CHAPTER FOUR
Danica
I wasn't sure who was more nervous, me or Sam, as I drove us to Tommaso’s Monday afternoon after picking her up from school.
I did my very best to ignore the butterflies flitting around in my belly with zero flight plan as I focused on my child.
“So, how was today? How was Clyde?” I made sure to sneer his name.
She rolled her eyes and glanced out the side window.
It wasn’t as nice a day as we’d been having, but it wasn’t raining either.
The sky was gray with a quilt of thick clouds, and the air felt chilly as it blew in from the south, which usually meant the weather was going to turn poor shortly.
“He’s just so mean. I stay away from him.
I ignore him. I asked him to leave me alone, and he just—” She sighed and swallowed hard, wiping discreetly at her eyes. “I don’t get it.”
I didn’t get it either. For whatever reason, Clyde Whalley had set his sights on Sam and used her as his proverbial punching bag, and no matter how many times I had addressed it with Principal Pickford, Clyde’s parents, or Cheryl, nothing seemed to change.
Everyone but Cheryl seemed to think that Sam was the problem.
“Do I really have to go to this guy’s house, Mom?” she asked as we drove past the small dairy farm where Fred Love and his family had their cows, goats, and sheep and sold cheese from Fred’s Ched Shed.
Gabrielle’s boyfriend, Maverick, did cheesemaking workshops with Fred and had come back to the house yesterday saying Fred’s goats were all having babies and that he actually got to go watch one of the nannies deliver three healthy kids.
Maverick got to name them. He went with Apple, Blueberry, and Peach.
Then he came home, and he and Gabrielle made pies together because he was craving pies after naming the goats.
Maverick was an odd guy, but he was good for Gabrielle and her children. So I didn’t say anything.
“Mom?”
I shook my head and blinked a few times. “Sorry. Honey, I think this might be really good for you. Just give it a try. If you don’t like it, then you don’t have to go back. He has a pet pig though, and she is adorable. And so obedient.”
“A pet pig?”
I nodded as the red mailbox at the top of Tom’s driveway came into view.
I slowed down and waited for a car to pass before I took the single lane with the grass in the middle down toward the farmhouse.
Behind the house, barn, and various other outbuildings was the ocean, a dark green-gray with big, rolling whitecaps.
Oh yeah, a storm was definitely on its way.
Towering evergreens mixed with twiggy deciduous trees formed two thick borders on either side of the land as it sloped down toward the water. Every so often, the red bark of the madrona trees would poke out among all the green, twisted and gnarled like arthritic hands reaching toward the sun.
If I looked closely enough, I could see little green blobs on the branches of the deciduous trees from where the first leaves of the year were coming out after a long, wet, cold winter.
Parking in front of the dark-green farmhouse with white trim, I turned off the ignition, only to chuckle when Ms. Portia the Pig came barreling out of the dog door at the top of the porch.
She clambered down the stairs like a master, her tail wagging as she came to the driver’s side door. I climbed out and greeted her. “Hello, Ms. Portia,” I said, scratching her in the spot just behind her tail on her rump where she seemed to like best on Friday. “How are we today?”
Sam’s door closed, and Portia realized there was a second person to greet. She abandoned me and went over to meet Sam, who giggled and started scratching her ears.
“She likes it when you scratch just above her tail on her butt. Yeah, there.”
Portia grunted and snorted with delight as Sam crouched down on one knee and scratched the pig with two hands. Portia must have realized that Sam meant business and started to rub her side against Sam’s shin.
“Sciocchina, dove sei?” Tom said from inside the house since several of the windows facing the driveway were open. The door opened a moment later, and his eyes widened in surprise, like he wasn’t expecting us. “Oh! Danica. Ciao!”
“Uh … Hello. Ciao,” I said. “You … you seem surprised to see us. Is it still okay that we’re here?”
“Si, si. Sorry, I … lost track of time.” He glanced at Sam, who giggled even more now that Portia had turned around and was rubbing her butt against Sam’s shin as Sam continued to scratch her. “Portia. Impolite. Fermati.”
Portia glanced at her owner, but seemed to be in too much of a butt-scratch trance to obey.
He rolled his light-brown eyes and shook his head. “Such an attention vacuum.” Addressing Sam, he softened his tone. “Would you like to meet some of the animals?”
I could see Sam begin to retreat within herself, but she couldn’t completely because Portia wouldn’t let her. She nodded shyly.
