17. Ember
Ember
“I’m not saying you should kiss him.
I’m just saying you’d be happier if you did.”
— Amy
The heavy-duty tub I dragged out of the barn is currently leaking a steady, rust-colored stream into the clover, and the eight-dollar bottle of organic, apple-scented shampoo I bought at the pharmacy is completely failing to neutralize the smell of wet goat.
“Kevin, if you don’t stabilize your rear chassis right now, I am going to look up the market value of goat meat on the lower east side,” I mutter, wiping a thick glob of white suds from my forehead.
Kevin doesn’t care about the threat. He lets out a flat, vibrating bleat, his horizontal pupils locking onto my yellow rubber boots before he executes a sudden, wet shake.
A miniature monsoon of freezing, apple-scented water hits me square in the chest, plastering my white tank top to my ribs and soaking the legs of my rolled-up canvas trousers.
“Oh, fantastic.”
The goats had discovered a patch of thick, black swamp mud down by the lower creek line yesterday afternoon, and they had returned to the house looking like four-legged gargoyles. So my mission is to wash them.
Mildred, the smaller brown goat, is currently taking advantage of my temporary blindness by attempting to consume the plastic wrapper of the soap bottle.
“Drop it!” I lunge, my boots skidding in the slick clover.
I snatch the slippery plastic out of his jaws just as Gertrude, the matriarch of this tiny, chaotic herd, plants her front hooves directly onto the rim of the galvanized tub.
The metal groans, and because she’s a sixty-pound animal putting all her weight on one edge, the tub tilts, and forty gallons of muddy, sudsy water cascades over the porch steps, completely soaking the only dry pair of sneakers I own.
I drop my forehead against the cool stone wall of the well house, letting out a long, dramatic sigh.
I am covered in mud, smelling faintly of orchard fruit and livestock, and I am ninety percent sure I am losing the battle of the Gilded Goat.
A low, gentle chuckle drifts over the stone wall from the gravel lane.
I snap my head around, accidentally leaving a smudge of dirt on my nose as I do.
A woman is standing by the rotted cedar fence line, holding the handlebars of an old cruiser bicycle.
She looks so ridiculously put together that for a second, I wonder if she’s a hallucination brought on by early-onset farm fatigue.
She’s wearing a crisp, perfectly tailored linen dress in a soft sage green, her long, dark hair gathered into a thick, flawless French braid that rests over her left shoulder without a single strand out of place.
She has a canvas tote bag slung over her arm, and her sandals are completely, impossibly clean despite the gravel road.
She looks like she stepped straight out of a catalog for high-end organic gardening tools.
“You know,” she calls out. “You’re supposed to wet the animal first, then apply the soap.”
“The subject refuses to cooperate,” I say, leaning my elbows on the wooden gate post, entirely conscious of the fact that my white tank top is currently translucent and my shins are caked in swamp muck. “I’m Emmy. The currently waterlogged proprietor of this establishment.”
“Amy,” she says, offering a hand over the wire. “I teach third grade over at the elementary school. I was just riding back from the library.”
“A teacher,” I breathe, unlatching the rusted wire gate to let her in. “Please tell me you came down this lane to rescue me from my own domestic narrative. I am thirty seconds away from letting Kevin inherit the deed to the property.”
Amy parks her bicycle against the cedar post with practiced precision, not a single movement wasted. She looks at the overturned tub, the running hose, and the three muddy goats currently eyeing her linen dress like it’s a salad bar.
“Arthur never washed those goats once in twenty years, you know. He always said they were self-cleaning models.”
“Well, Arthur didn’t have to live with them on the porch,” I say, grabbing the scrub brush from the grass. “But since you’re here, Amy, please tell me the local social intelligence network has already briefed you on who I am. It saves so much introductory time.”
Amy smiles, a small, elegant crinkle forming around her eyes.
She looks to be a few years older than me—maybe twenty-eight or twenty-nine—with a calm confidence that I desperately envy.
“Oh, the faculty lounge spent the last two days talking about nothing else, Emmy. Word travels fast when someone buys the old farm with lottery money and starts a war with the local plumbing.”
“I am glad my structural collapse can provide entertainment,” I smirk, gesturing toward the two plastic lawn chairs on the porch.
“Sit. Please. If I don’t talk to another human who understands the concept of a late-night cocktail or a properly formatted email within the next ten minutes, I am going to start debating professional suicide. ”
Amy takes a seat, smoothing her linen skirt beneath her with total grace, while I collapse into the opposite chair, looking like a shipwreck survivor.
