“It doesn’t . . . It doesn’t work like that,” I stammer. She really wants me to turn up on a stranger’s porch and hand them back a baking tray? This is not how the world works. “I can’t just knock on someone’s door and ask to be friends.”
“You can in Tennessee,” Sheri says firmly as she shoves the baking tray into my hands.
I glance at Popeye for backup, but he has a smug grin plastered across his face. They are so old-fashioned.
“Can’t I at least go tomorrow?”
Sheri isn’t giving me a choice. She gathers up the remaining dishes from the table, drops them into the sink, then grabs her car keys from the counter.
“No, because by tomorrow you’ll have a list of a thousand excuses, and in order to have freedom, you need to have friends,” she tells me. Then, “Dad, will you be all right while I take Mila along to the Bennetts’?” she asks Popeye.
“Go, go,” he says encouragingly, waving a hand to urge us out the door. Before we disappear, he reaches across the table and places his hand over mine. “Make some friends. We’ll bore you to death if you don’t.”
I can’t even laugh. Baking tray gripped tight, I rise out of my seat, heart thumping.
3
This is stupid. So, so, so stupid.
The Bennetts’ home is the Willowbank ranch. It’s a mile along the quiet, twisty country road and is easily walkable, but Sheri insists on driving me so that (1) I don’t get lost – even though I fail to see how that’s even possible considering it’s the first ranch we come upon – and (2) so that I can’t back out of doing this. Figuratively speaking, I’m being dragged to the Willowbank ranch against my will.
I press a hand to my forehead, wiping away a glaze of sweat. Even with the AC blasting through Sheri’s van, the vehicle still feels like an oven. The leather upholstery is a heat trap, and my thighs stick to my seat. It’s been – what? – an hour since I showered? Yet already I feel gross again. Maybe this really is the seventh circle of hell – Nashville humidity, miles from civilization, and Aunt Sheri forcing me to talk to the neighbors. I’m quickly realizing that being here on a quick visit is a lot different than knowing I actually have to stay here.
We’ve passed the ranch sign and have turned down the old dirt road that snakes through the property. Unlike my family’s ranch, Willowbank isn’t kept hidden behind solid walls that are eight feet high and there’s no intimidating security gate holding us back.
We pass a tractor parked at the edge of the grass, then Sheri pulls to a stop outside the house. I’m sweating profusely now. Is it one hundred degrees outside or am I really this much of a loser? I interact with big-shot names in the film industry, from Oscar-winning actresses to studio executives, yet I can’t say hello to some kid I went to elementary school with without turning into a useless sweaty bundle of nerves? What’s wrong with me?
“Be nice and smile real big,” Sheri says, her nod genuine and encouraging. But still, I think if I were to refuse to get out of the car, she would drag me out by my flip-flopped feet. Even if I have to keep my head down, having at least one friend to hang out with over the summer is as much a benefit to her as it would be for me. I doubt she wants a sixteen-year-old stomping around the ranch every day – even though that’s exactly what Ruben has me ordered to do. “And give back the baking tray.”
“Okay.” I gulp back a breath of warm air and tuck the tray under my arm. “I’m on it.”
Relaxing my shoulders, I climb out of the car and start for the house. I’ve walked a mere ten feet when I hear the crunch of tires against the dirt, and when I spin around, my jaw drops at the sight of Sheri’s van disappearing down the road, kicking up dust. She’s leaving me here? I was hoping I could simply hand over the baking tray, mumble a quick hello, then dive back into the safety of the boiling van.
Does Aunt Sheri seriously expect me to stay here and hang out with a complete stranger? What if Savannah Bennett barely remembers me either and thinks I’m a weirdo for ambushing her after a decade? Then I’ll have to hang my head in shame and walk back home. It’s not far, but still. This is so humiliating.
Sheri is so getting an earful when I make it back to the house.
I grit my teeth and head up onto the porch. My bare leg brushes against the wooden balustrade and it’s so hot it scorches me. I flinch away, closer to the front door, and stand directly on the welcome mat.
“Grow up,” I mutter to myself under my breath.
Okay, this is the countryside. Rural Tennessee. People are friendly here. It will be fine.
Just do it, Mila.
I swallow hard, then knock.
Long, agonizing seconds pass before I sense any movement behind the door. Finally, I hear the latch unlock and the door swings open.
“Hey there!” says the short, smiling woman in front of me, her eyebrows shooting up in a questioning manner. Patsy, I’m guessing. It’s kind of strange to think that maybe I’ve met this woman before when I was six years old. Maybe my mom used to talk to her at the school gates. Who knows?
“Hi. Sorry to interrupt you, but I’m . . . I’m Sheri Harding’s niece,” I start, but my voice is wavering. It feels strange to introduce myself as Sheri Harding’s niece rather than Everett Harding’s daughter. The words don’t feel right on my lips. “She asked me to bring back your baking tray, so . . . Here.” I offer the tray with what I hope is a polite smile.
“Thank you, honey,” she says, stepping out onto the porch. She runs her eyes over me from top to bottom, and I feel like a lab rat in a cage, but I don’t think she realizes just how intensely she’s scrutinizing me. I can almost see the gears in her mind shifting as she pieces together the obvious. “Sheri’s niece,” she ponders out loud. “So, you must be—?”
“Yes,” I say a little too sharply before she can finish. Judging by her smile of recognition, she already knew the answer. It’s not hard to make the connection – Sheri’s one and only sibling is my father. “That’s me,” I add with a shy giggle so that she doesn’t think I’m surly. I’m just sick of everyone caring so much about who my father is. He’s just . . . my dad. He wears slippers with jeans to lounge round the house and sings his heart out to rock classics in the shower.
“Oh, how lovely,” Patsy says, but she doesn’t sound entirely sincere. She hugs the baking tray to her chest, leaning against the door frame. Her lips are pulled into a smile that is so clearly suppressing a frown. “Are y’all visiting? I hope the press doesn’t catch wind or else these roads will be clogged up all the way to Nashville.”
Maybe she remembers what happened when we visited for Thanksgiving all those years ago. I don’t quite understand how word gets out, but both the media and the fans always know exactly where Dad is. Celebrating his anniversary with Mom in the Bahamas? The press is already waiting at the hotel before their flight has even touched down. A Thanksgiving trip to the hometown to be with family? The Tennessee-based fans camp out around the walls of the estate, hoping to catch a glimpse of Dad, until the police ushers them away.