“What? You don’t like gardens?”
She presses her lips together as if she’s enjoying watching me try to grasp the information she’s tossed my way.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “Gardens are fine, I guess. I just don’t understand why I have to care about Grady’s garden.”
“You’re overcomplicating this. Just ask about the garden and then hand him these,” she says, shaking the bottle. “Then go on with your day.”
I set my cup down a little harder than necessary. “But why? What does growing carrots have to do with if his dog is sick or has allergies or . . . whatever?”
She laughs. “What will it hurt for you to ask him about his garden?”
“It won’t hurt anything. But what it will do, mark my words, is make him think I care. And I do not care about his garden. Or Bruce’s soybeans—”
“Bob’s.”
I narrow my eyes. “Whoever’s whatever. The point is that I don’t care. I don’t even like humans, Dottie. That’s why I’m a vet.”
Her braid falls off her shoulder as her entire body vibrates with laughter. “You do too. If ya didn’t, you wouldn’t be a vet, and you sure as heck wouldn’t be Fred Harrison’s grandson.”
My features stay smooth. The only movement is my eyelashes as I try to ward off whatever craziness Dottie is infected with in case it’s contagious.
She rolls her eyes and leans against the counter. “Grady’s wife died a couple of years ago. He gets lonely. Your grandpa plays along.”
“So, Pap’s a therapist now? This should be fun.”
“What are you talking about? He gives good advice.”
I look at her, stone-faced. “When I was seven or eight, I hated math. Couldn’t get it. Pap called and I was whining about a homework paper, and he told me to just multiply everything by zero and it would be zero. How could the teacher argue with me getting the right answer?”
Dottie snickers.
“Needless to say, I thought I was big shit. Ended up getting my first F and after-school detention for being, for a lack of a better word, a smart-ass. Then Dad grounded me for a week because I listened to his father-in-law and not to him.”
She raises her coffee mug in an attempt to hide her smile. It doesn’t work. The tips of her raised lips give her away.
I sigh. “So what else do I need to know? We’re clearly operating on a level I wasn’t aware of.”
“Let’s see.” She takes a quick sip of her coffee and then sets her mug down. “It’s Monday, so Birdie Jones will be in to pay her tab. She runs a small farm and kennel. Your grandpa goes by there and checks on the animals every week. Birdie will come in and pay today. If you’re up here when she comes in, just stick it in the fridge.”
I blink. Twice. “We put money in the fridge?”
“No, but we put the pies there.”
I’m not sure what my face does, but Dottie laughs again.
“We take payment in pie?” I ask.
“And cobbler. Sometimes cake, but not often, which I’m happy about. Don’t tell Birdie I told you, but she needs a bit of Crisco in her buttercream. It’s just a little blah. And that’s why she lost the blue ribbon three years ago at the Honey Creek Bake-Off, but I’m not telling her that.”
I rub a hand down my face.
Dottie cackles.
“Taking payment in pie is . . . It’s ludicrous,” I say because I don’t know what else to say.
“It’s delicious. Especially the gooseberry . . .” Her voice trails off.
My brain short-circuits, and I wonder how I ended up here.
Only a month ago I was on the precipice of having everything I’d always wanted. My career was taking off. I was being considered by one of the most prestigious clinics in the world, thanks to my solid track record and work ethic. I was engaged to a girl I’d started dating in college. Everything was lining up.
And now, here I am. Unemployed. Single. And hoping that the universe smiles on me and I can salvage what’s left of my life. Somehow.
I remind myself that not all is lost. I still have a shot at Montgomery Farms. I think.
I follow Dottie’s gaze to the doorway.
“Well, Sophie Bates,” she says. “What brings you by this morning?”
The fog in my head clears as I watch the woman walking toward me.
“Well, if it isn’t Holden McKenzie,” she says, twisting her gingerbread-colored hair into a messy knot on top of her head.
I lean against the counter and take her in. The apples of her cheeks host a constellation of freckles, and her chin is punctuated by a tiny mole a little to the left of center. She’s exactly like I remember her . . . only all grown up.
She sets her sights on me. The corners of her lips curl toward her golden-brown eyes. There, embedded in the veneer of innocence, is the unmistakable glimmer of mischief that has always been her trademark.
“I heard there was trouble in town,” she says with a wink. “Had to come and see it with my own eyes.”
“What? Are all the mirrors in your house broken?”
She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. “Fair enough. How have ya been, anyway? It’s like you forgot we all existed over here.”
“Eh. Been better. Been worse. You?”
“Same.”
We exchange a grin like you only can with someone you’ve connected to on an organic level before the world makes you jaded and changes you. I haven’t felt this in a long time.
Seeing her brings back memories of long, carefree days in the sun. Hours lying along the banks of Pine Creek and listening to music. I’m struck with things I thought I’d forgotten, about nights watching movies cast onto the side of the library and wondering what she would do if I ever kissed her.
I never found out.
And now I kind of regret that.
“Did you ever get my gold chain out of Pine Creek?” I ask.
Her brows shoot to the ceiling, too, as she remembers one of the last afternoons we spent together and how I ended up losing more than my chain in the waters of the creek.
At the same time, we both start to laugh.
“You jumped in there willingly,” she says.
“No. You dared me.”
“That hardly makes anything my fault.” She shakes a finger my way as she comes to a stop on the other side of the counter. Her laugh fades, but she’s left with an easy smile. “But for your information, we did find it a few years later, buried in a sandbar. You didn’t come back, so we pawned it.”
“Well, that was nice of you.”
“Bought us a couple of bottles of strawberry wine.” She looks up at Dottie and sobers her face. “That we were too young to have. I know.”
Dottie holds her hands up, shaking her head.
Sophie laughs and leans against the counter. She props her chin on her hand. Her eyes shine.
Sophie was my best friend every summer. As we grew up, so did the chemistry between us. Summer was never quite long enough for the spark to ignite, but I’ve always wondered what things would’ve looked like if I didn’t live fifteen hundred miles away. I’ve thought about her through the years. Anytime Pap mentioned her, I’d dig a little to see what the girl who’d held my fascination for a large chunk of my life was up to.