by Ellen Riggs
“It’ll be fine,” Jilly said. She’d put extra care into her hair, makeup and outfit but her expression was bleak. “Game face on.”
“Back at you,” I said. “Let’s remember our HR roots. Bland. Ordinary. Emotionless.”
“Like robots?” The voice made me jump but it shouldn’t have. Edna Evans had become a master of stealth in the months since we met. “You’re planning to bore the cameras so they go away?”
“That’s the general idea,” I said. “You look nice, Edna. Are you going to try for a little face time with Vivian to drop the choir into conversation?”
“If I can get something out of this I will,” she said. “I doubt they’ll last long. The first whiff of manure will send them running. Reality reeks, at least in my experience.”
Jilly and I laughed and it did us a world of good. Keats, too. His tail came up and his ears and nose twitched. The place seemed to smell pretty fine to him.
“I keep thinking about what happened the last time we were here,” I said, glancing toward the old barn. It still looked like the wreck that had housed Vinnie’s neglected livestock and, eventually, his earthly remains.
“Look forward, not back,” Edna said, taking my elbow and turning me by force. “That’s all any of us can do. Life always holds some surprises.”
What we saw in front of us was most definitely a surprise. The house had been in good shape before but now it was decked out with stately urns full of hardy winter shrubs trimmed with ribbon in seasonally neutral colors. All the wood trim was freshly painted, and there was a doll hanging on the front door that was supposed to look quaint but gave me the creeps.
“See that doll?” I said. “It’s a zombie baby. The apocalypse just got one step closer, Edna.”
“Don’t play on an old woman’s hopes,” she said, propelling me up the driveway with one hand and Jilly with the other. “I’m sure nothing that dramatic will happen today. But if it does, rest assured I’m prepared. My go kit is in your truck and you can depend on me, girls.”
Jilly held one gloved finger to her lips and whispered, “Stop it, you two. We need to act normal today, remember?”
“But you’re the only normal one,” I said. “Edna and I are the opposite of normal.”
She laughed again. “Only my HR training has let me fool you so long. Trust me, I come from a long line of eccentrics.”
Jilly hadn’t shared much about her family since we met in college, but I knew she was happy to leave them behind and hadn’t gone home for years. In fact, our shared determination to put family behind us had drawn us together and it was ironic that my family had not only stepped to center stage in my life but happily adopted Jilly. It was only a matter of time before my brother made that official. She was already everyone’s favorite Galloway.
“Why am I only hearing about these eccentrics now?” I said. “More importantly, when can I meet them?”
“Probably sooner than I’d like,” she said. “Your social media following exposed my whereabouts and the calls have started again.”
I had my own worries about that. Just before Christmas, Asher had revealed that our deadbeat father was alive and well, and possibly lurking in the wings. I hoped he wouldn’t reappear to try warming up the very cold embers of our family relationship.
Keats stopped swiveling long enough to thrust his soft ears under my fingertips. “I’m okay, buddy. Just keep that sniffer going and let us know if we have anything to worry about.”
“What would there be to worry about?” Edna said. “It’s just a silly TV show.”
I shivered, and it wasn’t from the cold. “It’s Percy,” I said. “He keeps trampling this place and covering it with invisible cat litter. I mean, in the ceramic version of Clover Grove.”
“Put your toy town away,” Edna said. “If you’re going to get sidelined by a cat’s mind games, you’ll miss the big picture.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
Edna guided us around the side of the house. “Just look at this place.”
Vinnie’s big garage was gone now, replaced by the smallest, cutest red barn I’d ever seen. It was like something out of a children’s picture book. The trim white fence that surrounded it was only five feet high. That was great for peering inside at a fluffy white sheep and an equally pristine pygmy goat.
“I’ve never seen a sheep that white,” I said. “Where did they find it?”
“They didn’t find it, they made it,” Edna said. “It’s spray-painted, like they do at agricultural fairs. The goat, too.”
“Seriously? They spray-painted the livestock?”
