“I’m hanging up.” And this time, I do.
Because my sister is right about all of it. Eva has gotten under my skin. In less than a week, she’s become essential.
But she’s also super-young social, from a big city, with a zillion sisters to get home to, and I’m a broken old hermit who lives on frozen burritos and dinosaur nuggets.
And my job is in shambles. I lean to the side and peek out the window, where I can see Eva’s silhouette moving inside the house. I allow myself one more minute to watch her dancing around with a broom, oozing energy and life.
I snap the blinds shut and lean closer to my monitor.
7
Eva
I’m elbow-deep in a tub scour when I hear the knock. My tummy does a flip, and for one ridiculous moment I think Asher.
Which makes no sense because Asher doesn’t leave his house unless I physically drag him out of it. And he definitely doesn’t come looking for me.
I wipe my hands and hurry to the door, already feeling foolish for the anticipation fizzing through my chest.
It’s a tiny elderly woman with white hair pulled into a bun, wearing mud-splattered overalls and bright yellow rain boots. She’s got the kind of face that’s seen everything and found most of it amusing.
“Hello, dear. I’m Ethel Bedd from down the hill.” She gestures vaguely toward the trees. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a sheep?”
I blink. “A sheep?”
“Yes. About this tall…” She holds her hand at hip height. “Cream colored, answers to Baabara. Well, she answers when she feels like it, which isn’t often.”
“Baabara?”
“Baabara Streisand Bedd,” Ethel says like it’s not hilarious. “She’s escaped again. My little artiste has a gift for finding weak spots in fencing.”
“Can I help you look for her? And also…” I hold up my phone. “Would you mind if I documented this? It’s kind of amazing.”
Ethel’s eyes twinkle. “Document away, dear. Baabara is great for engagement.”
I laugh. “I love that you speak my language.”
“And I love that you’re here, dear.” She pats my arm and spins on her booted heel.
We set off through the maple trees, Ethel moving with surprising speed for a septuagenarian. She keeps up a steady stream of chatter as we walk. “These trees are magnificent, you know. Walter and June took such good care of them. Used to have a very handsome tree doctor come out for checkups.” She runs her hand along the bark of a massive sugar maple. “Shame they’ve been neglected.”
“I’m working on that,” I say, filming the trees, the dappled sunlight, Ethel’s weathered hands on the bark. My followers are going to eat this up. Authentic rural life, quirky characters, actual sheep-chasing… It’s gold.
Except… none of this is my brand. I post about the city, about Storm businesses in the city. About the people who make it all happen.
Ethel starts talking about her family, and I lower my phone, just listening.
“My grandson, Ethan, runs the farm now. Well, he and his brothers when they’re not bickering like children. And my granddaughter, Colleen, is an author.” She beams with obvious pride. “Ethan just had little baby Porter with Lia—that’s Asher’s sister, you know. Finally, after all these years.”
“Asher’s sister married your grandson?”
“Oh yes. It’s quite the love story. They were sweethearts in high school, then she got sick and broke things off. Took them years to find their way back to each other.” Ethel sighs happily. “We’re all taking turns watching Porter while they’re on a little trip. I don’t meddle, but I made sure they knew it was just fine with me if they decided to get started on Porter’s siblings.”
I’m trying to picture Asher as an uncle. The image doesn’t quite compute. Before I can ask any follow-up questions, Ethel flicks a branch out of her face and continues.
“Ethan says I work too hard, but what else am I going to do? Sit around watching television?” She talks about the strawberry festival they host each spring, about the community coming together, about knowing every family in Fork Lick and most of them in Climax. I realize I was focused on the quirk and the charm, but the real treasure is this woman. She wants me to call her Gran and seems to know everyone and everything and all of its history. Gran Ethel Bedd is woven into the fabric of Fork Lick.
“There!” Gran points ahead. Baabara stands in a small clearing, munching on some clover that somehow survived the winter. She’s absolutely gorgeous with creamy wool, intelligent dark eyes, and an expression that can only be described as smug. I immediately snap a photo of the clover to send to Eden, who will definitely agree this place is good for bees. “Baabara,” Gran says sternly. “You stop that right now.”
