by Ellen Riggs
Wilf’s eyes were open but he stayed down long enough that I started to worry. Finally he sat up, took stock, and then struggled to his feet. “I thought you said this alpaca danced,” he said. “I’m ready to tango.”
Alvina had retreated to the far corner with the two llamas. Their protectors, a pair of cranky donkeys, were now advancing on us. Holding the long poker horizontally, I reached into my pocket for the cookies that usually kept everyone sweet-tempered. I tossed them in a wide arc and the donkeys fell for the decoy.
“Wilf, please stay out of the livestock pens,” I said, herding him toward the gate with the poker. “At least until you come up to the house and sign the waivers.”
Ben laughed. “Smart lady. Sounds like your concussion has healed.”
Closing the gate behind Wilf, I let Keats take over from there, bringing the men together and closing in to herd them up to the house. When Wilf tried to dodge away, Keats lightly nipped his pant cuff.
“Hey!” Wilf lashed out with his loafer and would have connected if Keats weren’t so agile. “I’ll kick you, dog.”
Keats evaded him easily, but fury rose from my belly. I pressed my lips together and drew in a long breath with my nose. My temper controls had short-circuited during Keats’ rescue and hadn’t come fully back online. When I finally opened my mouth, my tone was surprisingly calm.
“Wilf,” I said. “Sir. If you try to kick my dog again, I’ll ask you to leave Runaway Farm.”
His already ruddy face turned florid and his mouth worked. “You wouldn’t dare. You can’t turn away paying guests from this pile of crap. We’re doing you a favor. I bet you go under in six months and come crawling back to Flordale.”
I pulled in another long breath, counting to seven like Jilly told me. Not more, not less. It helped that I could see Wilf was upset about more than getting evicted from the alpaca pen. Maybe he was enraged I’d left Flordale, or possibly even hurt. There was a reason he was being an even bigger jerk than usual, and I’d be wise to de-escalate the situation by soothing his wounded pride.
“Wilf, I want you to know that I truly regret how we parted,” I said. “As you always said, I was practically married to Flordale, and leaving was like a terrible breakup. But what’s done is done, and I’ll either sink or swim here at Runaway Farm. All I’m asking, sir, is that you avoid injuring yourself or kicking my dog. What do you say?”
It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would to be conciliatory, and Wilf’s eyes seemed to lose a little of their feral gleam. I was willing to suck up if it meant getting through this ordeal without serious injury to man or beast.
He didn’t answer, but he did let Keats press him forward to the house. Finally he called back, “Where can a boss get a drink around here? It’s noon somewhere.”
Chapter Three
By dinnertime, Wilf’s color had deepened to maroon as he worked his way through my best scotch. His mood had kept the rest of the team on edge during the grand tour, Jilly’s lovely lunch, and then their breakaway session in the big, bright family room at the back of the house. Jilly and I stayed out of their way as much as possible, other than offering snacks and libations. Eventually I moved the scotch to the kitchen, but it magically reappeared in the family room on the coffee table. Wilf shared not only Wilma’s eyes, but her capacity for stealth. All I could do was hope he’d pass out early.
When people started to file into the dining room, I ran upstairs to change again quickly. I’d assumed it would be casual attire, but the men had put on suits, and the women dresses. My only option was the charcoal pantsuit I’d kept from my Flordale days, last worn to the dogcatcher’s funeral.
“Now that looks like the Ivy we know,” Wilf said, nodding. “I figured if we scratched the surface, she’d still be under those overalls.”
In a matter of moments, I started to feel like the Ivy they knew—stressed, subdued and suffocating slowly.
“Have a drink,” Jilly whispered as she pulled me aside. “You’re seizing up.”
“I have to stay alert,” I whispered back. “Even plastered he can outmaneuver me.”
“Once they start eating, they’ll chill out,” she said. “Just hang in there.”
Jilly served a fabulous appetizer salad with local pears and goat cheese. At least it looked fabulous. I felt too queasy to do more than push it around with my fork. The bread was freshly baked on site. Even the wine was from a regional vineyard that managed to coax grapes to grow in our short summer season.
