Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
FRANKIE
I give the old truck’s gearshift the little nudge to the right that it always needs to get into fourth gear. There sure as hell had better be someone at the farm who can help me load the hay into the truck today.
In an ideal world they’d deliver, but their guy is still sick, so here I am again, on my way to restock before we run out.
And in an ideal world, Miller would be with me to help.
Turns out, the world is far from ideal.
The flash of memory of him hiking himself up over that fence to retrieve the hay locked behind it fills me with heat. His powerful legs and arms, the cocky look-at-what-I-can-do grin, the unimaginably sexy problem-solving abilities.
But, argh, it was all just for show. All just to get me to like him. So he could use me in his vengeance game.
A burning pressure builds in the hollowness in my stomach.
Asshole.
I yank the steering wheel to the left and take an unnecessarily aggressive turn onto the road that leads to the farm.
It’s not like I even have time for this—there’s still so much to do before tomorrow’s big event.
I lost a bunch of time attending the Senior Central Thanksgiving dinner yesterday, but Grandpa really wanted me there, so if it means staying up all night tonight to finish everything off, so be it.
The barn still needs to be cleaned up and the chairs laid out for his talk, and I have to unpack and check everything I ordered for our Save Your Ass merch stand.
There should be T-shirts, hoodies, mugs, notebooks, the works, as well as some super-cute greeting cards and postcards I had printed from designs by Carly from the produce store. She’s also taking care of all the signage to direct people around the property, so I’m sure that’ll be extra adorable.
And the coffee twins are coming over to help put up the last of the vendor huts.
I've got a whole bunch of pumpkin fairy lights to decorate them so they should look cute. I searched high and low for string lights shaped like donkeys and couldn’t find any.
But I did snag some glowing donkey lawn ornaments meant for nativity displays—they are all wearing red-and-white-checked scarves, so they’ll be sweet dotted around the place.
Thank God for my decent salary, because the sanctuary coffers could never have funded all this stuff. It’ll all be worth it in the end, though. Today is an investment in Grandpa’s and the sanctuary’s futures.
Mrs. B. is all set with her volunteer questionnaire and sign-up forms, and she’s got together a gang from Senior Central to act as greeters.
They’ll be stationed at random spots to answer questions, hand out donkey info sheets and coloring pages for the kids, and three of them will staff the merch stands.
They’ll also be directing parking in the field across the street that I persuaded the owner to lend us for the day—perhaps I accidentally picked up some how-to-charm-people-into-doing-what-I-want skills from Miller.
I’ll be in charge of the donkey rides, and Grandpa will be giving two talks in the barn, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, on the history of the sanctuary.
There’ll also be a smaller merch table at the back to capture that audience, and everyone volunteering at the event will be wearing one of the hoodies so we look like a unified team and advertise the products at the same time.
Both merch tables will have collection buckets and sign-up sheets so people can offer themselves as future volunteers or become a “friend” of the sanctuary with monthly or annual contributions in exchange for a T-shirt and free personal guided visits twice a year.
And of course, there’ll be sponsorships for each of the animals, with each donor having a photo taken with their chosen donkey.
To cap it all, I’ve recruited a couple of kids from the high school to spend the entire day glued to their phones shooting photos and video content for our socials. They should rack up enough to keep us going for weeks.
It’s been a lot to pull together in just a week or so, but these last few days it’s at least forced me to soldier on through my pit of despair over Miller.
There are times where it’s like wading through molasses, but I have to put it into perspective—my heartbreak and humiliation is nothing compared to the possibility of losing the sanctuary.
I’m working on the basis that Skinner was bluffing about getting us shut down over certifications. That might be false hope, but it’s the only hope I have, so I’m going with it and planning as if the sanctuary will live forever.
I can’t stand by and watch everything my grandparents worked to build be destroyed by one vindictive jerk.
And if we can keep it going until the rail line is in, well, that line won’t only allow people living in Warm Springs to commute easily to Manhattan, it will also allow families in the city to do an easy day trip to Warm Springs on the weekends, and the increased visitor numbers could secure our long-term future.
But one problem at a time. Right now I need to pick up the hay and also some straw bales to border the pathways and create seating spots for the visitors.
My big hope is that after all the Thanksgiving eating yesterday and the shopping today, everyone will be looking to get out for some fresh air tomorrow.
My attention darts away from the road to whatever it is that’s going on up ahead at the old Windwood Barn.
As I approach, it becomes clear two guys are erecting a chain-link fence around it.
And the building’s surrounded by scaffolding that other men are standing on to throw fresh new tarps over it.
The whole scene has whizzed by and is in my rearview mirror before I’ve had a chance to figure it out.
Then my heart rate rises along with my blood pressure.
Don’t tell me the family has finally sold it to developers—someone like Wade Skinner. Or, God forbid, Wade Skinner himself has snapped up the property to ruin it with his cookie-cutter townhomes.
There were definitely a few people there wearing hard hats.
All the rage I’ve felt about Skinner, combined with the furious hurt Miller’s driven through me, roars to the surface in a crescendo of developer hatred.
What the fuck is going on? And how has this missed the local gossip grapevine? Not even Mrs. B. mentioned it when I saw her yesterday, and she usually knows about the council’s planning permits before they do.
I certainly don’t want to have to tell Grandpa that I saw something going on at the old place but drove right by without trying to find out what that thing is.