“So,” Amy says, leaning back and adjusting her braid. “The third-grade teachers are particularly dying to know… is it true about your parents? Bernice told the altar guild that your mother writes the books George used to hide in the tractor shed.”
I let out a loud, relieved laugh, my guard dropping completely.
“Penelope Wild is indeed their shared pseudonym.”
Amy laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “My sister and I read The Highland Rogue’s Desire in college during finals week! We had a whole drinking game based on how many times the hero’s shirt tore open.”
“It’s a classic of the genre,” I say proudly.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Mom: Darling, how’s the barn? Dad says if you find any antique ironwork, check the date stamp—could be worth a fortune. Also, hope you’re finding plenty of ‘inspiration’ in those woods. Don’t be shy, we know you’re a Wild.
I chuckle, tucking the phone away. “They’re very supportive.”
Amy looks at me, her gaze softening as she takes in my mud-splattered face and the dirt on my knuckles. “You’re a long way from Manhattan, Ember. But you’re doing fine. Most city girls wouldn’t last three days out here before calling a contractor from the city.”
“I have a highly rigorous pride mechanism, Amy,” I say, wiping my nose with the back of my arm. “And speaking of local contractors… I’ve had some assistance.”
Amy’s eyebrows go up, a very specific, sharp look entering her eyes. “Assistance? You mean Brooks?”
“The very same,” I say. “The Chief has executed a series of public safety interventions on my infrastructure. The man is essentially a walking volume of county regulations.”
“Oh, please,” Amy says, leaning forward, her calm teacher voice completely disappearing, replaced by an eager, conspiratorial whisper.
“Let’s be real for a second. Brooks Lawson is a literal statue of a man.
He has that jawline, those gray eyes, and that whole tragic, brooding protector thing going on. He is a certified hot man, Ember.”
“Right?” I blurt out, throwing my hands in the air. “Thank you! I thought I was losing my mind because everyone in this town treats him like he’s a piece of historical architecture! He carries a stove into my kitchen and I’m just sitting there trying to remember how sentences work.”
“Oh, he’s a hazard all right,” Amy purrs. “The entire valley has been trying to set that boy up for three years, and he won’t even look at a woman if she isn’t wearing a high-visibility vest. But he carried a stove into your kitchen?”
“A floor model,” I clarify, my cheeks turning a hot, involuntary pink. “And then on Thursday night… he drove me home in the thunderstorm because the grandmas basically forced him to at knife point. And things got… slightly complicated in the front seat.”
“Tell me you didn’t.”
“I kissed him, Amy. And not a polite little standard thank-you peck on the cheek. I grabbed his jaw and actually kissed his mouth,” I wail, burying my face in my hands, though a tiny, breathless thrill shoots straight down my spine at the memory.
“His stubble was hot, his mouth parted, and I swear to you, I felt his entire brain short-circuit. I even grabbed his hip through his damp uniform.”
I pause, blinking at her. “Oh my God, I’m doing it again, aren’t I? I’m sharing too much. I promise I don’t only talk about my parents’ erotica empire or my impulsive romantic disasters, I just haven’t spoken to a peer in days.”
Amy lets out a loud, sharp gasp, clapping her hands together. “Don’t stop, share more! Emmy, you broke the Chief! I am completely rooting for this. You need to marry him, move into the big house, and let Sophie teach you how to dress like a normal person.”
“Sophie is a sweetheart,” I laugh, my heart doing that strange, high-velocity thumping just thinking about the kid—and her father.
“But Brooks is thirty-one, a serious professional, and carries himself like he’s built out of municipal regulations.
I am a walking financial anomaly. We are from different solar systems.”
“Different solar systems make for the best gravity,” Amy says.
She checks a delicate leather watch on her wrist. “I have to get back to the school to sign off on the summer reading lists. But I’m coming to see you at the bakery.
I expect a full update on the fire department’s status, and you better have a raspberry danish waiting for me. ”
“The danish will be secured, teacher,” I say, walking her back to her bicycle.
“Keep scrubbing that goat,” she says, throwing her leg over the cruiser with absolute elegance. “And don’t look Brooks in the eye unless you’re prepared to handle the hose!”
I shake my head, a massive, genuine smile on my face as I watch her pedal down the lane, her dark braid swinging against her back, completely unbothered by the dust.