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“It might be worth a shot.” Kneeling, Mom grabs my white tennis shoes and slips them on my feet. They don’t go with my outfit, but heels or sandals won’t give me the right support. “Maybe Cathy could talk to them for me.”
“She’s not on good terms with them either.”
My poor aunt. Apparently, having a son with autism was against the family policy. You’d think it’d be a no-brainer to be supportive of your daughter when she has a special-needs kid. But after Cathy’s husband left her when Cody was four, her own parents took that as their cue to abandon her, too. They stopped inviting her to the holidays. Instead, they’d just send her a check as if paying her would soften the blow of being banned from Christmas.
If you ask me, they’re horrible people and I don’t want their ugly money.
“Just don’t be devastated if they say no,” I tell my mom. “Or if they don’t return your call at all.”
“I won’t,” Mom says reflexively.
Newsflash: She will. I know her inside and out, and her heart is fragile.
That’s why the farm is so important to her. Our customers are closer than friends. They’re like family. Even the brand-new ones are treated like they’ve been coming for years. I suspect that’s the main reason people keep returning—they feel like they belong here.
Turning toward the door, Mom makes it clear the conversation is over. “Quite a few guests have already arrived.”
“How many?”
She shrugs. “Maybe a hundred.”
My eyes go wide as I glance at the clock and see that it’s only 4:30 PM. “A hundred? That many? But it’s early.”
Winking, Mom grins. “Told you we’d have a good turnout. Dinner starts in forty-five minutes. You might want to come mingle a little before people get busy eating.”
“I can do that.” I plaster on a smile I don’t have the energy for.
“I’m sending someone to come pick you up in the golf cart.”
I’d love to be able to tell her I can walk the six hundred feet to the barn, but we both know that’d be a lie. “I’ll be right out.”
Well.Right outisn’t exactly accurate. Although I leave my room within seconds of my mom disappearing, it takes me a few minutes to get to the front door of my little house.
I’m more winded than usual as I reach for the antique brass knob.
When I moved back home after college, I happily took up residence in one of the guest cabins. In the past, the small cluster of houses in the cul-de-sac surrounded by the tallest maple trees used to be reserved for year-round workers. Then in the 80s, it became more common for seasonal employees to stay for a couple months at a time. Sometimes drifters would show up looking for temporary work. Eventually, in the early 2000s, people started wanting to camp here to get away from the noise of the outside world for a short time, and we rented out the cabins at weekly rates. Wi-Fi is spotty in this area, so it’s kind of like being off the grid.
Nowadays, no social media access is a deal breaker for most people, so the cabins sit empty for much of the year.
To me, the internet doesn’t matter. I have everything and everyone I need right here.
I lean heavily on my cane as I make it out the front door. By the time I get down the three steps on my porch, my forehead is a little damp from sweat and I’m breathing hard from exertion. If I can get to the bench on the other side of the circle drive, I can take a seat and wait.
I’m concentrating so hard on my movement that I don’t notice anyone else out here with me until a voice to my left says, “So, we meet again.”
Startled, I jolt and lose my balance.
Before I fall over, arms are wrapping around me from the side. One hand supports my back, while the other one grips my waist.
Without even looking, I immediately know it’s Ellister because I get that same all-consuming feeling that happened earlier when he touched me.
My pain vanishes, and a pleasant chill races through my feverish body.
Closing my eyes, my jaw goes slack as I hold onto Ellister’s arm.
I can breathe. It’s amazing how unaware we are of our lungs. Most of us go through the day never thinking about the effortless inhale and exhale. That is, until every single movement hurts.
I almost moan as my rib cage expands to its fullest without any sharp twinges.
