“Oh my god, your hair!” Abby gushes as she walks in with her infant daughter, Clementine, who's sleeping in the baby wrap slung around her chest. She’s wearing a simple, black floral dress with her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun.
I absentmindedly run my fingers through my curls. “Saylor brought me back to the dark side.”
This morning at the salon, I asked Saylor to color my hair in a brown balayage. It was time to ditch the blonde and go back to my natural roots. The decision was easy since I hated being blonde…but it’s what the network wanted.
“It looks great,” she adds with a bright smile.
“Where’s Goldie?” I ask, wondering where her three-year-old daughter, Marigold, is.
“She’s home with Jacob. The two were playing in the field, chasing the sheep when I left.” Abby and Jacob live down the road, about ten minutes away on their own hobby farm. Abby is a softie when it comes to farm animals and keeps surprising Jacob with more. So far, they have a small herd of sheep, a slew of chickens and ducks, a cranky goat, too many cats, and a few cows. Two of their cows are Highlands, a blond one named Ferdinand and a red one named Princess Anna. I'm dying to meet them. There’s something about Highland cows and their emo bangs.
Saylor comes through next, carrying another bottle of wine. Her long pink hair hangs down her back. She’s dressed in a hot pink and orange checkered jumpsuit and a cropped light pink tank, an outfit that perfectly describes her. The oversized wide-leg jumpsuit hangs loosely off her slender frame, and the crochet vest pulls the outfit together perfectly, framing her upper half and showing off her tattoos.
“Long time no see,” Saylor greets, hip checking me as she walks past, and I flash her a smile.
Julia is the last to come in. Her denim mini-dress shows off the collection of tattoos running down both her arms and over her chest.
“Thanks for the invite,” Julia says, glancing around.
The girls file into the kitchen, moving deeper into the space as they gather around the table where a large charcuterie board is spread out, waiting for them to dive in.
“If you get bored running Hannah’s Haven, you should open up a restaurant on Main Street,” Abby says as she eyes the selection.
“Seriously, we could use a good Italian restaurant,” Julia adds, spreading Brie over a cracker.
I bring the pot to the sink, dumping the boiling water into the strainer before adding the pasta to the sauce.
“I promise, I’m not a chef. Bacon carbonara is one of the few dishes I know how to make.”
“Whatever you say,” Greer chides. She’s moving through the kitchen as if she lives here. Opening drawer after drawer. “Do you not have a wine opener?”
“You mean this?” Saylor asks, holding up the opener I already placed on the counter next to the wineglasses and ice bucket, where a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc is chilling.
Greer takes the opener and places it in the cork. “Everyone?” she asks as the cork pops free.
“Please,” we all answer.
Voices rise as Greer pours hefty servings of wine for all of us. I stir the pasta again, watching the sauce thicken and glisten around the noodles. The smell of crisped bacon mixes with the tang of Parmesan. For a fleeting moment, I think this is what home feels like.
Copper pans glow above me from the sun reflecting its golden hour haze. The floor creaks beneath our feet, mixing with the music floating softly from the speakers. Through the open window, a soft breeze filters through as the wildflowers dance along with the music.
“This charcuterie board slaps,” Saylor mumbles around a mouthful of food.
I chuckle. “Thanks. I took a charcuterie class in LA.”
“They have those?” Abby asks, bouncing Clem in her lap.
“There’s a class for everything in LA,” I answer, plating the pasta in a white ceramic bowl before sprinkling the crumbled bacon on top.
“What can we help you with?” Julia asks, standing and taking the bowl from my hands.
I shake my head. “I’m good. Just need to bring everything over and we can eat.”
Grabbing the large salad bowl and dressing, I carry it to the table, set with dinner plates, appetizer plates, bowls, and silverware. The timer on the oven beeps, announcing the breadsticks are ready. I place them in a basket with a fabric napkin before joining the girls at the table.
“Everything looks delicious,” Saylor praises. “Please marry my brother so Sunday dinners can look like this.”
I choke on the wine I'd taken a sip of, sputtering through a cough.
