Like maybe there’s something left to work with.
When she drops me at my house, I pause before getting out. “The Wi-Fi password,” I say. “It’s Meow2015. Capital M.”
She stares at me.
“In case you need it,” I add. “For work. Or whatever.”
Something flickers across her face. Surprise, maybe. Or the ghost of something softer. “Thanks,” she says. “Neighbor.”
This time, the word doesn’t sting quite as much.
12
Eva
I have actual connectivity, which means I can do my job from my new conundrum property. That’s what I’ve been calling it while I try to decide what the hell I’m doing here.
I spend the morning driving around, asking people what they remembered of my aunt and uncle. At Lick Your Fork, Latonya talks me into eating pie while she rummages in the back for something. “Found it,” she hollers from behind the swinging door.
I have to remember this is not my sister’s bar, and I’m not supposed to just wander back there with her. I focus on my pecan pie while she mutters and finally emerges, brandishing a white pitcher. “We used to have Pierce Acres syrup here. Walter and June had these made for their wholesale customers. That was before my time.” She smiles at the ceramic piece of Fork Lick history. My history.
I feel pinched in the chest looking at it, this real relic of my lost family. LaTonya slides the pitcher into my hand and pats my arm. “You keep it, honey. Put some flowers in it. Think about us up here.”
Post pie, my emotions and I visit the post office so I can fill out forms to forward any mail that might come to Pierce Acres, but I can’t bring myself to drop off the paperwork. I’m on the precipice of something I can’t yet name, so I take the pitcher and nestle it in the gravel, squatting to line up a photo with the little business district in the background.
When I get back home… to my property… I take the pitcher all around, snapping photos of it with the old equipment, arranged just so against weathered wood. If I stayed here, I’d be on the brink of tapping those trees, filling this relic with syrup instead of flowers like LaTonya suggested. I schedule some posts for peak times, cross-reference my hashtag strategy, and sit back to watch some engagement numbers roll in.
Except they don’t.
By evening, my carefully crafted content has gotten maybe forty likes. Mostly from my sisters, plus a handful of loyal followers who like everything I post. The comments are sparse and generic: Pretty! and Nice pics and Looks peaceful.
I check the analytics, and my heart sinks. Reach: minimal. Engagement: below average. New followers: zero.
I can’t blame the Wi-Fi anymore. Whatever cloud Asher is lending me is super fast. I scroll through the comments again, looking for something—anything—that suggests I’m connecting with people. But there’s nothing. I’m not even getting bots offering to help me with my marketing strategy.
Cute, but seems like every other farm account, one person wrote, and then apparently kept scrolling.
Any other farm account? I guess I didn’t elaborate on why this pitcher was making its way through all my content. I close my laptop and stare at the ceiling. This is supposed to be my thing. I’ve built my sisters’ brands, grown their audiences, created content strategies that work. Why isn’t it working here?
A bleating sound from outside interrupts my spiral. I look out the window to see Baabara trotting across my yard, having apparently escaped her palace again. She’s heading straight for the garden beds I spent all week clearing.
“Oh no, you don’t!”
I’m out the door before I think about it, still in my nice content-creation outfit—a flowy top and clean jeans. Baabara sees me coming and picks up speed.
I chase her through the cleared beds, getting mud on my boots. She doubles back toward the sugar shack, and I follow, slipping on wet leaves. She stops to investigate a pile of equipment, and when I lunge for her, she bolts again, and I step directly into a fresh pile of sheep droppings.
“Baabara, you woolly menace!”
Baabara looks back with what I swear is a smug expression. “You did that on purpose,” I tell her, hopping on one foot while trying to scrape the worst of it off my boot against a tree.
She bleats.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.”
I corner her near the old collection tanks, and she lets me grab her collar like she was done running anyway. We walk toward Bedd Fellows Farm together, me limping slightly, my boots ruined, my nice outfit splattered with mud and worse.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
