8. A Capable Worker #2
“She is beautiful,” I said, running my hand along the curve of her flank. “I’ll make sure her stall stays clean and dry every morning.”
Ruby pointed toward a wheelbarrow parked near the water trough. “Start moving that wet straw into the wheelbarrow. Let’s see how you do with a pitchfork.”
I let my hand fall away from the cow. A pitchfork rested against the back wall.
I grabbed it, the rough wood scraping against my hands.
I stepped straight into the stall, sinking up to my ankles in the filth.
The stench bloomed higher as I disturbed the surface crust. I adjusted my grip on the handle.
“Make sure you scrape down to the baseboards,” Ruby instructed, watching me align the tool. “The dampness rots her hooves if you leave a bottom layer.”
“I’ll get it to the wood,” I promised, pushing the tines deeper.
I drove the pitchfork into a mass of ruined straw. I heaved against the handle. A hot, tight ache spread across my shoulders as I fought the weight. The wet manure made the mass impossibly hard to lift. I heaved the foul weight into the wheelbarrow and turned back for another scoop.
The exhausting, paranoid energy of Los Angeles couldn’t follow me into the stall.
Here, there was only the burning strain in my muscles and the freezing draft cutting through my clothes.
The grueling repetition demanded my total focus.
Sweat gathered on my brow, the brutal labor finally drowning out the hollow anxiety of the mansion.
I shoved the pitchfork into the muck, throwing my weight against the handle to clear the rest of the stall.
Weeks later, the morning air inside the drafty packing shed carried the humid scent of cut greenery.
I stood at the end of the prep table, holding the hose.
I aimed the nozzle into a bucket, letting the water run until it reached the brim.
Releasing the trigger, I dropped the hose onto the concrete floor.
I grabbed the bucket and hoisted it upward. The bucket scraped the table as I set the load down.
I shoved the bucket forward. Icy water sloshed over the rim, splashing against my stomach and soaking straight through the bib of my overalls.
The initial shock of the cold water against my skin made my stomach roll.
A sudden, violent wave of first-trimester nausea hit me, making my mouth water with the urge to gag. I let go of the wire handle.
I pressed my hands against the freezing table. I locked my arms, bracing my weight against the edge.
I stared down at the edge of the prep table. Just breathe through it. Get these last fifty stems processed before the wholesale truck arrives.
I held my position over the table, waiting for the sickness to pass.
Back in Los Angeles, dealing with this nausea would have meant retreating to a silent, empty bedroom until Hayes finished his studio interview.
The nausea was just another hurdle I had to push past. Every stem I cleared meant extra cash in my pocket.
The ache in my lower spine and the chill of my shirt were a fair trade for keeping my child safe.
The rolling sensation in my stomach finally began to settle. I pushed off the table and stood up straight, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead.
“Sutton, I need two more buckets of water for the hydrangeas!” Ruby shouted, her voice echoing out from the insulated walls of the walk-in cooler at the far end of the shed. “The stems are starting to wilt in this draft.”
I pulled a pair of floral shears from my pocket.
“I’m sliding them down the table right now!” I called back, my voice ringing off the tin roof. “Just give me two seconds to clear off this prep space.”
I grabbed a handful of discarded, crushed leaves and swept them off the edge of the table into a compost bin on the floor. The workspace was clean. The nausea was gone. I picked up the shears, ready to cut the rest of the stems.
The loud rumble of a diesel engine echoed from the gravel driveway outside.
A tall, heavily tattooed man walked through the open roll-up door of the packing shed.
I recognized him immediately. I had spent the last few weeks watching him repair the shared property fence line from a distance, but we had never actually spoken.
He pulled off his work gloves, dusting dry earth from his jeans.
The vibrating hum of the walk-in cooler kicked on behind me. He looked up at the sudden noise, his eyes landing on the prep tables. He walked directly up to the edge of my workspace. The damp, earthy air of the shed mixed with the smell of fresh soil radiating from his clothes.
“Looks like you’ve got a long morning ahead of you,” he said, gesturing toward the mess of flowers and plastic bins.