I check over my shoulder—no traffic behind me. Nothing coming toward me either. So I slow down and make a U-turn.
The thought that Wade Skinner might be trying to wreck even more of the area makes me hotter by the second. Does he have a plan to buy up whatever chunks of Warm Springs he can get his hands on? And turn them all ugly?
I pull off the road in front of the barn, the truck dipping and swaying in the deep ruts carved by whatever machinery these construction guys have been using.
The backs of two large white vans are to the right of the barn, and two men are climbing the scaffolding up the front of it, while another shouts instructions from ground level.
“Excuse me,” I call, jumping out of the truck.
Nothing.
I repeat it, louder.
Still nothing.
There’s a gap in the chain-link fence that I can just fit through. So I do.
“Excuse me,” I say again as I approach the back of the man on the ground.
His head whips around, shocked. “Miss, you can’t be in here. This is a hard hat area.”
“I just wondered what was going on,” I say. “Did the Windwoods sell the barn? Has someone bought it? Is it being torn down?”
“Miss, I have to ask you to leave.” He stretches out an arm to direct me, without touching me, back the way I came.
As I turn, the writing on the side of one of the vans parked alongside the barn comes into view.
My blood runs cold. Well, what’s left of it that hasn’t sunk to my feet. There’s sure as hell none left in my brain because I’m lightheaded as all hell.
I read the words again, as if they might say something different this time.
But no.
Maverick Developments.
“Fuck. No.”
“Are you okay, miss?” I imagine the guy must think I’m overreacting to him trying to get me to leave, but I can’t look at him because I can’t tear my eyes off the lettering and logo on the van. I scan it over and over, multiple times a second, and every time it says Maverick Developments.
“Is he fucking serious?”
I don’t even realize I’ve said it out loud until the guy says, “Who?” Then, in his best calm-down-ma’am voice, “Let’s go talk about it on the other side of the fence.”
Maybe he thinks I’m some sort of eco protestor, here to throw red paint over them all or something.
“Do you work for Maverick Developments?” I ask him.
“Yes,” he says. “Now if you could just—”
“You work for Miller Malone?”
“He’s the owner of the company, miss. So yes.”
“And you’re tearing down this barn, this barn that means something to people here, that’s full of so many memories? And to put up what? A bunch of shitty faceless townhomes?”
“Let’s just get you out of the danger zone.” He sounds like a very patient nurse trying to get an objectionable old patient to swallow pills they don’t want to take.
“Please don’t patronize me.” I take two steps toward the fence, fury having taken up full residence in my pounding chest. “You are all the fucking same. What’s wrong with you?
What makes you think you can come into our beautiful town, our countryside, and wreck it, just so you can stuff your pockets with a few more million?
What’s wrong with you all? What’s wrong with him? ”
“I’ve only met Mr. Malone once, and he seemed like a very nice man,” the probably very nice man in front of me says.
“No nice person would do what he’s done.” That came out a lot louder than I intended. “No nice person would find out they can’t wreck one beautiful piece of land, so they decide to wreck another instead. And definitely not when they know how much it means to me.”
My voice cracks on the last word.
Miller knows how much the memories in this barn mean to me, and yet he’s doing this anyway.
My legs almost crumble as any glimmer of hope I could have clung to that he might have actually liked me, that he might have meant what he said, that I might really have been special to him, that maybe that part wasn’t a lie, shrivels and dies inside me.
Until this moment I didn’t even realize I had those hopes.
Didn’t even know I’d allowed any part of me to think that perhaps those last things he said to me were the truth, that perhaps Paige was right and the two things can be true at the same time.
That he arrived here to do one thing, but ended doing another—falling for me.
That hope just died right here. Right before I’d even realized it was there.
The nice man gives me a kind smile. “I don’t really know much about it. Local contractors are doing the job. I’m just here to drop off the signage.” He rubs his chin as he looks at me. “But I believe this barn meant a lot to a lot of people.”
“It did. It absolutely fucking did.” I sniff and wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “And now you’re going to tear it down like a bunch of heartless bastards.”
“Miss.” He goes to put his hand on my arm but then clearly thinks better of it and withdraws it. “I assure you we’re not tearing down this barn.”
“What? You’re not? Why?” It’s like my brain was speeding forward and someone just slammed it into reverse. “What are you doing then?”
“We’re not tearing it down, no. Look.”
And I turn to see the men on the scaffolding unfurl a huge banner, the words revealing themselves one by one to my shocked eyes and even more shocked heart—The Donna Channing Arts Barn Restoration Project.
My knees choose this moment to lose their ability to hold me up, and I have no choice but to grab onto the nice man’s arm.
“Whoa, steady there,” he says. “Mr. Malone wants to restore this to its former glory. As a hub for family activities and workshops for arty-type people. Like jewelry makers, painters, woodworkers—those types of things. I think it’s going to have a café too.
And he’s naming it after someone special.
I’m not sure who she was, but apparently she’s very important to him. ”
It’s only after he’s been silent for a couple of seconds that I realize I’m staring at him with my mouth wide open as his words wash over me.
“Did you know…” He looks up at the banner. “Donna Channing?”
I look up at it too, to be certain my watery eyes aren’t playing a giant and completely unfunny joke on me.
“I did,” I whisper.