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“You could call them that.” I glance down at the brown smear on his track pants and use the mess to change the subject. “You’ve got horse crap on your leg.”
Cringing, he follows my line of sight. “I suppose I do.”
“My mom said you can borrow some of my dad’s clothes.” I mentally size him up. “You look to be about the same size, just taller. I’ll drop you off at the main house.”
HANNAH
Parting from Ellister leaves me with a strange sense of dread.
As I search for a place to park the golf cart near the barn, it’s like my body can tell I’m putting distance between us. And that’s just silly.
Silly or not, though, the throbbing in my head makes me nauseous while I cruise past a row of trucks. I whip a U-turn once I reach the mouth of the exit lane, and as I scan the packed gravel lot, I try to remember the last time I saw this many vehicles in it.
There isn’t one spot open.
After driving back to the barn, I end up parking on a patch of grass on the side of it.
I grab my cane, make sure my purse is slung securely across my body, and limp toward the commotion of too many people talking at once.
Entering the open double doors, I stop as my jaw drops.
It’s crammed with people. Even more so than the weddings, receptions, and graduation parties we’ve held here.
Our locals showed up in droves to support us. It’s not until this very moment that I realize how special our clients are. I can’t believe I thought tonight would be a bust. I recognize so many faces, and memories are attached to every single one.
This isn’t just a fundraiser. It’s a celebration of my life.
How lucky I am to get to have that before I’m gone.
Regardless of how much money we make tonight, the sight before me will forever warm my heart as long as it’s still beating.
As people start to notice my arrival, the chatting stops.
Everyone starts clapping.
Clapping for me.
A lump forms in my throat, and I mentally scold myself to get it together. I absolutely cannot lose it at my own fundraiser.
Plastering a grin on my face, I give a little wave.
Across the space, my dad’s eyes connect with mine. He points to the wheelchair he has stashed behind the pancake buffet, and like I always do, I return with a slight shake of my head.
I’ll be on my feet for as long as I can, damn it. In order for me to use that thing, my other leg will have to give out as well. Which might happen soon, but I’m trying not to think about that. Not on an awesome evening like this.
“It looks great,” I mouth to my dad, swirling my finger overhead.
My parents went all-out with the twinkling lights and hanging lanterns. They used twice as many as usual. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it glow like this in here. This barn is one of the oldest buildings still standing on the property, and it’s popular for its rustic-chic ambiance.
There’s an open space in the middle for dancing. Long, white tables, meant for eating, surround the perimeter. At the back of the room, the musicians are setting up on a raised platform. A local cover band agreed to play for free. Well, not free, exactly. My parents offered to host birthday parties for their kids at no cost, which is kind of a big deal. Our farm is one of the most popular places for kids. On the weekends, we offer pony rides, inflatable bounce houses, and we have pick-your-own fruit orchards. It’s a whole experience.
I paint my smile back on as clusters of guests come my way.
While I’m bombarded by sentiments of sympathy or wishes to get well soon, I return with the proper, expected, optimistic things to say.
“Thank you.”
“I appreciate that.”
