2. From This Valley #2
“Oh! PTA!” Dinah claps her hands and announces, “Guys, she had a PTA meeting. Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.
Tell us everything.” I picture her sliding onto the counter of the store, letting her legs dangle over the side, and the rest of her friends happily hanging out at their prospective places at the countertop, enjoying their usuals and leaning in for all the juicy Honey Hill gossip.
“Did anyone cry?” Chloe asks, somewhere in the distance.
Her sister Joey answers before I do, “I bet Bree did. Simone is ruthless.”
Agreements echo in the background, then everyone falls silent waiting on my update. An update they apparently live for on a monthly basis.
“Both cried.” I then announce without preamble, “And I’m the new PTA president.”
The phone erupts with questions, a good diversion if there ever was one, but my phone has another call coming in. “Dinah Belle, I’ve gotta go. Sorry!” says the liar. “Charlie’s calling. Love you, byeeeee.”
I hit end before she can get another word in and answer Charlie.
Charlie, as usual, jumps into conversation as if we’ve been talking for hours and not for the first time since yesterday morning.
“Ya know, I told that hippie at the juice store that there was no way in tarnation you’d ever, as a loyal customer and friend of mine, drink their nonsense concoctions for health and wellness rather than using the many oils I’ve supplied you with over the years. ”
“Charlotte, I thought we agreed it wasn’t kind to continue calling Ocean and Haven the hippies. They’re valued members of Honey Hill and people. Use their names.”
“And I thought we agreed you’d find out the hard way what’ll happen if you ever used my Christian name again.”
I wait patiently as she works out the irony of her statement.
Since meeting Charlie a few years ago, I haven’t gone a day without hearing from her.
It’s been nice, regardless of how kooky she can be, to have an older woman checking in on Molly and me.
Spoiling us in the ways she knows best, with essential oils and tonics for any given ailment.
Daily phone calls and uninvited visits to the farm, always when I seem to be at my most lonely.
It’s as if she has some sort of Emory radar, swooping in at the most inconvenient and surprisingly appropriate of times.
Charlie’s a staple in our life now. A wonderful, well-meaning meddler with big opinions and a big heart.
I turn at the traffic light finally taking me out of town, and Charlie concedes, huffing an exasperated breath.
“They’re tree huggin’ lunatics, and don’t you dare change the subject, ma’am.
What did you go there for? Was it an immunity booster?
Or something for gas? You know I have an oil for that. ”
I can’t help the giggle that escapes, thankful for a bit of levity. “Molly loves their morning smoothie. I just wanted to treat her on the way to school, Charlie. That’s all. You know we use your goodies every day.”
The smoothie Molly is currently obsessed with is called Be Enlightened, but I think mentioning that would only encourage Charlie’s ire.
She harumphs again.
“Ya know…” I begin, appeasing her for the business woman she is, “I could use a few oils for the girls.”
“You want to use my oils on your livestock, Emory? Really?” She’s putting on airs, a little fight before she folds like a lawn chair.
“Only the best for my alpacas.”
“As it happens,” she says, “I just did some research on the benefits of cedar and lavender oil for skin health and insect repellant on livestock.”
“Hmmmm,” I hum. “A little light reading, huh? What a coincidence.”
“Oh, don’t get all high and mighty. A woman has to have something to read on the porcelain throne from time to time. So when I finished the one for book club this month, I remembered you whining the other day about Pamela acting strange and did some research.”
“You read your book club romances on the toilet?” My snort is sincere. This conversation is already brightening my day significantly. Another win for Charlie Banner.
“Young lady, if you’d ever come to book club,” she says so punitively, I can all but see her shaking her finger at me, “you’d know that you simply cannot put down a viking and pirate romance. It’s criminal.”
“Vikings and pirates? Who’s doing the plundering in that pairing?” I’m only teasing, because I know for a fact that Charlie is reading tasteful, albeit fantastical, romances with a small group of women in town. One of which is my sister, who’d be absolutely delighted by this conversation.
“Do ya want the oils or not?”
“Yes, please.”
My hands clench around the steering wheel at the reminder of Pamela’s behavior as of late.
The matriarch of our herd, Pamela, has been with me since the beginning.
She’s my furbaby. My girl. My favorite, if a farmer is allowed to have one.
In fact, if it was socially acceptable—and I didn’t think my sister would send me to the loony bin for it—I’d bring Pamela in the house to live out the rest of her years in luxury.
Pammy would quietly judge the rest of the girls, in her regal way, from a large window overlooking the pasture in the comfort of her own, alpaca-friendly bedroom.
“She’s lethargic. Still isn’t eating normally, and… well, she just isn’t herself.”
“I’ll add in some clove, too. For good measure. Has the doc been out to see her?” Charlie’s tone gentles. She knows what Pamela means to Molly and me. What all of the girls do.
“She’s coming today, actually. In about an hour.”
Right after I give the news to sweet Tommy, who’s presently mucking out stalls, that his employment with me is technically insolvent. I’m an expert on that topic now, so he’ll get a fine tutorial as I hesitantly show him the door.
“Let me know how it goes, sweetheart.” Charlie sighs. “I’ll bring the oils by tonight for ya so I can give my girl a hug, too.”
“Thanks, Charlie.”
“Keep your chin up, ya hear?” she says just before I hang up. “Things will all work out.”
I hum a halfhearted agreement and end the call.
In my experience, things don’t always work out.
You can make all the plans in the world: fall in love, start a family, settle down, bring a business to life from the ground up, yet—even with the best of intentions and the most faithful of prayers—businesses fail, plans crumble, and the loved ones you make those plans with can tragically leave you behind long before you imagined possible.
So, I rearrange those scratched up, reality-colored glasses of mine, lest I allow optimism to weasel her way in where she doesn’t belong, and turn up the music for the last leg of the drive home—practicing my upcoming firing speech with nineties hip-hop as my guide—only slowing as I take the final turn towards the farm and notice an odd bit of roadkill that wasn’t there this morning.
Someone’s gone through the trouble of tying a giant red balloon to what I can now see is a little raccoon paw that reads, “Best Day Ever!”
Thanks to rigor mortis and an unfortunately ironic grimace, the poor thing looks like he’s waving at me with a giant, pained smile on his face. I salute him as I roll by and vow that even if this is far from the best day ever, there will be brownies baked in his honor.