With panic spiraling in the pit of my stomach, I now regretted my haste.
I also regretted the jeans I’d wrestled my body into, as they were cutting off my circulation somewhere in the waist region.
“Ned always said I lived too much on feeling and impulse.” I set down my coffee mug, the liquid tasting extra bitter on this trying day. “What if he’s right and I just threw away a solid career for a whim?”
“Ned has hash browns for brains, and nobody who tosses over my granddaughter—the best thing that ever happened to him—has any right to dole out life advice. You get me?” My grandmother kissed the top of my head. “Hattie Sutton, you march into Miller’s office, stick out that chest that could still stand some padding, and face that manandthis job with confidence.” She hugged me close. “I know you can do this.”
I was glad Sylvie was so certain.
My deflated chest and I were not so sure.
* * *
My GPS spoke in lovely dulcet tones, as if knowing it needed not only to guide me to the farm but also to keep me calm. I was four cups of coffee into this day, and between my bitterness flaring and the caffeine, I was as wired as the explosive device Sylvie once brought to my third-grade show-and-tell.
After a lengthy stretch of farm homes and cow-dotted countryside, I was greeted by a gate and a large iron sign that bore the name of Hope Farms. Wildflowers swayed on either side of the road, and fields as green as an Irish vista surrounded my car.
As my Toyota SUV meandered, I began to see a roofline in the distance. Then the house finally came into view. I pulled off my sunglasses and squinted. “Wow. Miller James sure knows how to class up Sugar Creek.” The residence before me was something out of a magazine. It was the type of home typically butted up to words likeestateandmansion. I’d heard Miller had sold his previous start-up company in San Francisco, leaving the Golden State as a wealthy man. This home could certainly testify to my old friend’s success.
A gate stopped me next, and I rolled down my window. I was just about to push the intercom button, when a lanky man in a cowboy hat and work-stained shirt limped toward me, a collie happily trotting alongside.
“Can I help you?” the cowboy asked.
“Is this 8034 Oak Trace?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m looking for Miller James.”
“You that horse therapist?”
I smothered a smile. “Yes. I have a nine o’clock appointment.”
The man punched the keypad, opening the gate. “Welcome to Hope Farms. The boss is expecting you.”
Gravel crunched beneath my tires as I rolled on through. Miller’s house was a gorgeous two-story, a blend of modern and classic. Mostly done in white, it mixed stone with painted brick and was accented with black shutters and wood details. Three chimneys stuck up from the steep roofline like birthday candles. Two men tended to shrubbery near the entrance’s double doors, their edging tools as loud as the rush of anxious thoughts in my head.
“I can do this,” I said as I stepped from my car, righted my outfit, and ran a finger over my teeth in case of a rogue lipstick smear. “I can do this.”
After mashing the doorbell, I pretended to look chill and professional. I would be calm and radiate confidence. Above me, a security camera captured my every move, and I didn’t want to appear as undone as I felt.
An overly large door eased open, and a plump woman sporting gray hair and an easy smile peeked out. “Hello.”
“Hi.” I tried to return her smile, but found my lips were reluctant to let go of their nervous clench. “I’m Hattie Sutton. I’m here for—”
“Come on in.” She held the open door wider, as if needing room for me and my huge aura of insecurities. “I’m Mamie,” the woman said as she waved a hand for me to follow. “I’m the housekeeper and occasional cook. Your grandmother and I go to church together.” Mamie wore dark jeans, a Grateful Dead t-shirt, and flip-flops that revealed brightly painted toes. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
A double shot of tequila? A tranquilizer smoothie? “No,” I said instead. “But thank you.”
She led me through the massive foyer, past a living room filled with stuffy leather furniture, then down a long hall. The floor beneath my boots was a beautiful pale wood, and I tried to avoid the cracks between the wide planks.
“This is Miller’s office.” Her grin still in place, Mamie rapped on the closed door with an easy familiarity. “He’s rarely in here. Stays outside mostly.”
A familiar voice called from inside the office, and Mamie let herself in. “Miller, sweetie, I’d like to present Hattie Sutton.”
The fan that swiveled above me lifted my long hair and washed over my skin as I entered.
My eyes widened, and my heart stuttered. My tongue stuck to the roof of my uncooperative mouth.