Tom nodded. “Andiamo. This way.” He whistled and clapped his hand to the side of his thigh, which prompted Portia to grunt and snap out of her fugue. Then she fell in line next to him, happily grunting and trotting in pace with her dad.
Sam and I exchanged looks, and I shrugged, both of us following Tom toward the big, green barn with white trim.
He held the door open for us, waiting with a soft, patient expression on his face. I nodded and smiled at him as I stepped through the side door, getting instantly hit with the scent of fresh hay and maybe just a little manure. But not in an overwhelming or off-putting way.
“The horses come and go from the barn to the field as they wish. Most are out right now,” he said, stepping around us. “Except for Mouse.” He stopped beside the beautiful, small, gray horse with a black mane. “Mouse is very shy. She tends to only go outside when the others are in.”
He reached out to pet Mouse, but she moved her head to the side so he couldn’t.
Then he glanced at Sam. “She won’t hurt you.
She was … she was abused where she was before and picked on by other horses.
So she’s not sure who to trust.” He cocked his head to the side and gave the pretty gray mare an empathetic look. “Only had her about five months.”
I could see my daughter grow more interested in Mouse as she heard the horse’s story.
A flash of determination in her eyes brought a stinging sensation to my own.
With slight trepidation and hesitation, Sam reached her hand toward Mouse.
The little mare’s big, dark eyes with long, black lashes focused on my daughter’s face, rather than her hand.
She could have easily moved deeper into the stall or turned her head away entirely, but she didn’t.
“Hi, Mouse,” Sam whispered. “I know what it’s like to be picked on too. I’m sorry that happened to you.”
Mouse blinked and breathed heavily through her nostrils.
I glanced up and found Tom watching me. When he realized I saw him, he quickly averted his gaze, focusing now on Mouse and Sam.
The tips of Sam’s fingers grazed Mouse’s cheek, only for a second, before the horse pulled away and tucked herself toward the back of her stall.
Sam’s chin fell to her chest in disappointment.
“She won’t even let me do that,” Tom said. “She likes you. You keep coming back and show her that you mean no harm, and I bet you will become her favorite person.”
Sam brightened a little.
He took us on a tour of the property, including out into the field where several of the curious four-legged beasts came over to greet us. The whole time though, we were accompanied by our trusty co-tour guide Portia.
“This is Pixie and Piccolo,” Tom said, referring to the sandy-bodied pony with a tan mane, and the silver-hued pony with lots of white spots, almost like dappling, and a blonde mane.
“Pixie is … Pixie has no off switch. And Piccolo,” he stroked the silver pony’s mane, “they are best friends, but sometimes Piccolo has had enough of Pixie’s shenanigans and just needs to go take a nap. ”
As if she understood what he was saying, Piccolo nodded her pretty head.
That made all three of us chuckle.
“Over there is the other pony, Blodyn, which is Welsh for ‘Flower.’ She is a Welsh Pony and best friends with the very feisty and moody Sandrine, who has the golden coat and white mane and tail.” He pointed to the farthest shady spot in the field where Sandrine and Blodyn stood watching all of them with keen interest.
“That one over there is enormous,” I said, pointing to the behemoth who was rubbing its neck against a fence post.
“That’s Monarch,” he said, nodding.
As if Monarch heard his name, he lifted his head, stared at us for a moment, then started to slowly, regally walk toward us. I sucked in a sharp breath as his size grew clearer and clearer the closer he came. The horse was absolutely gigantic.
“He is a Percheron,” Tom said as Monarch reached us. “Used to pull carriages around a city every day of the week for hours. Was hard on his knees on the concrete roads. Gentle giant, this guy. Loves people. Loves attention.” He patted his neck, then kissed it.
Monarch’s nostrils flared, and he swished his black tail, eyeing Sam and me curiously.
“He loves to be brushed,” Tom said. “And always comes to the fence to visit.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my daughter’s chest puff up a little as she boldly took a small step toward the towering beast. “H-hi, Monarch. Y-you’re a big boy.
” She reached her hand out toward his neck, but unlike Mouse—who watched with concern—Monarch seemed entirely at ease, if not eager for the pets.
Her hand made contact with his neck, and she smiled wider than I’d seen in a long time.
Tom stepped to the side as Sam started to pet Monarch and get more comfortable sharing the space with the big guy.