10. Sadie
10
SADIE
T his is one of those days when I don’t notice my own exhaustion until I nearly face plant into a bowl of Peggy’s borscht.
“It’s not shampoo,” scolds Peggy as she rescues my hair from dropping into the soup. One of her six cats tiptoes across the small kitchen table and pauses to sniff the edge of my bowl. Peggy pulls the cat into her arms and settles into the rustic wooden chair opposite me. “You won’t be moving until you’ve finished that soup, missy. I know darn well you skipped lunch.”
I tuck more errant strands of hair behind my ears in case they’re tempted to take a borscht bath. “In my defense, the time was well spent. Wait until the puppies see their new fenced in playground.”
Peggy holds her purring cat with one hand and passes a small ceramic bowl with the other. “Add some dill. And keep that spoon moving. I mean it when I say you won’t be leaving this table until you’ve swallowed every bite.”
I know better than to argue with Peggy. She may be more than triple my age but her sharp eyes miss nothing and her even sharper tongue is a force to be reckoned with. I wouldn’t have it any other way. My debt to Peggy can never be repaid. She’s a caretaker to everyone at the ranch, including me. Especially me.
When I bought this property using the bulk of the inheritance left by my mother, I was high on idealism and short on experience. I’d spent my life in the cloistered confines of the wealthy Wingate universe. I knew all about salad forks and designer labels but my practical skills, to put it mildly, were lacking.
As if sent by an angel, along came a tiny white-haired woman in a colorful crocheted granny square cardigan to set me straight. The locals in Sleepy Rock considered Peggy as something of a lovable eccentric with a mysterious background. No one knew how many years she’d lived in the tiny log cabin at the end of a lonely dirty road but everyone agreed it was a long time.
Peggy’s energy seemed to have no limits. She was offended when asked if she should be doing hard labor such as digging a garden or carrying around a sixty pound German Shepherd suffering from a mangled paw.
“The first lesson you need to learn is that I’m unbreakable,” she’d said and then kept pushing a wheelbarrow full of dirt and rocks.
I was tickled when Peggy accepted my offer to move into the cozy three room apartment attached to the main ranch house. It’s my earnest hope that she never ever leaves.
Peggy lived here for a year before finally sharing her personal history. She was born and raised in a tiny Massachusetts coastal town. She thought she’d spend her life in that seaside haven until a severe storm overturned her father’s fishing boat. She lost him that day and she lost her fiancé too. After that she didn’t want to look at the ocean anymore. Out here in the southwestern heart of Colorado, she doesn’t need to.
Peggy murmurs soft words to her cat while I obediently decorate my borscht with sprigs of fresh dill. Beneath the table, another of Peggy’s cats rubs against my ankles and purrs. A burning candle adds the scent of vanilla. The scene couldn’t be cozier. As I swallow a mouthful of the fragrant soup made from beets, cabbage and potatoes, a deep sense of satisfaction joins the spreading warmth in my belly.
The day had been a busy one. First thing this morning I picked up three dogs who were on the euthanasia list at the county animal shelter. After getting the newcomers accustomed to their new individual kennels in The Doghouse, I conducted the first of my daily rounds to check the status of every animal on the ranch. Then came hours of dirty work with the help of Peggy and some volunteers as we thoroughly cleaned out all the kennels and the stable. After that a group of local teens showed up to help install the fence for the new puppy playground.
Now that the sun has gone down, all that fresh air and hard labor has officially caught up to me. My muscles are aching and my eyes are threatening to squeeze shut. Yet another one of Peggy’s cats lands on the table and sniffs at my bowl. Her twitching nose seems to complain that if I’m not going to devour my soup faster then she’ll be happy to pick up the slack.
Peggy hands me a slice of freshly baked crusty bread. I grab for it like a five-year-old snatching a cookie.
“If heaven had a taste,” I say with my mouth full, “this would be it.”
Peggy’s hawk eyes watch every mouthful I take until my bowl is officially empty. “Now you go and take yourself to bed. I have to feed the sourdough and prepare biscuit dough for tomorrow. There will be breakfast waiting here. Be sure to eat it because I don’t always have time to chase you down.”
