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“You don’t have to do whatever Lucille Richards wants.”
“I know.”
Mom looks at me for a moment. “I heard you ran into Caden at the Crooked Screw yesterday.”
My stomach swoops. “Who told you that?”
“Guess.”
“Mrs. Greerson.”
“The one and only.”
“She wasn’t even there!” I protest.
“You know how news travels in this town. Everyone is in a tizzy over the heir to Everton returning home.”
“Well,I’mnot in a tizzy,” I say.
“Good. Would you mind doing me a favor?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“Would you pick up Grace and take her to your place for the night? We’re so busy here, and I’m absolutely useless. I don’t know how we’re going to get her to 4H camp tomorrow. Your father needs to bring the truck to Reggie’s.”
“Again?”
“He keeps putting it off, but it’s making noises now.”
“You guys really need to get a new car,” I say.
“I know, I know. It’s on the list.”
The list they never seem to get around to. The Thorn still needs a new fridge, and the kitchen sink has a tendency to leak. The shutters on the back windows need to be fixed and the floors could use sanding. The banister needs a fresh coat of varnish and some of the hinges on the guestroom doors squeak. But money has been tight—the first year after Marion’s death, this town was hit hard. Not just by grief, but by a frightened community and tourists not wanting to spend their days sipping wine a hundred yards away from a crime scene. Things have picked back up but I’m not surprised Lucille was able to get a deal on using Everton as a venue.
I kiss my mother softly on the forehead. “I’ll bring Grace to camp tomorrow. And I’ll help with the guests this week too. Dad is terrible at small talk.”
Mom chuckles. “This is true.”
“Where is Grace?” I ask.
“I’ll give you one guess.”
I smile. “Furever Friends?”
Mom nods. I say goodbye and walk down the street toward the large colonial house on the corner. Lyle and Rebecca Watson have been taking care of injured or unwanted animals for ages, but a couple of years ago, they finally started a nonprofit and officially became a sanctuary called Furever Friends. They even bought the property behind their house to use as a pasture, since they have a horse now. Piglet. Grace takes care of him. My sister loves animals—they’re easier to understand than humans, she says.
I knock on the door and Rebecca answers.
“She’s out back,” Rebecca says, grinning. Rebecca is a Black woman in her sixties, with a kind, open face and a smile that warms you up like hot apple cider.
I walk through the house to the backdoor, where I’m greeted by about seven happily barking dogs. There’s a goat chewing on grass along the fence line and a deer with a cast on its leg naps in the fading sun. Behind the backyard is the pasture where Piglet and Grace are. Grace used to show jump on Piglet, but he hurt his leg and now they just hang out and eat and talk. Well, Grace does most of the talking. Piglet does most of the eating. I see her feeding him bits of carrot as she tells him whatever comes into that genius brain of hers. I wave to her and she runs her fingers through Piglet’s mane, gives him the last piece of carrot, and starts to head over.
Lyle comes out of the small barn where they house the injured animals. He’s a retired veterinarian, and he’s bottle feeding a guinea pig. “Hi Isla,” he says warmly. “Have you met our new addition?”
“No,” I say, coming over.
“This is Niels Bohr,” he says, showing me the guinea pig.