Chapter 32 #2
“I’m tired of this discussion.” I drop into the chair in front of the screen.
“Finally.” Paige throws up her arms. “Finally, she sits.”
I take a sip of lukewarm coffee. “The worst part is I’ve been putting off explaining all this to Grandpa. The part about us having no choice now but to sell because Skinner’s going to shut us down anyway, that is. I’ll probably skip over the part where I fell for a lying billionaire.”
“Ah-ha.” The finger of victory appears again. “You just admitted you fell for him.”
I reply with a one-shouldered shrug.
“Which means you allowed a guy to sneak under your fortress of barriers. And that you are capable of letting someone in, after all.”
“It also proves that either I’m a very bad judge of guys or I attract the shitty ones. Or both.”
“Or…” Paige turns her head to side-eye me. “Maybe it means the relationship was perfect, but the circumstances were wrong.”
“If by circumstances you mean the circumstance that he’s a manipulative liar—”
“Yes, yes.” I get another wave. “He lied to you. I get it. Let’s just move on from that for a second. What hap—”
“I cannot move on from that.”
She sighs and stares at me. “What happened was timing. If you’d met him at any other time. Under any other circumstances. And he hadn’t lied to you. Would you be interested in him?”
“Of course. But only because I wouldn’t know that he was capab—”
“Stop it.” She makes a time-out sign. “There’s your answer, then. What you had was totally real. That part of it was absolutely not a lie or the figment of your imagination. And he only behaved the way he did because he was fighting for his family. Just like you’re fighting for yours.”
Thelma hops up onto the table and heads straight for the keyboard. I lean back to let her do whatever the hell she wants.
“You might not like that answer,” Paige says. “It might not be the one that you’re telling yourself is true. But it is the answer nonetheless.”
Thelma puts one paw on the edge of the computer, then looks at me. Christ, is she about to launch a full-blown attack? I lean back farther, out of scratching distance.
She pads closer until her front paws are teetering over the edge of the table right in front of me.
“What the—”
Then she hops down and lands, light as a feather, in my lap, where she curls up into a cute, warm ball.
“Did you lie about the cat hating you and being evil?” Paige asks.
“Nope.” I gaze down at the purring lump in my lap. “This has to be a trap.”
“Or you misjudged her.”
And she raises her eyebrows in that knowing way she has.
Too scared to push my luck and venture a stroke, I just stare at Thelma for a moment, watching her body silently rise and fall.
Silently.
There isn’t another sound in this room.
Hang on a second.
“What’s up?” Paige asks. “You look puzzled.”
I turn my attention to the sink.
“The kitchen tap’s not dripping anymore.”
“Thelma,” I shout into the darkness. “Thelma!”
She’s been so strange all day. And now, after I’ve put the donkeys to bed, I can’t freaking find her.
I wander toward the barn, shining my phone light in front of me in case she headed this way looking for her beloved Miller. Guess she was as wrong about him as I was.
Ah. A mewing sound. From behind the feed shed. What the hell is she doing there?
I round the corner to find her just sitting there, meowing.
I crouch beside her. “Are you not feeling well or something?”
Just the thought of her maybe being sick fills me with dread. But she looks at me and mews again, seemingly perfectly fine.
“I’m going to have to pick you up and take you inside.” I gird my loins for the potential of an imminent hissy-scratchy attack.
As I reach for her, my phone light catches something odd on the back of the shed.
One of the panels is newer, shinier. And it’s decorated.
Its surface is smooth, almost satinlike under my touch, and there’s a neat ridge all around the edge.
At one end, the shape of a flower looks like it’s been burned into the surface.
Nearer the center, there’s a checkerboard pattern made from darker and lighter woods that have been set into it.
I close my eyes and run my fingers over it.
The work has been done so neatly that I can’t feel the seams. Then, carved into the other end, is a row of three carrots, complete with dark leafy tops.
This has Miller written all over it. Or rather, burned, inlaid and carved all over it.
My throat tightens as a bittersweet ache blooms in my chest.
This is beautiful. Stunning.
It makes the machine detailing on any of the wood furniture I’ve seen at work look like exactly what it is—made by robots in a factory following a pattern so all ten thousand pieces match perfectly.
When Miller said his grandad taught him woodworking and he’d started to train as a carpenter, I had no idea that included such finely detailed work as this. Or that he was this talented.
While my eyes prick with tears, a smile also forms on my lips as I run my fingers over the ridges of the carrots. What a thing to choose to include.
Thelma lets out an extra loud meow.
“Okay, let’s go. But you have to not fight me,” I warn her.
She stands up and moves next to me.
And doesn’t let out a peep when I pick her up.
As I carry her back to the house, that ache in my chest asks what else about Miller I might have missed.