I plant a kiss on her weathered cheek and wrap my arms around her slim body whether she wants me to or not. “Thank you for feeding me.”
She sniffs but the corners of her mouth twitch. “Get out of my kitchen and get some sleep before you collapse.”
“I won’t collapse.”
“You’d better not. What good would that do anyone? And no staying up to read all hours of the night.”
Technically, I can read in my bed until dawn breaks if I want to. Yet Peggy’s brand of stern semi-mothering never fails to delight me. I wonder if I’d feel differently had I not lost my own mother so young.
“On my honor,” I say and snatch another slice of bread, which I devour in two bites.
The interior door that connects Peggy’s apartment to the rest of the house is often open. The house is far larger than what I need. Two of the bedrooms are permanently set up for guests. Sometimes a volunteer or two will work late and I’ll urge them to spend the night, especially if the weather is bad. But it’s Gus who crashes here most often. She has her own house key and the largest guest bedroom is decorated with a Halloween theme because my BFF is a year round pumpkin spice spooky season kind of girl.
While I have every intention of retiring to my own bedroom rather than incur Peggy’s wrath, first I take a final peek at the hospital wing of the house where we house the animals who are too temporarily fragile to live in the other buildings. Newborn litters or medical cases or new guests who are simply too fearful to be mixed with the others just yet. Naturally, not every animal can be accommodated in the hospital wing. A horse, for example, wouldn’t fit very well in a den-sized space.
Tonight the only inhabitants are two newly spayed cats and a four-week-old litter of heeler pups with their mama, who was picked up as a stray by the county shelter the day before she gave birth. They’ve all been tended to and tucked in already. When I slide the switch up to bathe the room in a dim light, the mama heeler raises a tired head and blinks at me. Her puppies are all nestled cheek by jowl in a sleeping pile beside her.
Jasper, one of our most dedicated high school volunteers, won the informal drawing for naming rights when they were born. The fact that Jasper was trying to memorize the periodic tables at the time is the reason we now have Copper, Zinc, Gold and Silver with mama Nickel. Nickel’s tail thumps once when I reach into the pen to scratch behind her ears.
“Good night, sweet lady,” I whisper. Nickel breathes out a contented sigh, laying her head down once more. I leave the room with my heart full.
Tomorrow I can look forward to another rewarding day at the ranch. Gus will be here in the afternoon to give the puppies their shots and check on a few minor medical issues. I’ve already made a mental note to ask her to check the front left leg of our newest horse, Wylie. He’d been underfed and chained to a post for months. Finally, after a lot of pleading and a fine from the county, the owner relinquished him and allowed us to bring him to Bright Hearts.
Whenever I see evidence of an animal being mistreated, my very soul crumbles. I know that I can’t help them all but I’ll never stop trying.
After a quick check on all the door locks and one final glance out the living room window at the quiet outbuildings, I climb the creaky steps to my bedroom at the top of the stairs. As expected, I find two oversized hounds stretched out on my bed atop the rag quilt sewn by Peggy.
“Sorry to interrupt your nap, boys.” I kick off my cruddy work boots before sitting on the bed where I’m instantly swamped by sloppy dog kisses and smacked with wagging tails.
Apollo and Zeus were the very first dogs taken in by Bright Hearts. They’d lived their whole lives outside, their only shelter an unheated shed. Then when they got older their owner brought them to Gus’s veterinary clinic in town and wanted them euthanized. Gus waited until the man left and then brought them here. I’d barely moved in and the outbuildings hadn’t even been cleaned yet. Apollo and Zeus didn’t mind. They made themselves right at home in my bedroom and became part of my family, along with Gus and Peggy and our lovely volunteers.
Back in those early days I struggled with self doubt, still reeling over the fallout from my broken engagement and all the humiliation that came with it. I was positive I’d done the right thing in ditching Grant and fleeing New York. Yet there were moments when my father’s disapproving face would swim in front of my eyes. Then my chest would tighten with fear that I’d fail everyone I’d grown to love here.
I haven’t failed. I’ve had a lot of help along the way and I’m lucky beyond words.