Wilf subsided as he dug in but the look in his piggy eyes became even more wary. I knew from long experience that he was a mean drunk. His lips were too loose at the best of times, but when he was full of whiskey, his words sprayed out like bullets from a machine gun. Flordale got more internal complaints about Wilf than anyone else in the company, which was ironic considering he headed HR. I watched each and every complaint get swept under the carpet while others were fired for far less. Wilf obviously had friends in high places.
Jilly circled the table frequently, collecting plates and adding a scant inch or two of wine to waving glasses in hopes of slowing the pace of consumption. She reminded me of Keats, gently herding the guests. My left hand dropped to my side repeatedly, expecting to find the dog’s warm, comforting ears. Each time I was disappointed. Keats had opted to stay down at the barn with his new bovine baby. Senna had recommended leaving him there all night because new mothers, even adoptive ones, could be broody and moody. I missed him and realized anew how dependent I’d become on my sharp-witted canine companion. When faced with my toxic Flordale past, I truly needed my unofficial therapy dog.
With Wilf silently shoving salad into his mouth, the others began to chatter nervously. At least, Ben, Keri and Paulette did. They raved about the food, the inn’s décor and finally the scenery. Nellie and Neal both looked supremely bored. Meanwhile, Macy Tavares and Kate Sussex, in their nearly identical little black dresses, kept their usual stone-faced silence. Three years ago, my team had been thriving and cohesive, but one by one, some of my best hires quit because of Wilf. The others had been brought on board while I crisscrossed the country firing people as the company downsized other departments.
I was slightly lightheaded by the time Jilly brought out the main course. She was beaming with pride over her two signature dishes: a Moroccan chickpea stew, and her classic, chicken with creamy tomato basil sauce.
Wilf lifted the lid on the tureen of stew and scowled. He was sitting in my seat at the head of the table, which was no accident. Jilly had decorated beautifully with seasonal gourds and harvest-themed place cards. He’d moved my card to mid-table and assigned himself to one end and Ben to the other.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I ordered a steak. Rare. Running, in fact.”
“I’m afraid steak’s not on the menu tonight,” I said. “Jilly’s laid out the menu very carefully for the next few days. I’m sure you’ll find the stew delicious.”
He poked at it with disgust. “Are these chickpeas? You don’t seriously expect real men to eat this. You know me, Killer.”
“I don’t go by that nickname anymore,” I said, with a smile. “It doesn’t feel right on a rescue farm.”
Jilly had materialized beside him, placing a calming hand on his shoulder. “I’ll make you something else, Wilf. We want our guests to be fully satisfied with the cuisine at Runaway Inn.”
He thumped his fist on the table, making the china rattle. “Steak. Rare. Now.”
“Done,” she said, simply. “Well, give me fifteen minutes.”
“Ten,” he said. “And bring me more bread in the meantime.”
Several mouths hung open as if we were all competing for what little oxygen Wilf had left us. My heart was racing with the old Flordale tension. I hadn’t realized until I’d quit that I’d been suffering from panic attacks. Now I remembered exactly why.
Keri made another conversational volley. “Tell us about your best and worst moments since you moved here, Ivy.”
“A calf you immediately tortured,” Wilf said, tipping more scotch into his mouth.
Keri’s brow furrowed. “Tortured how?”
“Routine castration,” I said. “He’s fine.”
“Let’s ask the calf how he feels about that,” Wilf said. “It’s inhumane.”
There was a sudden shift in the atmosphere, like a storm system had rolled in. You didn’t need to be in the country long to start sensing changes like that on a primal level.
A voice behind me said, “Some beasts are just better castrated. We learn that early out here in the country.”
“Oh no!” I jumped up from my seat and turned. “Mom! You’re back.”
“Oh yes,” she said, her eyes on Wilf. “And just in time, it seems.”
