9. Our Way #3
Emory starts ticking her fingers off one by one, against her legs, looking to the heavens for help.
And though it isn’t my thing, I wave at the surrounding women and Asscroft and try to take the attention off of her.
“Hey, y’all. I’m Jordan Love. Emory and I are old friends, and I just met Molly, who’s my pal.
I’m also joining my parents’ veterinary practice in town.
So I’m sure I’ll be seeing all of you around more often. ”
The hugger steps close again, stretching out her hand more formally this time. “So you’re the famous Dr. Love the whole town can’t stop talking about.” She bats her eyelashes exactly like Molly does when she talks about that Theo kid.
“Um, I am.” Outside of the clinic, interactions with strangers have never been my forte or something I particularly enjoy.
I’m better with animals than people, and this woman’s forwardness makes me want to wash my hands and run back into Emory’s house to hide.
But no way can I abandon her out here alone.
“I’m Simone Bridges,” she says, refusing to let go of my hand. “I’ve been hoping I’d run into you. I’ve got a pet question or two I’d just love your expertise on, Dr. Love.” She giggles and winks, flipping a long sheet of dark reddish hair over her shoulder.
“You don’t have any pets,” another of the women snides as she approaches, stumbling slightly in the platform heels she’s wearing.
She pulls me into an unwanted hug, too, and only releases me halfway, holding my arms in place so I’m trapped and can’t escape.
“Hey, Jordan. I’m sure you remember me. Bree Taylor.
Homecoming Queen your senior year. My daddy owns the car dealership just outside of town. ”
I have never seen this woman before in my life.
“Sorry, I uh… no.”
Emory coughs into her hands, patting herself in the chest to really sell the fit she’s having, though you’d have to be blind not to see the smirk on her face. She really does not like these women.
“You okay over there, Red?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says, doing little to hide her grin.
Seeing her small burst of happiness feels like getting a glimpse of the old Emory.
The girl I remember smiled more often than not.
Now, those smiles are shadowed with anxiety and tension.
I’d do just about anything to see more of her happy.
Lighter. “I think I’m about as good as I can be.
Thanks. This is our Parent Teacher Association.
We’re planning an event here at the farm—”
“Potentially,” Queen Bree corrects. “We’ll need to discuss it and vote. Compared to previous years, I just don’t believe that a muddy homestead is where an event of this magnitude should take place. And did you see that dead rodent before the mailbox?” She clutches her throat, selling the drama.
I swear, I have to stifle my annoyance. Some people just don’t have a sense of humor.
“The disgusting thing had a welcome balloon attached to its ankle. Absolutely repulsive. Our children and the families of Honey Hill deserve more, don’t they?”
Yeah. Not a fan of Bree. While I don’t think a bit of roadkill skewed her perception of Purple Pastures, I’d hate for her to influence the others.
“I believe we already voted on what we think of your opinions, Bree… which is why Emory will be leading that charge now that she’s president,” another woman interjects, winking at Emory. I do like her. “I think your farm is lovely, Emory. I’m only sorry I haven’t been here before.”
Emory clears her throat, cheeks suddenly rosy. “Um. Yes. Thanks, Tisha. That’s to say… I think maybe we should discuss funding and what the budget will allow, and we don’t have to use the farm if it won’t work. I know it doesn’t look like much, but—”
I can’t stop myself from interrupting, and I certainly won’t allow this confident woman to falter, even the slightest, over her accomplishments and the farm I know she literally built with her own hands and relentless hard work.
“Actually,” I say, stepping so that I’m side by side with Emory, whether she likes it or not.
“Purple Pastures and Alpaca is a fully functioning, forty-acre farm, perfectly curated for an event. With fresh lavender and the herd of alpacas as the backdrop, I think you’ll find yourself and the rest of the Honey Hill families falling in love quickly with all the farm has to offer.
I’d love to give you all that tour. I know this farm backwards and forwards, and Emory has had me working on getting the place ready and extra special for your festival. ”
“Carnival,” the only ally in the group, corrects me.
“Right. Carnival for…”
The wannabe pet owner crosses her arms, unconvinced of my aptitude. “Our fifth graders.”
“Yes.” Snapping my fingers, I point at her. “Correct, Ms… Sophia.”
“Simone.” She is supremely unimpressed.
“Right. Ms. Simone. Don’t you think Fifth-Grade Festival has a better ring to it?”
“We can workshop it,” Emory says, sounding exactly like Molly, with another small smile tilting her lips that I see as a peace accord. One I won’t squander.
Vet. Friend. Handyman. Tour guide.
I don’t care what Emory calls me. Because when I give her a wordless nod and she responds in kind, it feels like we might just be on the same team again.