Chapter 7 Eva
Eva
I’m elbow-deep in a tub scour when I hear the knock. My tummy does a flip, and for one ridiculous moment I think Asher.
Which makes no sense because Asher doesn’t leave his house unless I physically drag him out of it. And he definitely doesn’t come looking for me.
I wipe my hands and hurry to the door, already feeling foolish for the anticipation fizzing through my chest.
It’s a tiny elderly woman with white hair pulled into a bun, wearing mud-splattered overalls and bright yellow rain boots. She’s got the kind of face that’s seen everything and found most of it amusing.
“Hello, dear. I’m Ethel Bedd from down the hill.” She gestures vaguely toward the trees. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a sheep?”
I blink. “A sheep?”
“Yes. About this tall…” She holds her hand at hip height. “Cream colored, answers to Baabara. Well, she answers when she feels like it, which isn’t often.”
“Baabara?”
“Baabara Streisand Bedd,” Ethel says like it’s not hilarious. “She’s escaped again. My little artiste has a gift for finding weak spots in fencing.”
“Can I help you look for her? And also…” I hold up my phone. “Would you mind if I documented this? It’s kind of amazing.”
Ethel’s eyes twinkle. “Document away, dear. Baabara is great for engagement.”
I laugh. “I love that you speak my language.”
“And I love that you’re here, dear.” She pats my arm and spins on her booted heel.
We set off through the maple trees, Ethel moving with surprising speed for a septuagenarian.
She keeps up a steady stream of chatter as we walk.
“These trees are magnificent, you know. Walter and June took such good care of them. Used to have a very handsome tree doctor come out for checkups.” She runs her hand along the bark of a massive sugar maple. “Shame they’ve been neglected.”
“I’m working on that,” I say, filming the trees, the dappled sunlight, Ethel’s weathered hands on the bark. My followers are going to eat this up. Authentic rural life, quirky characters, actual sheep-chasing… It’s gold.
Except… none of this is my brand. I post about the city, about Storm businesses in the city. About the people who make it all happen.
Ethel starts talking about her family, and I lower my phone, just listening.
“My grandson, Ethan, runs the farm now. Well, he and his brothers when they’re not bickering like children. And my granddaughter, Colleen, is an author.” She beams with obvious pride. “Ethan just had little baby Porter with Lia—that’s Asher’s sister, you know. Finally, after all these years.”
“Asher’s sister married your grandson?”
“Oh yes. It’s quite the love story. They were sweethearts in high school, then she got sick and broke things off.
Took them years to find their way back to each other.
” Ethel sighs happily. “We’re all taking turns watching Porter while they’re on a little trip.
I don’t meddle, but I made sure they knew it was just fine with me if they decided to get started on Porter’s siblings. ”
I’m trying to picture Asher as an uncle. The image doesn’t quite compute. Before I can ask any follow-up questions, Ethel flicks a branch out of her face and continues.
“Ethan says I work too hard, but what else am I going to do? Sit around watching television?” She talks about the strawberry festival they host each spring, about the community coming together, about knowing every family in Fork Lick and most of them in Climax.
I realize I was focused on the quirk and the charm, but the real treasure is this woman.
She wants me to call her Gran and seems to know everyone and everything and all of its history.
Gran Ethel Bedd is woven into the fabric of Fork Lick.
“There!” Gran points ahead. Baabara stands in a small clearing, munching on some clover that somehow survived the winter.
She’s absolutely gorgeous with creamy wool, intelligent dark eyes, and an expression that can only be described as smug.
I immediately snap a photo of the clover to send to Eden, who will definitely agree this place is good for bees.
“Baabara,” Gran says sternly. “You stop that right now.”
The sheep looks up, chews thoughtfully, and goes back to eating. I slide my phone into my pocket. “She’s beautiful.”
“She’s a menace.” But Gran’s voice is fond. “Come on, you stubborn thing.”
I approach slowly, hand outstretched. “Hey there, pretty girl.” Baabara watches me with dark, calculating eyes. I crouch, making myself smaller, less threatening. “You know,” I say conversationally, “you remind me of my sister’s donkey. His name is Chiron, and he’s a butthole. He bites.”
Baabara’s ears twitch forward. I’m not sure if sheep can be interested, but she looks it.
“Maybe you two would get along. You’ve both got that ‘I do what I want’ energy.
” I’m close enough now to touch her. I run my hand along her wool; it’s soft, warm in the afternoon sun.
Baabara leans into the touch. “Oh, you’re just a sweetheart, aren’t you?
” I scratch behind her ears, and she makes a pleased sound. “All that attitude is just for show.”
Gran Ethel watches with obvious approval. “You’re a natural. Most people are intimidated by her.”
“I grew up with four sisters. Nothing scares me.” That’s not entirely true, but I like to pretend.
Between the two of us, we coax Baabara back toward Bedd Fellows Farm. She trots along now that she’s gotten her rebellion out of her system.
“You know,” Ethel says as we walk, “Baabara really would love to meet this donkey of your sister’s.”
“Chiron? Honestly, I think they’d either become best friends or mortal enemies. No in-between.”
“Well, we should make it happen sometime. When your sister visits.” She says this casually, like it’s a given that I’ll be here long enough to have visitors, like I’m not just passing through.
I bristle at the implication, though I’m not sure why, and I immediately change the subject to ask about strawberry planting.
When we reach Bedd Fellows Farm, Ethel leads Baabara to her enclosure—which is more of a palace and fancier than any of my sisters’ houses—and secures the gate with a complicated series of latches and zip ties.
