Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Sure enough, Josh and Mike the Prepper’s collaboration proves exhausting for my husband.
When I come back from my errands in Buckholt—Jack and Rose had good checkups and no cavities—Josh is sprawled on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, a beer in hand, even though it’s only four o’clock in the afternoon, which is a little early for him.
“How was it?” I ask as my dad goes to make tea, Jack flops on the opposite end of the sofa with the iPad—his post-YouTube ban was lifted last week—and Rose runs out to greet Celestia and Moonbeam.
Josh doesn’t move his gaze from the ceiling. “It was… productive,” he says after a moment, his tone resigned.
“Well, that’s good,” I offer cautiously.
Josh sighs. “Yeah… if I can just get over Mike acting as if he knows better than me every single second, I’ll be fine.” He finally turns to look at me, smiling ruefully. “And the trouble is, he does know better than me. And he’s a nice guy. So, I’m just a jerk.”
“Well, you’re a very nice jerk,” I tell him, coming over to kiss him.
Josh catches my hand in his. “I feel sorry for the guy, really,” he tells me as he threads his fingers through mine. “I think you were right when you said he was lonely. A lot of the time we were working, he was saying what a nice family we are, how lucky I was.”
He’s silent for a moment, staring down at our twined fingers.
“And he was right. I am lucky. When I think of him building his whole setup there—and it’s impressive—just for himself, it feels…
sad.” He glances up at me, looking surprisingly emotional, although Josh has always been a bit of a weeper.
I used to be a pretty solid non-crier, but these pregnancy hormones have really socked it to me.
“It made me glad and thankful that we’re doing this together, for each other. ”
“Me, too,” I answer, my voice thickening. There go my pregnancy hormones. I think of Mike heading back to his homestead, and I vow to make more of an effort.
The next morning, Mike is back bright and early with his thermos of chicory coffee and a cheery smile.
I invite him in for eggs and toast—I baked a loaf last night—the homemade butter and jam already on the table.
Okay, I might be bragging a little, but something about Mike makes me—and Josh, it seems—want to prove that while we may not be entirely self-sufficient, we are getting there.
“How’s the root cellar going?” Last night I inspected the hole they’d started digging in the hillside, propped up by wooden supports.
“Pretty good, pretty good,” Mike assures me as he makes himself comfortable at the kitchen table. “But your dear husband didn’t think we needed supports!” He lets out a full belly laugh. “He’d have had the whole hillside crashing down on us if I hadn’t talked some sense into him.”
He’s still chuckling as Josh comes into the kitchen, his slightly strained smile evidence that he heard Mike’s remark.
“They didn’t use supports on the YouTube video,” he mutters to me, then smiles wryly at his own response.
I pat his shoulder and pour coffee.
“So, Mike,” I ask as I serve up the eggs, “do you have family nearby? I was wondering if anyone might come and visit.”
Josh gives me a look—maybe I was too obvious.
Mike’s usual expression of good cheer falters just a little.
“Nope, no family as such,” he tells me. “My dad died a few years back, and my mom is out in Arizona. She remarried when I was a kid and hasn’t looked back since.
” He pauses, seeming as if he is trying to summon a smile.
“My brother left home when he was just fifteen, headed out to California. I hear from him now and again, but not as much as I’d like.
” He tries for a humorous look, not quite managing it.
“And I’m sad to say there’s never been a Mrs. Landry for me, so… ”
Josh and I exchange glances. I think we both feel pretty bad that we’ve been so hard on poor Mike.
“Well, everyone in Wildflower Valley feels like family,” I tell him firmly. “And of course, you’re welcome here anytime.” I raise my eyebrows, smiling. “Would you like four honorary children, along with three cats, a dog, seven chickens, two cows, two goats, and two pigs?”
“And a goose,” Josh chimes in. I turn to stare at him disbelievingly. “I’m picking up a goose next week,” he explains semi-apologetically. “They’re very good at weed control.”
We already have two goats for weed control, I think, but decide not to say. “And a goose,” I tell Mike, widening my smile.
He chuckles. “Well, that sounds mighty nice, Miss Abby,” he tells me. “I like the thought of being an honorary anything, but especially when it comes to family.”
Later, while I’m making dinner—Rose is setting the table, my dad is in his room, Jack is out in the barn, and William is still at work—I let Josh in on my plan.
“I’m sure we can think of someone who’s single…” I muse meaningfully as I peel potatoes.
Josh, who has been idly scrolling, looks up from his phone.
“Are we talking about Mike the Prepper?” Rose asks, ever alert to parental conversations.
“Just Mike,” I say firmly. I wish I’d never coined that nickname, although upon reflection, I think Jack said it first. Still, it stuck.
“Why do I have a feeling you already have someone in mind?” Josh asks, sounding amused.
