Page 3 of Grouch-ish

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Unfortunately, I am twelve minutes late on December twenty-sixth.

My tardiness could be attributed to any number of things.

Twinge of a headache from too much whiskey last night.

Trouble finding the freaking piece of paper with an address written on it. Use your phone and text me!

Turning in the wrong direction once off the highway and having to reroute.

Eventually, the sign for Paradise Farms came into view, faded and worn but surrounded by evergreen garland and a string of holiday lights which visibly twinkle on this dark and gloomy, not to mention god-awful early, morning.

Cap’s farm tales are notorious. No one understands why a battalion captain for a fire department in one of the largest cities in the United States would want to own a farm in some small, rinky-dink town in southwest Michigan.

Cap claims the land is his retirement, but he doesn’t appear to be jonesing to retire anytime soon. He’s a pillar of physical health and still ball busting in his sixties when most guys get out of the department around the twenty-five-year mark. Not Cap.

Not gonna be me, either. I’m a lifer.

When I turn up the lane, gravel crunches beneath the tires of my Ford F-150. I immediately notice a ranch-style house and a giant faded-brown barn in the distance. My pickup truck isn’t the most practical vehicle for city living. The beast would look more appropriate on this land, surrounded by trees, and there are lots of them here.

The lane I travel leads straight through rows and rows of fruit trees. Southwest Michigan is famous for apple orchards, and I remember our family visiting an orchard when the kids were little. I wasn’t a farmer, God bless them. I was perfectly happy seeking fruit in the produce aisle of a grocery store. Then again, fruit wasn’t always my first choice. I was a meat and potatoes guy.

The lane ends in front of a one-level house which matches the faded brown color of the barn. A long, low, covered porch runs the length of the front of the home, with a roof supported by thick square pillars in more dark wood. Garland wraps around each post and lights twinkle among the greenery. The large barn is opposite the house across the drive and another building comes into view behind it with a split rail fence beside it. I park, noticing there aren’t any other vehicles present.

After scrambling around my place to find the scrap of paper Cap wrote his address on, I copied the address into my phone for the GPS.

Did I copy it wrong?

I tossed the piece of paper into the cup holder in the console of my truck, and presently lift the rumpled scrap I originally crumpled into a tight ball in my fist to double-check the address.

Nope. I have the digits and the street correct.

Plus, the Paradise Farms sign gives it away.

Hesitating another second, I glance out the side window at the weathered wood of both the house and barns. Against the heavy sky backdrop, the image is like an old black and white photo. One emanating exhaustion and melancholy. The irony isn’t lost on me.

I pop open my door and step out into the crisp, cold December air. Inhaling deeply, it smells like snow with a hint of cow shit. I glance up at the sky again worried that snow might be on its way. The weather people predicted flurries but what do they know. Growing up in Chicago, I’ve always been taught stick around a minute, and the weather changes. Sometimes we can have all four seasons in one day. It’s ridiculous.

Still, I zip up my heavy padded jacket and walk around the back of my truck, my heels crunching on the gravel drive breaks the eerie silence around me. I’m wearing an old pair of construction boots I bought when I first fixed up my house which eventually led to side jobs installing kitchens, hanging trim, or just general construction work.

A Brock of all trades. That’s me.

I’m rounding the truck, turning for the front door of the home when I hear the distinct sound of feet rhythmically charging over pebbled stones. Spinning around to see who is approaching, I stall.

My mouth goes dry. My eyes go wide.

Stalking toward me is a curvaceous woman, wearing white leggings, a thick, white three-quarter zip outerwear, and running shoes. With her in a popular brand of athletic wear and those tight workout pants, she clashes with the rustic, sad barn behind her. A contrast of modern and classic. The thought is just . . . weird.

She looks like she’s been out for a run—breathing fast, chest heaving, face flushed from exertion. My Neanderthal brain instantly imagines a few other scenarios where she might appear the same way.

“Who are you?” Her sharp voice is tight, almost accusatory, like she can hear my thoughts about what I’d like to do to her. She stops running a good seven feet away from me.

“Excuse me?” My tone is just as sharp.

She tugs off the ivory-colored knit mittens covering her hands and pulls the matching cap with a ball on the top off her head, and fuck me, sleek black hair tumbles down her shoulders and curls near her breasts. Her porcelain cheeks are rosy, emphasized by the exertion of running outside. She looks like a shimmery snowflake. Or a devilish delight.

She also looks pissed.