When I moved home to Clover Grove, three of my four sisters had fulfilled Mom’s lifelong dream by taking her to Disneyland in California and then up the coast to Monterey. I’d contributed generously to the trip just to get Mom out of the way while I was settling in. It turned out to be fortuitous, given the dogcatcher’s murder and the subsequent investigation. I hadn’t expected her home for another week, by which point the Flordale contingent would be gone and she could be my top priority, as she’d no doubt expect. But here she was in the doorway, as full of herself as I’d ever seen her.
“It’s fine, Mom. We’re all good here.”
Ignoring that, she swept across the room and stood on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. She was barely over five feet and slim, despite delivering six children. Her hair was back-combed into a blonde bouffant and her makeup was on point, if a trifle heavy. Even on a low budget, she managed to find plenty of pretty dresses that made her look bigger and more imposing.
“I’m Dahlia Galloway,” she announced to the room. “Ivy’s mother.” Ben jumped up to offer his seat, but she waved it away. “I’m not staying. I’m not welcome, apparently. My daughter didn’t invite me to her grand opening, I’m afraid.”
“Mom. These are my former colleagues from Flordale. They’re here for a team breakaway meeting. It’s not a housewarming party.”
I looked over her head at my sisters. Iris and Poppy weren’t much taller than Mom. Despite being the youngest, I ended up taller than anyone except Asher. Iris’ angular face looked thinner than I remembered. No doubt weeks on the road had taken years off her life. I would owe them forever.
As Iris mouthed, “I’m sorry,” Poppy smirked at me. She was the wild card of the sisterhood. Daisy, our eldest sister, still had to work hard to keep her in line. I gave Poppy a glare now. Mom was a force of nature, but she couldn’t have gotten to Runaway Farm without investing in cab fare, which she wouldn’t likely do. Two years ago, the County had sent Asher, in his police uniform, to take away Mom’s driver’s license after she’d hit one too many stop signs. Witnesses had reported her knocking a variety of things over and her old, battle-scarred sedan proved it. Since her vision was good and she never overindulged, the issue was distraction. Her mind was on 500 things at once and then—oops!—another sign bit the dust. We were all grateful that Asher had taken that particular hit for the family. As the only son, and the golden boy, he’d gotten off easy in every other way.
Mom turned to stare at Wilf again. That worried me. While I hadn’t shared many details about my departure from Flordale, it was distinctly possible my siblings, specifically Poppy, had looser lips.
“I assume you’re Wilfred Darby?” Mom said. “Ivy’s former boss?” She took a few steps toward him, slowed only slightly by Iris’ grip on her belt.
Wilf leaned back in his seat, his smile showing more teeth than usual. “Yes, ma’am. Boss, mentor and all-around cheerleader.”
Mom tipped her head like a harmless canary, watching him with bright eyes that missed absolutely nothing unless she was behind the wheel. “So you’re the one who gave Ivy the titles ‘grim reaper’ and ‘killer’?” she asked.
He cackled, clutching his belly like a bad Santa. “Guilty! It’s all done in fun… Dahlia, you said? The flower-themed names are adorable, by the way.”
“Mrs. Galloway will do.” Mom drew herself up till she towered over Wilf. “My daughter had a wonderful career before you came along and crushed her spirit.”
“Mom, stop.” I grabbed her belt, too, and Iris and I pulled together. Mom slid backward but it didn’t slow her tongue.
“I understand there’s a long list of grievances against you, Wilfred,” she said, looking around the table. “I bet every one of your staff here has complained about your bullying. But for some reason senior management turns a blind eye to your professional missteps.” She shook her head. “How exactly do you pull that off? I’ve never been so lucky.”
It was true. Mom had been “let go” from countless jobs, usually for the same reason her license was suspended. She was easily distractible and that meant cash didn’t always balance, special orders got forgotten or mixed up, and food got spilled or spoiled. As result, she was frequently unemployed and we all kicked in to pay the rent on her small apartment over a knitting store on a side street in Clover Grove.
Wilf tipped more whisky down his throat and squirmed in his seat. “Dahlia, you know nothing about corporate life, I’m afraid.”
“True,” she said. “But I know about being a decent person, Wilfred. I don’t push people to the breaking point.”
