Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
MILLER
My attention’s drawn from the seventy-five acres that shall be mine to the mewing sound coming from my feet.
“Jesus.” I lift up the leg the cat is currently grinding her ear into—thank God for the new rubber boots between me and the mangy fur—but she just moves to the other. So I lift that one, and she goes back to the first. I appear to be engaged in a bizarre tango with a farm cat.
Behind me, there’s a much more pleasant sound—a low, throaty laugh emanating from Frankie.
“She likes you,” she says.
“Is that what this means?” I gesture to the furball alternating from one of my high-stepping legs to the other.
Actually, I could maybe milk this a little.
While I want to touch this thing about as much as I want to be stabbed in the eyeballs with a fork, I do need to get into Frankie’s good books as quickly as possible.
If all this goes to plan, I need her to eventually like and trust me enough to have faith in my advice when I suggest which offer she should accept.
And there’s no time like the present to start laying the groundwork.
So, since my first impression here is extra important…ugh…here goes.
Scooping my hand under the cat’s belly, I pick it up and hold it against my chest. “Isn’t this one a cutie.” Doing my best to suppress a grimace, I tickle the moth-eaten creature under the chin and it immediately presses its head into my hand.
“You have quite the magic touch,” Frankie says with an expression that suggests I’ve completed a feat on a par with stopping the world from rotating. “I’ve never seen her like that with anyone but my grandpa. She’d have taken my hand off if I’d even tried to pick her up.”
I shrug. “Guess animals just love me.”
Not true.
When I was seven the class guinea pig sank its teeth into my finger and held on, swinging from my hand as I ran around the room screaming.
More recently, the goat that we tried out as a mascot for the soccer team I co-own headbutted me from behind so hard that I crashed face-first onto the field and had a bruise the size of a fist on my ass for a month.
“And I guess that would make me a good candidate for volunteering,” I say, leaning my head back as the cat aims its ears toward my chin.
“Thelma-wrangling skills are definitely a bonus,” Frankie says. “Could you just put her down inside the door? Then I’ll show you around the sanctuary and we can chat and see if we’re a good fit for each other.”
A good fit for each other. Those words cause an unusual stir inside me.
She steps inside to tug a jacket from one of the hooks on the wall by the door that are laden with a cluttered variety of coats, scarves and hats. Then she kicks off her blue Crocs and pushes her feet into the same boots she was wearing at the coffee shop earlier.
I follow her and drop the cat on the floor. It’s all I can do to stop myself from racing to the dripping kitchen tap to wash my hands.
A quick glance around the place suggests most of it is in no better state of repair. The cabinets look about thirty years old, a couple of the terracotta floor tiles are cracked, and paint is peeling off the scuffed baseboards.
At the far end of the room there’s a dingy sofa and nonmatching armchair, as well as a TV and a couple of side tables with lamps so old they might be about to be cool again.
This is not the home of someone who has the cash to keep this place going, so why on earth is she so adamant about not selling?
The freaking cat is heading right back toward my legs with a lustful look in its eyes. I take a quick step back to avoid it and crash into Frankie, who lets out a little squeal.
“Shit, sorry.” I spin around and instinctively place my hand on her arm.
She freezes and her eyes dart to mine.
For some reason I freeze with her.
Her eyes are most definitely blue—a deep, rich blue, like a warm freshwater pool you’d dive into to shake off a tough day. They’re part startled, part unsure, and part like they’re looking for something.
All words that might form a coherent sentence dissolve in my brain. My mother would say that’s a first.
Then Frankie’s eyelashes flutter a few rapid blinks and she breaks the silence. “I’m Frankie Channing, by the way.”
“Oh, yeah.” Fuck, yes. I haven’t even introduced myself. “I’m Miller.”
I withdraw my hand from her arm and offer it to her.
Now her eyes leave mine and drift to my hand before she takes it in a brief shake. I’m suddenly aware that my palm is clammy.
“Nice to meet you, Miller,” she says.
“Nice to meet you too, Frankie.”
I loosen my grip but somehow don’t really let go.
She coughs, looks down and slides her hand from mine.
I held on to that for way too long. Is that embarrassment crawling down my spine?
Christ, she’ll never want me hanging around now. She’ll think I’m some lingering-handshake weirdo.
“Let’s go before Thelma molests you again.” She gestures behind me where the clearly not-young cat is angling her head for another leg rub.
When we step outside, Frankie asks, “Are you from around here?”
She nudges Thelma back inside with her foot, provoking a defiant hiss, and pulls the door closed behind us. As it clicks shut, one of the two screws securing the tarnished keyhole plate falls out, bounces off the doormat and clatters onto the concrete step.
“Nope. Boston,” I say, picking up the screw and finger-tightening it back into the lock.
On the way here in the cab I decided to stick with as much of my real story as possible. I’m not an awesome liar.
One time I tried to convince Mom my brother had taken the last piece of pie from the fridge not realizing I had a large dollop of whipped cream dribbling down my shirt. I was pie-embargoed for a month. That’s a lesson you don’t forget.
So there’s no point telling Frankie unnecessary fibs that I can’t keep track of, and run the risk of tripping myself up.
“So you don’t lose it.” I gesture at the screw that’s as far in as I can get it. I’ll tighten it all the way down later when she’s shown me where the tools are kept.
