes still dream about riding.
“Horses. A few steer,” I say with a nod.
Bill plants his fists on the table, looking me over like I’m livestock on auction. “How soon could you start? Got any other obligations?”
“I coach Little League one night a week and every Saturday, and I’ll have to do some lab work for my degree at Marshall. And actually, about that?—”
Bill wrinkles his brow.
“I’m in a robotics engineering program, and I need somewhere to test my fruit picker so I can graduate.”
Bill bobs his head, considering that. “Would you be able to live on the farm? I really need somebody to help with the horses.”
“Yes,” I say, then rush to add, “In theory. If you want me.”
Why am I nervous around this old man? I’m acting like a middle schooler on a date. A fresh wave of perspiration erupts in every possible sweaty spot on my body. Thank god I put on the hat so the brim will keep it from rolling down my face.
He rolls his lips and puts his tongue in his cheek. “Tell you what. I’ve got the other two starting next Friday.” His “Friday” sounds likefry-dee.“Show up and do the work, and you’ve got the job. Why don’t I take down your number and we’ll get it all worked out?”
“Sounds great, sir.” We exchange information, and I walk out of the market feeling pretty damn lucky.
I will make this work. I have to.
THREE
DARCY
The homeplace’swhite peeks through the dense trees as I pull up the gravel drive, the small rocks making dinks and donks against the body of my car. Stormy huddles in my lap, afraid of the noise. My whole life’s belongings jostle as we bumpity-bump down the road.
I roll down my windows to let in the lush smell of sweetgrass and the general green of summertime on the farm.
It’s almost dark out already. The light fades even earlier in the holler with the mountains making the horizon higher than it would be on a plain.
Maggie and Bill are expecting me even though I know it’s close to their bedtime. I could have called my parents, and eventually, I will. My parents don’t live in West Virginia anymore, having chosen a nomadic pseudo-retirement. They live in RV parks across the country and work odd jobs when they need cash, acting like college kids backpacking Europe. I miss them, am happy for them, and feel somewhat abandoned by them all at once.
But I have Bill and Maggie, and that’s almost better.
The pack of farm dogs escort us the rest of the way down the drive, chasing after my car in a swirl of barks and flashes of different-colored fur. It’s always been an ever-changing cast of strays up here, some questionably feral. I spy Candy Cane out in the pasture by the woods, serenely eating grass like he’s not the most neurotic quarter horse on the planet. By his side is his reluctant companion, an Appaloosa named Freckle.
What I don’t expect is the RV parked in the grass alongside the farmhouse. My stomach sinks as I try to guess what it could mean. It’s not my parents’ RV, but I can’t help but feel like its presence doesn’t bode well for me.
Bill and Maggie sit on the porch swing, Maggie working on a cross stitch and Bill on a crossword. The sight of them still willing to porch swing in the evenings pangs my heart. That’s the love worth waiting for.
And a love I might have given away. Doubt brings up a lump in my throat, which I cough to clear as I get out with a wave.
“There she is!” Maggie cries. They never had kids, but I always fantasized that I was theirs. They’re good to all my cousins too, but I was the one who spent the most summer hours working for them over the years. I loved the house I grew up in, but the farm is, and probably always will be, home.
My peepaw’s dad, famously known as Poppa, built this house. Poppa vowed to find a way out of coal mining after he lost his brother to a mining accident. Over the course of a decade, he and Nonna scrimped, saved, and poured plenty of sweat equity into the farm and homeplace all around me.
The farmhouse pops in its white siding and pale gray roof, though it’s seen some weather and is probably due for a refresh. It’s a two-story farmhouse where some original features linger, though slowly, Bill and Maggie have updated the interior.
