Maggie laughs. "Can I make you both a coffee? You must be desperate."
"That would be very welcome. Honestly, that's part of why we're early," Dad says. "But first — we've got something in the trunk for you. Let me get it out before I sit down."
He turns to the back of the Mercedes, pops the trunk and pulls out a huge cardboard box marked LARGE LIVESTOCK BATHING POOL — LOW-SIDED VARIANT. I open the back door and pull a twenty-pound sack of Pink Lady apples from the back seat.
Maggie gasps. "Oh my! Is that for me?"
"Yeah. I thought the pigs might enjoy it," I say, my cheeks coloring. "I figured a proper bath might be easier than topping up the wallow every day and they're more likely to get in with the low-sided ones."
A beat passes between us and Maggie's cheeks go pink. "Right," she says. "Yes. Less slipping. That would be — yes. Thank you so much, that's very generous. And Hank will be so happy with the apples."
"You're very welcome." Dad sets the box down on the gravel, oblivious. "The very least we could do." He looks up. "Maggie, may I be straightforward?"
"Please."
"I don't know what you've done to my daughter but I'll tell you this — when Sloane came home late on Friday night looking visibly distressed, I was expecting a tantrum about needing access to her finances. But instead she just asked me to drive her back here. She's never shown interest in much beyond money and partying, so believe me, I'm very grateful."
"Come on, Dad. I wasn't that bad."
He shoots me a questioning look and I feel my face go hot again. I hate that he's laying out my entire character to Maggie, like I'm a kid who's finally brought home a decent report card.
"Sloane," he says. "I have watched you commit to precisely nothing in your life. This is the first thing you haven't tried to get out of and I'm — well — I'm proud of you." He drops his gaze to his shoes as he says the last part, then busies himself straightening the box that doesn't need straightening.
I don't know what to do or say. I can't remember the last time my father said he was proud of me. I'm not sure he ever has.
"Thank you," I mumble, and stare at the gravel because looking at either of them feels like too much.
Maggie watches the awkward exchange and, sensing we both need rescuing, claps her hands together. "Well, Mr. Arch — Richard. Let me make you that cup of coffee. Leave all this here, we'll sort it out later." She nods toward the sack of apples. "Why don't you take one of those for Hank on the way?" She turns to me. "Sloane, go with him. Hank will be less wary with you there."
40
MAGGIE
I'm halfway to the house before I remember the state of the porch. There's laundry strung across it — mainly work shirts, underwear and old towels. It's fine. It's how the porch always looks, but Richard Archer is a distinguished man and I don't want him sitting next to my underwear.
"Actually," I say, turning back, "why don't I bring the coffee around to the bench at the back? It's cooler under the oak this time of morning."
I head inside and take a deep breath while I start making coffee. Get a grip, Maggie. Two days I've spent telling myself it was a mistake and a thing that wouldn't happen again, and one glance over the roof of a car has undone all of it. I want her and that's not an option.
Sloane looks beautiful as always and it's clear she's been back to her old life. Her hair is shiny and straightened and her skin is glowing. But she's also wearing work clothes, and the combination of the salon hair and the farm clothes is incredibly sexy.
While the coffee brews I set out a tray with mugs, sugar and milk. I want to offer Richard something more than just a cup of coffee. He drove four hours, spent the night in that terrible motel, and bought my pigs a bath and my donkey a sack of apples. There's almost nothing in the house — just a packet of oat cookies, so they'll have to do. I fan them out on a plate like that makes them fancier, pour the coffee and load everything onto the tray.
Sloane and her father are at the back with Hank.
Richard is holding the apple out flat on his palm and Hank takes it whole, crunching away, while Sloane fusses over him. Hank has his ears soft and his eyes half-closed. He's letting a complete stranger feed him by hand because Sloane is telling him it's safe.
I stop to take in the sight, and Richard is watching Sloane too with something between disbelief and tenderness.
I clear my throat and bring the tray to the bench, then pull in a folding chair for myself.
"Coffee," I say. "Please, sit."
"You're very kind." Richard sits on Mom's barrel bench and takes a cup like it's bone china rather than a chipped mug that says CRAZY GOAT LADY. "Thank you, Maggie."
Hank joins us and the goats come trotting across the paddock in a loose delegation — Beyoncé first climbing onto her half-barrel, then Derek, then the others — and line up to assess Richard.
"Ah." Richard's face lights up. "These must be the troublemakers. Sloane told me about the goats." He looks around the paddock. "So they just roam freely?"