“Thanks. Are you planning to commute four hours each way from Boston for every volunteer shift?” She looks up at me out of the corner of her eye and raises an eyebrow.
“I mean, I appreciate the dedication, but it seems like a lot.” Then she points toward a large enclosure ahead of us. “We’ll start over there.”
“I’m looking for a new place to settle.” I will never leave Boston.
“Traveling around, digital-nomading for a while.” Being away from the office might kill me.
“And Warm Springs might be a good option.” I’d suffocate here.
“So thought I’d hang out for a while. Get a feel for the area.
” And I’ll be on the road as soon as she’s signed my offer.
“What do you do that makes it so easy to work remotely?” she asks as three donkeys in the field ahead spot us and meander toward the fence to meet us.
“Investments.” Another answer I came up with on the way here.
I mean, it’s technically true. But if she wants to infer I mean stocks, bonds and trading, rather than constructing fifty-story luxury condo buildings that become home to some of Boston’s most famous residents, I can’t help that.
But spinning her an untrue story doesn’t exactly feel good. Time to shift the questions to her. “Have you lived here all your life?”
“I was—”
Her response is cut short when she breaks into laughter at the sound of frantic braying. Is that what donkeys do, bray? It’s coming from a brown donkey that’s running full speed from the far side of the enclosure toward us.
“That’s Waldo,” Frankie says, picking up her pace to greet him as he crashes between his more sedate friends.
He reaches the fence at the same time as us, ears back, eyes half closed, his sounds now virtually orgasmic.
“I spent a lot of time with him when he arrived here all sad and neglected about eleven years ago.” She grabs his face with both hands and rubs her forehead against his.
“And he’s never forgotten. He’ll still play a chase-me game with me if I go in there and run around. ”
“You live here then?” I ask, even though I know the answer.
I rest my foot on the bottom rail of the fence and it immediately collapses, making the donkeys jump as much as I do.
“Nope,” she says, as I bend down to lift the rail back into its slot.
“It’s my grandpa’s house,” she continues. “The whole sanctuary is his, really. I mean, he made me joint owner as a college graduation present nine years ago. So technically it’s mine too. But he runs everything day-to-day. I live in Chicago now.”
“That’s a weak joint and won’t hold for long.” I point at where I’ve balanced the rail precariously in place. “Fences are better with metal brackets that don’t rot.”
She eyes me like she’s surprised—pleasantly surprised. Maybe these days I don’t give the impression of being particularly practical, even in my shiny new farm attire.
“A lot of things around here need a lot of attention. Are you handy with fixing things as well as looking after animals?” She turns to the donkeys who approached us at a more leisurely pace and are now gathered around.
“I’ve only been back a couple of days and I’ve come across a bunch of little issues.
Nothing major. Leaky faucets, other bits of broken fencing, the gutters on everything need clearing.
Basically, the whole place needs some general care. ”
“Sounds right up my alley.” And that’s not totally far-fetched. It already feels like it might be surprisingly good to get my hands dirty again after more than a decade behind a desk.
Frankie pets the donkeys in turn.
“I haven’t been back as often as I should lately.” Her voice sounds wistful, and rich with regret.
“Anyway.” She gives Waldo a kiss on the nose, her lips puckering and pressing hard into his fur, then starts to move away.
“This is the main paddock. There are ten donkeys in here at the moment. There were twelve but two were adopted by a family with a lot of land in Connecticut just before I arrived. I was extra sad not to see Mabel when I got here. But Grandpa says she and Minnie have a great new home.”
“Where do you get them from in the first place?”
“Usually they’ve either been surrendered by owners who can’t care for them anymore for one reason or another, or the owner’s passed away and their relatives can’t keep them. And sometimes we get neglect cases where the animals have been seized by authorities. Waldo was one of those.”
I follow her toward a smaller enclosure farther along the path.
“We always want to find new homes for them. But all these are long-term residents who need special care for various reasons and will likely see out their days here.”
“How many of them are there?”
“Those ten full-sized ones, and seven miniatures over here.”
“Seventeen seems like a lot of donkeys to me.” Since I’d never met a single one until a minute ago.
“We have capacity for about thirty. Could take more if we had funds for another paddock and barn.”
The residents of the next field come into view. “Whoa, these are tiny.” They’re about the height of a Saint Bernard.
“Ha, yeah.” Frankie crouches down to reach through the fence and pet the animals that come trotting over. “They’re so little when they’re foals that some people think they can keep them in their houses. Then they’re surprised when the cute little thing grows up, poops everywhere, and they can’t.”
“People think they can keep a donkey in their house? How ridiculous is that?”
“Very. See Petunia over there?” Frankie rises and points to a small white donkey lying just inside the shelter at the far end of the enclosure.
“She was one of those. And her people were not nice. She’s done well since she got here a couple of years ago.
She’s still nervous, though. There’s no way she’ll come over to me with you here because you’re new and she’s not sure about you yet. ”
Frankie casts me a quick look out of the corner of her eye like she might feel the same way as Petunia.
“At least she’s safe now,” I say.
“And that is the reason we exist. Come on, I’ll show you where the tools and the hay and the feed and everything is. That’s what you’ll need to know.”
“Does that mean I got the job?” I follow her as she heads off toward a large barn and a smaller shed.
She throws me a mischievous look over her shoulder, one that includes that appealing slightly uneven smile. “Maybe.”
Excellent.