Once the dogs are satisfied that they’ve received enough of a greeting they resume their sleeping positions and I’m free to escape to the shower. One the way to the bathroom I shrug out of my fleece-lined flannel and then switch on the water in the pink-tiled shower stall. Whoever invented indoor plumbing and hot water heaters will forever be my hero.
When I stand at the vanity mirror, I expect my reflection to look tired and it is. There’s a smudge of dirt on my cheek and my skin, free of makeup, is reddened from exposure to the wind. The callouses on my hands make some of my fingers look swollen and my nails, trimmed down to the skin, would horrify a manicurist.
Steam begins to drift from the shower and I peel off my white t-shirt. Now that I’m standing here in my bra, there’s something else I need to deal with. The silver chain around my neck is intentionally long, easy to tuck beneath my clothes. If it wasn’t, I’d have a little bit of difficulty explaining why there’s a five carat diamond ring dangling from the end.
Cale has kept his promises to me and I have kept my promises to him. He wanted me to wear his ring and so I’m wearing it. He insisted that no one could know the truth about our sham marriage and no one does. In fact, I haven’t told anyone that I’m even married.
I dislike lying. I really really dislike lying to the people I care about. Peggy was satisfied with my mumbling explanation that I solved our financial crisis by making a deal. Gus was more suspicious. For four months I’ve kept the knowledge of my secret fake mafia husband from my best friend. It’s not a great feeling.
At first, I didn’t see how I’d pull off the charade. The only reason I’ve been successful is because my New York family and my Bright Hearts family don’t collide in any way. No one with the last name Wingate will be showing up here anytime this century.
I waited to return from my ‘honeymoon’ before sharing the news with the Wingates. To say it didn’t go over well is like saying the Joker doesn’t like Batman.
My father was incensed. He announced that I was a disgrace to the family name and I’m ninety-nine percent sure he immediately called his lawyer to erase me from the will. My sister said she was in the middle of getting waxed and hung up on me. My brother demanded an immediate annulment. My stepmother, Arlena, was the only who even tried to be polite. She sent me six brand new pairs of designer high heels in various shades of pink. They were all the wrong size and I don’t wear heels unless forced but it’s the thought that counts.
Nothing about my relationship with my family has improved in the last four months and we are currently at a stalemate. I have to search online for updates on my brother’s political campaign. The fact that the Dukes are in the playoffs should have improved my father’s attitude but he’s holding a grudge. This bothers me, my family’s rejection. Even if I’m used to the feeling, it still bothers me.
I slip the chain from my neck and deposit it, ring and all, into a small tumbler beside the sink where it will stay until tomorrow morning. Then I spend a good chunk of quality time with a hot shower. It’s when I’m toweling off that my thoughts drift to Cale.
This is Friday night and I have no clue what he might be doing. His work schedule is a mystery. His personal life is a mystery. Cale himself is a mystery.
At least once a week I’m tempted to call him for a real conversation to put an end to some of those mysteries. Like what does he like to do in his free time? What’s his favorite animal? If he could choose one fantastic thing to see in his life, what would it be? Maybe we could be friends.
Yet I always chicken out. I have my reasons.
In Vegas, Cale made it pretty clear how friendly he’s willing to be. Not very friendly at all. Aside from a kiss that practically liquefied my kneecaps, Cale kept his distance. He still keeps his distance. I’m grateful for the regular deposits to my bank account and I keep sharing the progress on the ranch. He rarely responds with more than a few words. Cale Connelly doesn’t want to be my friend.
I’m tying the belt of my comfy terrycloth robe when my phone starts buzzing. As I bend over to yank the phone from the back pocket of my discarded jeans, I have the crazy thought that Cale is calling.
He’s not calling. My sister is.
I can imagine the look on my face. Not pleasant, I’m sure.
Then a bolt of terror strikes. Hadley never ever calls just for a sisterly chat. What if my father’s sick? Or hurt? I can’t bear the thought.
Thank goodness I don’t need to.
“SCRAPS,” Hadley wails, “you’ll never believe what happened to me!”
“Are you okay?”
“NOOOOOOO.” Sniff. Sniff. Hiccup. “You know how Kylie was supposed to be my maid of honor?”
