“Popeye!” I run up the staircase to meet him halfway, throwing myself into his outstretched arms. We wobble unevenly, but Popeye grasps the banister for support, one arm around my shoulders, pulling me in tight.
My grandfather smells like laundry detergent and bales of hay, enough to tickle my nose. I hug him tight, fearing I may end up crushing him, and pull back once I’m fully reminded of just how loving his embrace can be. Four years of video calls that Sheri helps set up aren’t enough – seeing Popeye in real life again after so long fills me with such overwhelming warmth that my eyes dampen with happy tears.
I take his hands in mine, noticing the slight tremor in them. They are rough and well-worn from a lifetime of hard work. His face is a bit thinner and more sunken than I remember, but it has been years since I’ve actually stood face to face with him – and of course he has aged. His full head of white hair is enviably silky in real life, though, and I see the flicker of my reflection in the glass eye that replaced the real one he lost back in the Vietnam War. When I was a little kid, I thought Grandpa was just like Popeye, the cartoon figure. The nickname stuck.
“Those computers don’t do you justice, little Mila,” Popeye says, beaming brightly as he gives my hands a careful squeeze. “You are becoming such a beautiful young lady. Fifteen now . . .”
I don’t want to tell him that he looks more fragile in real life than he does on our Skype calls, so I just laugh and squeeze his hands in return. “I’m sixteen, Popeye. You sent me a birthday card, remember?”
“Growing up too fast, I tell you!”
After Popeye and I get caught up, Sheri insists on giving me a guided tour of the sprawling farmhouse to refresh my memory. We stayed for a week that Thanksgiving four years ago, so although I don’t remember much about Fairview in general, I do remember this house. Sheri even sets me up in the same guest bedroom I stayed in last time, with the large bay window that overlooks the stables. I bring my luggage upstairs, freshen up after spending ten minutes figuring out how to operate the old-fashioned shower, then head back to the kitchen to sit down with Sheri and Popeye for lunch.
There’s so much food here for three people, dishes of home-cooked meat and all the sides you can imagine, and I don’t want any of it to go to waste, so I load up my plate and dive in. Also, I am starving. The nauseous swirling of regret meant I could barely eat the past few days.
“So, like, what exactly is there to do around here?” I ask just as I’m finishing up. I’ll lick every last speck of food off this plate if I have to, it’s that damn delicious. Back home, Mom has us on a strict protein-rich diet at the say-so of my father, and I am so tired of salmon and steamed asparagus.
“You can help me clean out the stables. The manure really doesn’t smell all that bad once you get used to it,” Sheri says, then upon noticing my blank stare, she laughs. “That was a joke, Mila. Though I will need you to help out around here.”
“I can help out with the laundry. And cleaning,” I offer. I push my plate away as a clear signal that I’m done eating, and then rest my elbows on the table. “But seriously. What is there to do for fun in Fairview? Because I don’t think the playgrounds I loved when I was four are going to cut it anymore. Is there a way for me to get to downtown Nashville?”
Popeye releases a throaty chuckle as he grabs his empty glass and stiffly gets to his feet. “The only way you are getting to Nashville is if you drive yourself there,” he says with a sympathetic pat on my shoulder and moves toward the faucet.
Sheri leans back in her chair with an air of resignation, clasping her hands together in her lap. “Actually, Mila . . There are some rules that are in place while you’re here.”
“Rules?”
“Rules defined by Mr. Ruben Fisher.”
“That shark,” Popeye grumbles under his breath, filling his glass at the sink. Sheri watches him fondly out of the corner of her eye. “Horrible, horrible man . . .”
“Oh, yeah. I know,” I say, relaxing. Ruben has already covered this with me when he drilled the same phrase into me for hours and hours. “Maintain a low profile and don’t draw attention to yourself or your father,” I quote with an eye roll.
“That’s not all,” Sheri says. She stares down at her interlocked hands in her lap, then glances back up at me with a perturbed look. “Ruben’s instructed me to keep you here on the ranch at all times.”
“What?” My stomach sinks. “I’m not allowed to go anywhere?”
A smile creeps onto Sheri’s face. “Who says we’re fully complying with Ruben’s instructions? You and I . . . We will have our own rules.”
“So,” I say hopefully, straightening my shoulders, “I can leave the ranch?”
“Yes, but promise me, Mila, that you will do your absolute best to stay out of any kind of trouble,” Sheri says, her tone serious with concern and her smile gone. “I need to know where you are, who you’re with and what you’re up to. As long as you keep me in the loop, you can have some freedom, and I’ll take care of Ruben. Does that sound fair?”
“Yes! I promise. No trouble.” I mock zipping my lips shut and blink innocently at her.
Popeye returns to the table with a fresh glass of water. A little spills as he steadily lowers himself back into his chair and asks, “Do you have any old friends here?”
“I left when I was six,” I gently remind him with a sigh. “So no, not really.”
“Then you go out and make new friends,” he says simply, as though it’s ever that easy. Maybe back when he was a kid, sure, but in the twenty-first century? Yeah . . . No.
Sheri nearly bounces straight out of her chair. “Oh! The Bennetts have kids. They own the ranch at the end of the road. Real nice folks.” She taps her index finger against her lips, looking up at the ceiling. “The daughter’s name is Savannah.”
“Savannah?” I repeat. The name Savannah rings a bell, stirring up a vague memory of childhood friendship, sitting together at those low desks in the first grade.
“She would be your age, I believe.”
“I think I remember her.” I close my eyes to focus deeply, but nothing more comes back to me.
“Well, there’s a start,” Sheri says brightly. She stands from the table, gathering up the dishes. “I can take you over there so that you can introduce yourself again after all this time.”
“Huh? Wait – no. What?” I stare at her in horror. What kind of insane idea is that? Introduce myself to a girl I haven’t seen in a decade? Who even does that?
Sheri dumps the dishes into the sink with a tremendous clatter, then rummages around in a cupboard and pulls out a random baking tray. “Perfect!” she announces, spinning back around to face me. “I borrowed this from Patsy last week. I was attempting a new recipe for peanut butter brownies – they were a disaster, for what it’s worth. But it would be oh-so-kind of you to bring it back to her for me. There, that’s a nice excuse.”