“She does like her freedom,” Ethel explains. “Ethan gets mad when she wanders.” Bedd Fellows Farm is beautiful—rolling fields, a big red barn, a tidy farmhouse with a wraparound porch. I can see why Ethel loves it here, why Asher’s sister chose to stay after she moved back here from her city life.
“Now then.” Ethel dusts off her hands and fixes me with a knowing look. “I’m having the family over for dinner on Sunday. You should come. Bring Asher.”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Nonsense. You helped me catch my sheep; you get a dinner invitation. That’s the rule.” She’s already walking toward a small structure near the barn. “Besides, Asher needs someone to persuade him to show up.”
“I don’t think I have that kind of influence.”
“Honey, I really think you do.” Gran flings open a barn door to reveal a golf cart. It’s forest green, slightly battered, with the farm logo painted on the side. If I had good internet, I’d be live-streaming this entire thing.
Gran tosses me a key on a knitted lanyard. “Here. You can borrow this to get Asher down the hill. Those crutches won’t work on this terrain.” She pats the seat. “Use it all you want till Sunday. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.”
Back at Pierce Acres, I’m scrubbing rust off an old bucket when my phone buzzes.
I periodically catch a blip of cell service, and my connected life floods back to me.
I sent my sisters a photo earlier of a rusted maple tap I’d pulled from one of the old trees.
Evidently, the entire conversation is coming through at once.
Look what I found! This thing is like 50 years old and still works!
Eden
OMG that’s so cool!! Are you going to try to make syrup??
Eila
Those old taps are actually better quality than modern ones. Hold onto it.
Eliza
The patina is beautiful. Very cottagecore.
I smile at my phone, warmed by their enthusiasm. Then Esther’s message comes through.
Esther
That’s great, Eva, but when are you coming home? Your clients (AKA me) are asking about the Q4 content calendar.
I frown and type back quickly.
Me
I’m handling it remotely! I sent Eden’s posts yesterday.
Esther
I know. I just worry about you losing momentum on what you were building here.
Esther
Playing farmer is fun for a visit, but you have a real business waiting for you.
Esther
And a bedroom that doesn’t require a tetanus shot to sleep in.
The words sting. Playing farmer. Like this is a vacation. Like I’m a kid pretending. Is that what I’m doing here? I should have gone home days ago, and maybe Esther’s right. It is impulsive and irresponsible to stay when I could handle this from Pittsburgh.
Eden
Esther, be nice
Esther
I AM being nice. I’m being practical. Eva has actual paying clients who need her attention.
Eila
She can work remotely. That’s literally the whole point of what she does.
Esther
I’m just saying. The longer she stays up there, the harder it’ll be to come back.
I stare at my phone, not sure how to respond.
They’re talking about me like I’m not here, like I’m a child listening in while the grownups talk.
She’s not wrong. I do have a life in Pittsburgh.
I do have clients. I do have a room at Esther’s house, rent-free—a safety net I’ve been relying on since high school.
But she’s also wrong. This doesn’t feel like playing. It feels like discovering something I didn’t know I was looking for.
I lean against a tree and type out a response.
I’ll get the calendar done this week. Promise.
I don’t address the rest of it. Can’t. I don’t have an answer yet. I shove my phone into my back pocket and pick up the scrub brush, attacking the bucket with more force than necessary. The satisfying scrape of metal against metal drowns out the echo of Esther’s words in my head.
Playing farmer.
I scrub harder.
I’ll show her this isn’t a game. I just have to figure out what it is.
When it starts to get dark, I head inside. I’ve been staying here since I got the power and the water going. I sink into a bath, looking through my phone at the pics I took today of Baabara in the clearing, Ethel’s hands on the maple bark, and the walk back through the grove.
It’s all really interesting stuff. My followers will love it once I get enough cell data to post it anywhere. I need to look into a part-time contract with the Meow people or something since Asher is being stingy with his Wi-Fi password.
Esther would tell me he’s setting a boundary.
I wish I could call my sisters right now and tell them I’m going to someone else’s family dinner.
I know Storm Sister meals are chaotic and loud, with everyone chiming in and talking over each other.
It’s been really nice having to set a bigger table since all my sisters partnered off.
But also a little lonely as the ninth wheel.
I wonder if Asher knows he’s being forced to dinner with his brother-in-law’s family.
I wonder if I want to return to my hometown while I’m making progress on the house here. What would it be like to stay for a bit, enjoy the home I’m sprucing up with my own two hands and help from my new friends in town?
What would it be like to stop drinking coffee with Asher Thorne every morning, trying not to stare at the way his sweatpants cling to his firm little butt? His beard has become absolutely feral, and I keep thinking it would be fun to shave him.
Maybe fun is the wrong word. I clench my thighs together and shake my head. I live in Pittsburgh. I’m running a business there. I’m coming into my own, damn it.
But then I remember my clients are my sisters. I can share their stories because I have vested interest, connection. But what do I have of my own to share?
What I have is here. Walter and June’s story. My roots.
Is it possible I could keep doing this work myself? Make people care about small-batch maple syrup the way they care about locally grown hops or urban goats that rid the city of poison ivy?
I wouldn’t just be telling someone else’s story. It would be mine.
The thought sits in my chest, warm and terrifying and… right. I shiver in the cooling bath water and use my foot to turn the tap on, reveling in the fact that I cranked that pump back to life on my own.