“No, I didn’t know that.” Because I don’t even know who Kylie is. But at least my heart is no longer pounding as I take a seat on the bathroom floor. Nothing is really wrong. Hadley is just being Hadley. To her, real tragedies that happen to other people are never a big deal whereas every speed bump in the road of her life is cause for a meltdown.
In between all the sniveling and the howling and the demand for some unseen party on the other end to refill her wine glass, Hadley reveals that her intended maid of honor has bailed on her wedding duties. Something about an argument over a bikini while on a yacht in the Caribbean.
“She KNEW I’d just shared that photo to my Instabook page and I’ve worked so hard to build my audience and then ten minutes later she posts her own photo.”
“I see. And she was wearing the same swimsuit?”
“Yes, well it was almost the same except it was blue instead of black and hers tied in the front. But she even paired it with a wide-brimmed beach hat that came from exactly the same collection as mine and she also used two of my hashtags. When I called her out she didn’t even apologize. She just said my lip fillers were crooked and excessive.”
This is so stupid my head is starting to hurt but I simply made a vague noise of sympathy that sounds like, “Mmmm.”
Hadley spends the next ten minutes ranting about the cardinal sins committed by ex-maid-of-honor Kylie and then she gets to the point of her call, which isn’t just to cry on my shoulder. “So you’ll do it.”
That didn’t sound like a question. “Do what?”
“Be my maid of honor. You have to. There’s no one else I can ask on such short notice. The wedding is in six weeks.”
I hadn’t planned on attending Hadley’s latest wedding. I figured the fact that I haven’t even received an invitation yet would give me an excuse.
“What do you mean you don’t have anyone else to ask? You have a million friends.”
“Of course, but you’re my sister . And you’d never steal my hashtags, would you? Listen, I have no idea what size you are so I’m sending you the link for the dress. You have plenty of time to get it properly altered. The color is peach, which I know doesn’t really match your look but that can’t be helped at this point unless you’re going to dye your hair. I’ve always known you would look far less unhealthy and washed out as a blonde.”
I try to picture myself as a blonde maid of honor in a peach dress. I fail.
“Hadley, I don’t think-”
But she just keeps trucking right ahead. “Oh, you don’t have to if you’re going to be a baby about it. We’ll just hide your hair in a tight French twist. Completely doable.”
She’s not going to take no for an answer with grace. But that’s too bad because there’s no way I’m agreeing to her demands.
Then she utters a word I have never once heard from my sister and must have pained her to part with.
“Please,” she says, rather meekly.
I should say no. I have every right to say no. The word ‘NO’ is right on the tip of my tongue, begging to be unleashed.
“All right,” I sigh. “Count me in.”
Once Hadley receives the answer she wanted, she no longer has any use for the conversation. She reminds me to order the dress and warns that I’ll need to keep an eye on the delivery truck so the locals don’t steal the dress when it arrives. She ends the call without saying goodbye.
I would describe my mood as shellshocked as I change into a flannel nightshirt and finger comb my wet hair. If I had any guts I’d call her right back and say I couldn’t make it to the wedding after all because I forgot I had plans to shovel rocks that weekend.
Then again, standing up as Hadley’s maid of honor might be a key to solving the current cold war between me and my family. I don’t expect us to be close. But it would be nice if my father looked my way with something other than profound disappointment. And I wouldn’t mind receiving a phone call now and then from my brother.
I’ll give it some thought. At the moment the only thing I can think about is the need for sleep. Zeus and Apollo have relocated to their cushy dog beds on the floor so I’ve got the whole king-sized mattress to myself.
“Sweet dreams, boys.” I yawn as I switch off the bedside lamp and turn on my sound machine.
Now that I’m cozily snuggled into my bed and surrounded by darkness I finally understand just what I’ve gotten myself into.
There’s more than a family wedding waiting for me in New York. I happen to have a husband there too. I assume I’ll be expected to bring him to the wedding. It would be odd if I didn’t. My family thinks I’m married. I’ll have to act married, husband and all.
My last troubled thought before I drift off to sleep is that if I have to see Cale Connelly in the near future (and it seems I do) at least the event will take place over a thousand miles away in his world.
Not here in mine.
That prospect might actually keep me up at night.