Today I'm doing a tour so I'm walking the property narrating. Occasionally I turn the camera around to say something to it, but mostly I let the animals carry it.
"So this is the pig's domain," I'm saying, panning across the fourteen of them sprawled outside the pig barn. "Recently renovated. You know the story. And this —" I crouch by the pool, where Barbara is submerged to the eyeballs in muddy water "— is Barbara, in her private spa."
I move on through the goats, who mob the camera and make it impossible, which is its own kind of footage. Derek headbutts me and I narrate his apology on his behalf. I show the chickens, the henhouse, the egg basket, Margaret the broody one who I warn the viewers not to reach under unless they want to lose a finger. I show the horses, Penny's nose filling the whole frame as she comes over to investigate, and I keep my voice low and explain that these two are too skittish to ride, but that they feel safe here.
Then I come around the side of the stables and Maggie's there, up a stepladder, fixing the section of guttering the storm damaged. T-shirt sleeves rolled up to her shoulders, hair tied back, a smudge across her arms. I had a plan that didn't feature her, but I point the camera at her anyway.
"And here," I say, in my best nature-documentary murmur, "we have an extremely rare species. Native to the Central Valley, fiercely territorial, survives almost entirely on bad coffee and unfinished to-do lists." I creep the camera closer. "The lesser-spotted Sanctuary Owner. Observe how she pretends not to notice she's being filmed."
Maggie doesn't turn around. "I can hear you, you know."
"They have excellent hearing," I tell the camera. "Notice the muscular forearms, perfectly adapted for fixing things."
Now she turns, fighting a smile and losing. She looks down at me from the ladder with the sun behind her, and the look she gives me is downright flirtatious.
"This species is more dangerous when elevated," she says. "They've been observed eating documentary crews."
I turn the camera back to myself. "And on that note, friends, our specimen has issued a warning. This concludes today's tour but tomorrow we'll attempt to feed her by hand. Don't forget to like, follow, and donate. Goodbye from the wild."
I turn off the camera and when I look up, Maggie's down off the ladder and wiping her hands on a rag. She gives me a wink that would have caused a lot of speculation if I'd caught it on camera.
"You're going to get us caught," she says.
"That was extremely PG. I narrated your guttering." I grin. "Honestly? You're very watchable. I suspect we might gain some queer followers."
She raises a brow at me. "Hey, I do not consent to being sexual content."
"Too late. You're the one in a tight T-shirt with your sleeves rolled up showing off those arms. I'm just the messenger."
Maggie shakes her head and laughs as she closes the distance between us. I know she wants to kiss me; I've come to recognize that look so well. Then her eyes flick past me toward the pig barn, where Luis is replacing the water in the trough, and she takes a small step back.
"Tease," I say.
"Remind me of that later tonight," she quips.
"Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?"
She leans down to pick up her toolbag and when she straightens, her mouth comes close to my ear. "I'll have you bentover my kitchen counter before you've even taken your boots off."
"Maggie…" I'm supposed to have a reply ready but I don't. My brain has gone completely useless. She's planted the image in my head, and my body reacts to it full force with Luis right across the paddock. "That's not helpful at eleven in the morning. It's a long day to get through."
Maggie chuckles, and as she passes me, she gives me a quick, playful slap on my behind. "Chickens, Sloane!" she calls over her shoulder. "The eggs need collecting. Chop, chop."
I laugh and open the app. "Five minutes," I yell after her. "Just need to post this first."
60
MAGGIE
Idrop the eggs off at eight-thirty. Ruthie's down to her last dozen again, and instead of heading straight back I let her pour me a coffee and take the stool at the end of the counter. The morning feed's done, Sloane and Luis are holding the fort, and it's nice being able to take a short break.
I scroll through my phone while the coffee cools. I've been bad at keeping up — the days run together when you're running a sanctuary and harboring a socialite — so I've got a backlog, and I skim messages and emails. Then I open the sanctuary's Instagram account, because I love what Sloane's been posting lately.
There's one I hadn't seen of the goats getting their playground, footage Sloane must have dug out from the day Richard's apparatus arrived. Set to some dramatic orchestral thing, there's a slow-motion of Derek launching himself off the bridge being built and missing the landing entirely. It's captionedDerek (gymnast, self-taught)and it's got a hundred thousand views. There's another of the emus running their ridiculous full-tilt lap of the paddock, captionedMonday energy. There are so many comments. People who will never setfoot in Duster, who couldn't find the Central Valley on a map, are writing paragraphs about Barbara's spa days and arguing about whether Gerald is rude or just an introvert.
The account is alive and funny and I’m smiling at my phone. Not only that, it's bringing in money, and it's all Sloane.
Then I scroll down to the tour video, the one with me in it.