I set the floral shears down on the table. “Ruby wants the hydration buckets filled, but I still need to get these bottom crates shifted out of the aisle before the delivery driver gets here.”
He looked down at the floral tubs sitting on the floor. The bins were overloaded with water and stems. I had been dreading dragging them across the shed all morning.
“I’m Declan, by the way,” he said. “I run the apiary and produce fields next door. Do you want a hand getting those bottom crates into the cooler?”
I stared at him for a moment. Back in Hayes’s orbit, a favor always carried strings attached. Men didn’t offer help unless a camera was present or a studio executive was watching. Declan was just standing in the drafty shed, wiping dirt from his knuckles and waiting for an answer.
“I’m Sutton,” I said. “And yes, please. My lower back was starting to protest the idea of lifting those.”
Declan nodded and stepped around the table. He didn’t make a grand production out of the effort. He simply squatted, gripped the handles of the heaviest tub, and heaved it clear of the floor. His tattooed forearms flexed under the strain.
“Nice to meet you, Sutton,” he said, carrying the tub toward the cooler doors.
The bin scraped against the concrete as he set the load down.
I braced my hips back against the edge of the prep table, taking the weight off my aching spine.
I watched him walk back for the second tub.
Having someone offer a hand—without stepping in and attempting to take over my workspace—was a relief.
“I share the irrigation lines with Ruby, so I’m over here pretty often,” Declan said, lifting the final bin. “Just point to whatever else needs to go inside, and I’ll make sure it gets stacked.”
“I think that covers the worst of the heavy lifting for today,” I said. “I appreciate you stepping in to save my spine.”
“It’s no trouble,” he replied, sliding the bin into line against the insulated wall.
He wiped his palms and stepped back into the main aisle. He didn’t hover or act like I was fragile. He simply finished the task and got out of the way.
A commercial delivery truck backed up the muddy approach, aiming directly for the concrete loading dock. The air brakes hissed as the vehicle parked. The driver’s side door clicked open. A man wearing a neon safety vest stepped out of the cab, carrying a clipboard.
I pushed away from the edge of the steel table. “I’ll handle the manifest, Declan. Just watch your step around the tailgate.”
“I’ll stay clear,” Declan said.
I walked out to the edge of the concrete dock. A sudden gust of coastal wind blew across the yard, carrying the scent of diesel exhaust. The driver walked up the stairs and met me near the edge of the open bay door, holding the clipboard out.
“I’ve got twenty boxes of commercial fertilizer and a dozen rolls of greenhouse plastic,” the driver said. “I just need a signature confirming the pallet count before I drop the tailgate.”
“Let me check the load,” I said.
I stepped to the edge of the dock and peered into the back of the open truck bed. The inventory was stacked precisely on pallets, wrapped tightly in shrink-wrap. I verified the pallet count, checking the number against the invoice.
In Los Angeles, I had organized Hayes’s dry cleaning, sorted his scripts, and managed his chaotic schedule while remaining entirely invisible. Now, I was actually managing an inventory, and my signature held weight.
I turned back to the driver and took the clipboard. “The count looks accurate. You can leave the fertilizer pallets right here on the dock, and we’ll haul them into the storage shed later.”
“You got it, ma’am,” the driver said. “I’ll have the truck unloaded and out of your way in ten minutes.”
I clicked the ballpoint pen. Pressing the pen to the paper felt satisfyingly solid. I signed my name on the bottom line, accepting the delivery on Ruby’s behalf.
I handed the clipboard back to the driver. The men on this farm didn’t treat me like a liability to be hidden from the press; they simply gave me the pen and trusted me to do the work.
The driver turned around and walked back toward the rear of the truck. Another gust of wind hit the side of the shed, chilling the damp hem of my cotton shirt.
“I’m pulling the bay door down to block the wind before he drops the pallets,” Declan called out.
I stepped backward over the threshold right as he grabbed the chain dangling beside the doorframe.
With one hard pull, he dragged the door down its rusted tracks.
The bay door hit the floor with a slam, sealing us inside against the afternoon weather.
He locked the latch and walked away to finish his own chores, not lingering for a thank-you.
I wiped a streak of dirt from my brow, standing tall in the cold air of the drafty shed.