Poppy cleared her throat. “Except her own kids.”
That lightened the mood instantly and everyone chuckled gratefully.
Mom raised the back of her hand to Poppy, which miraculously silenced my cheeky sister. “Wilfred,” she continued. “I called your office a few times and never heard back.”
“Oh no,” I said. “You didn’t.”
“I’m a busy man, Dahlia,” Wilf said. “If all the moms called me I’d never get a thing done.”
Mom’s gaze followed the beefy hand lifting the scotch glass. “Well, I just wanted you to understand that your actions almost got my daughter murdered.”
“Murdered?” Wilf’s glass paused in mid-air.
“Mom, stop!” Moving directly in front of her, I started backing up, in my signature dump truck maneuver.
“Ivy, this man needs to understand the impact of his actions,” Mom mumbled into my shoulder. “If he hadn’t exploited and persecuted you, you wouldn’t have been nearly murdered. Twice.”
Wilf’s piggy eyes had widened. “What is she talking about?”
“Nothing,” I said. “She’s exaggerating and being overprotective. That’s what moms do, Wilf.”
“It’s true,” she said, peeking around me. “Moms always protect their children. By whatever means necessary. No matter how drastic.”
“Are we safe here?” Wilf asked me. “I can’t put my staff in harm’s way.”
“Of course,” I said, continuing to push Mom backward. “Unless you’re worried about slipping on a cow flap like I did earlier.” I gave a forced laugh. “Oh wait, you engineered that.”
“Harmless prank,” he said. “What’s happened to your sense of humor?”
“Nellie said I’m wittier.” I glanced at her and saw she was frozen in her seat, her dark eyes wide and stunned. All her carefully cultivated indifference had vanished.
Wilf glared at Nellie. “You and I will talk later. Stop worrying about your looks and remember that everyone’s dispensable. We have a new grim reaper now.” He turned to Keri. “I didn’t think you had it in you, honestly. You never had Ivy’s natural abilities.”
Nellie and Keri both sank in their seats. Wilf was letting the manure Mom slung at him roll downhill.
“As for you two,” he continued, looking at the Raptors. “I never know which one of you is which. Even your work is completely indistinguishable. You’ll never progress in the company if you operate like conjoined twins. There’s only room for o
ne at the top.”
I was quite sure he’d work his way through the rest of the team, sparing only Paulette, perhaps, if I didn’t intervene. “Jilly,” I called. “I could really use your help out here.”
“Coming! Just taking the steak off the grill.”
She pushed open the door from the kitchen, steak steaming on a platter. Her green eyes took in everything at once. She hadn’t met my mom, Iris or Poppy, but she’d seen enough photos.
“Finally,” Wilf said, as she set the steak in front of him with a flourish. “It had better be bleeding.”
“Blood guaranteed,” Jilly said, turning to me as I backed Mom toward the kitchen with smoother moves than I’d ever managed to deploy in my actual truck. “Dahlia, I’m Jilly Blackwood, Ivy’s best friend. I’ve been so excited to meet you. I understand you’re a marvellous cook and I could use your advice in the kitchen.”
Mom gave me a little shove. “Jilly, you’re a good friend and I know you’ve helped that mutt save her in the nick of time twice. But I won’t be decoyed by your bogus ploys. I have five daughters, remember.”
Two of them stepped forward now, and pretty much carried Mom through the kitchen door.
I summoned a bright smile from my corporate collection and took my seat again. Wilf was sawing into his steak and shaking his head.
“All this talk of murder makes a man hungry,” he said. “Your mom’s a firecracker, Ivy. No wonder you snapped that day.” Popping a big piece of meat into his mouth, he continued speaking as he chewed. “I admit I had a few doubts about letting you go, but now I see I did the right thing in pulling the plug on your career.”
There was a collective gasp around the table, but I raised my hand. “It’s okay, folks. I’m fine.”
“A nice, calm little farm is the best place for people like you,” he said, meat juices trickling down his chin.
Don’t ask, don’t ask, I told myself. The words came anyway. “People like me?”
