“Where am I going to live?”
“Upstairs. The spa will take up the bottom of the house.”
“And you think that you can get the place booked?”
He laughs. “More than book it. We can fill the farm to capacity, and then some. With the right marketing, your small place could become a tourist destination. Just you. Just Wadley Farms. Want to escape? Book a facial. Need to relax? Play with the piggycorns. People pay to play with kittens all the time. They’ll definitely hand over cash to pet horned swine that they’veneverheard of.”
“I’veheard of piggycorns,” I reply, feeling insulted that Pane would correctly assume that no one besides a handful of people believe in my favoritest pet on the planet.
“Rowe, you need to accept the fact that you’re one of the only people in the world who knows how special they are.” He lifts his hands as if waving a flag of surrender. “Even though I realize the farm used to be successful and you sold th—Wait. Yousoldthem, didn’t you?”
“We did,” I admit with a hearty sigh. “But people couldn’t breed them because we never sold in pairs, and the piggies don’t mate outsideof the farm.” I use my finger to iron a wrinkle in my skirt. “They’re funny about that. They’re like animals at a zoo that don’t like to breed in captivity. Same type of thing. So anyway, what I’m saying is that the ones we sold eventually died, and the magic died, too, so ...”
“The town died,” he finishes.
“Right, and then magic-less unicorns were born, so the price came down, so people stopped caring about piggycorns. I’ve even posted videos and photos, but no one seems to notice—or they reply that the piggies aren’t real and have fake horns sewn on their heads. A few folks may visit our town, visit the farm on occasion, but it’s just not enough.” I shake my head, hoping that I’m making sense. “When the magic died in Mystic Meadows, it dragged all of us down with it.”
Pane thinks about that and nods. “Then let’s change it.”
Before I can agree, the bartender approaches, wiping down a glass with a rag. “Another round? This one’s on me.”
“Just water,” Pane tells him.
Isaac glances my way.
“Ditto.”
“But thanks for offering the free round.”
Isaac grins. “Anyone who can beat mean old Coleman Barrier deserves to have the red carpet rolled out. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thank you. Pane Maddox.”
“Isaac Granbury.” They shake hands. “Welcome to Mystic Meadows.”
“Happy to be here.”
I thumb toward Pane. “Don’t believe him. He hates our town.”
“No, I don’t.” Pane glances around. “Everyone’s been really nice.”
“Yeah, Rowe, we’re friendly,” Isaac gently chides. “Listen, man, I don’t know if you like poker, but a few of us have a game once a week on Wednesday nights. You’re welcome to join. We play here.”
“Thanks, I might do that.”
But from the way his mouth is set, I can tell that Pane won’t. This town still isn’t good enough for him.
Isaac sets down our drinks. “See you then. Let me know if you need anything.”
As he wanders off, the jukebox starts up, playing Ray LaMontagne’s “You Are the Best Thing.”
Pane slips off his stool and extends his hand. “Care to dance?”
I stare as if he’s holding out a snake.
“I don’t bite,” he says, annoyed.
“Are you sure?”