“Well…” I glance at Rose, whose ears are positively pricked. “Rose, why don’t you check on your chickens?”
“What!” She looks at me indignantly. “It’s only five o’clock. They don’t need to be checked on.”
“Moonbeam was looking a little under the weather,” I lie baldly. “And you know chicks are vulnerable. You’d better check on them.”
She gives me the kind of glare that says she’s not fooled but obediently trots outside.
“Wow, all this effort,” Josh remarks. “And for what? With whom do you wish to set up Mike Landry?”
“Our new neighbor, who bought Hooch’s place,” I answer promptly.
Josh lets out a genuine bellow of laughter. “Abby, we haven’t even met her yet. You know literally nothing about her, including whether she’s moved in.” He shakes his head, seeming incredulous by my admittedly dubious matchmaking plans.
“Well, she’s the only woman around here I know of who is single—”
“You don’t even know that,” Josh points out all too reasonably.
“Well, I’ll find out,” I declare as I dump the potatoes in a pot and plop it on the stove. “Hooch said she was moving in at the end of April, and it’s already May. I’ll head over tomorrow.”
The next morning, I am still fired up enough to drive down to Hooch’s place and see if our Mystery Lady has moved in.
As I pull into the rutted drive, my heart skips a beat because there is a car parked in front of Hooch’s dilapidated cabin.
A two-bedroom ranch house with a sagging front porch and tarpaper roof, Hooch was once proud of the fact that his grandmother helped build it after her husband was incarcerated during the Battle of Blair Mountain.
Now, however, it looks more than a little forlorn.
One window is still covered in plastic sheeting, and the roof is definitely the worse for wear since the last time I was there.
It sits on its own two acres, but the property is wild and rampant, a patch of scraggly grass in front of the house the only halfhearted attempt at taming the land.
I glance at the car, and my spirits droop a little, because judging just from the bumper stickers plastered on its rear, Mike Landry and Mystery Lady are unlikely to be a match.
The car, a well-worn Toyota, is covered in progressive stickers—election campaigns for the last twenty years, as well as no less than three Green Peace stickers, a Grateful Dead one, and also a few sporting a couple of well-meaning but somewhat smart-alecky slogans—Destroy the Patriarchy, Not the Planet, Radicalized by Basic Decency, When Injustice Becomes Law, Resistance Becomes Duty.
Hmm. I wonder what Mike Landry would think of those.
Still, I want to get to know my new neighbor, so I park behind the stickered car and slowly get out. By the time I make it to the front porch, my neighbor has flung open the door.
“Hey!” Her voice is almost wild with enthusiasm, her face wreathed in a wide smile.
She looks around my age, mid-forties, dressed in worn jeans and a fleece, but her hair, a neat bob, is electric blue, and she has a nose ring.
The whole effect is a little… jarring. I imagine my kids’ reaction if I came home with blue hair and a nose ring, and I have to school my expression into something suitably neutral.
“I know, I know,” she says, patting her hair.
“I was told it would wash out. What can I say, mid-life crisis?” She rolls her eyes.
“But actually, to be totally honest, I think I kind of rock the nose ring. Surprisingly.” She lets out an uncertain laugh, and I grin, deciding I like this woman already. A lot.
“I wish I had the guts to get a nose ring,” I tell her, sticking out a hand. “Abby Bryant. We live just across the creek and up the road. We moved here a year ago from New Jersey.”
“Oh, I’m so glad to meet you,” my new neighbor exclaims, shaking my hand enthusiastically.
“I was starting to wonder if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.
That is, besides marrying my no-good skunk of a cheating ex-husband when I was just twenty-one.
But that’s another story.” She eyes me eagerly, clearly desperate for a friend. “Do you want to come in?”
“Sure,” I say expansively. I hand over the jar of apple chutney I brought just in case someone was home. “I wasn’t sure you’d even be here, or I would have gone to more effort, but… welcome to Wildflower Valley.”
“Oh.” For a second, she looks near tears, and I feel a little awkward. “Sorry,” she says, brushing at her eyes. “I’m a mess. Let me just say that up front. I. Am. A. Mess.” She gives a shaky laugh. “So, now you know. Do you still want to come inside?”
“Yes,” I say firmly, and follow her inside Hooch’s old house, which pretty much looks as I remember it, minus the furniture. “I still don’t know your name,” I tell my new neighbor semi-awkwardly as I traipse after her into the kitchen, which is filled with boxes.
“Oh!” She presses one hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry. I’m Diana. Diana Ames. Gosh. I can’t even introduce myself. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I assure her, laughing a little. “I just wanted to know what to call you.”
“Diana,” she says again, firmly, as if she means it, and I feel like we are going to be good friends.