“I doubt the network wants dirt and mud intruding on their vision of quaint country life. All is sweet and picture-perfect here.”
“It won’t stay that way for long,” I said. “One thing you can count on with animals is dung. If they’re fed, they poop. The farmer’s cycle of life.”
A man who looked to be nearly 70 came out of the barn wearing overalls and a Stetson. He looked a lot like Charlie, my silver fox farm manager. Except that Charlie never carried a dustpan on a long pole, along with a broom and a small shovel.
“I’m guessing his job is to make sure poop never hits the snow,” Jilly said, laughing.
I leaned over the fence. “You’re right. This snow is pristine. That’s impossible.”
Evie Springdale came up behind us, red curls exploding under a green wool hat. “Nothing’s impossible in the film world, Ivy. There’s a snow machine behind the barn. They freshen it up on the hour.”
Taking off my own hat, I rubbed my forehead. This whole scene—and it was a scene— was giving me a headache. “Why would anyone want to watch a reality show about a farm that whitewashes reality?”
“Are you really asking me that?” Evie said. “For every follower you have who wants to see the real thing, there are fifty who want perfection. Faraway Farm is going to deliver them that.”
“Wow. I don’t even know what to say, except that my worries about this show mirroring my own life were unfounded. There’s no whitewashing my manure pile.”
“Wait till you see what’s going on inside,” Evie said. “Vivian is baking a perfect pie.”
“Baking for real?” Jilly asked.
Evie laughed. “Hot out of the oven at Mandy’s Country Store. Baked to Vivian’s specifications, apparently.”
“Let’s go home,” Jilly said, tugging the sleeve on my parka. “I feel a little sick.”
“Not till we see the dog,” I said.
“What dog?” she asked.
“Fake Keats. Vivian said the producer got the wrong breed and I’m wondering if they subbed in a new actor dog.”
As if on cue, a huge fluffy black and white dog ambled out of the barn and joined the farm assistant. The man rested his hand on the tall dog’s head and it gave a swish of its tail.
“What breed is that?” Evie asked. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“I think it’s a Caucasian shepherd,” I said. “A livestock guardian instead of a herder. Some are nearly two hundred pounds. They’re mild mannered, but they’ll fight a predator to the death to protect their charges.”
The big dog glanced over at Keats and lifted its muzzle. Keats mumbled something that sounded polite. Respectful. Each working dog had a role and there was no competition. The Caucasian shepherd strolled over to let me pat its head and the farm assistant tipped his Stetson. Then the goat tackled the dog from behind and they collapsed into the fake snow.
“Okay, that’s adorable,” Jilly said, snapping a photo on her phone. “Can we get a big bear like that?”
“Keats, cover your ears,” I said. “Jilly’s turning traitor. On the bright side, she is encouraging us to get even more animals.”
“Only if they come with an assistant.”
“And an allowance. Imagine how much that dog would eat.”
A group of people came toward us, eating cookies and sipping hot chocolate. Those, at least, smelled real.
“Gorgeous,” echoed Beverly Roxton, wife of the town’s small animal veterinarian. There was no love lost between us, either, and for the same reason. “I cannot wait to watch this show. The first episode airs tomorrow.”
“We’re having a watch party,” said Laurene Pedal, of Pages and Pastries.
I wasn’t sure where I stood with Laurene, having also put her name forward to Kellan as a potential killer. Looking at the next group coming toward us, I realized that while I had made many wonderful new friends here, I probably had just as many enemies.
Keats thought so, too. His disliking for the Langmans and Beverly Roxton hadn’t abated one bit. They were on our watch list for life.
“Ivy!” The shout came from Teri Mason, who was standing beside the porch with Mabel Halliday. Mabel owned the ceramics store, Miniature Mutts, and our friendship had survived my suspicions of her. I hoped she didn’t even know I thought she might be capable of murder. It wasn’t personal. Most people were probably capable of murder in the right circumstances. More like the wrong circumstances. Even me. There was no doubt in my mind that I could and would dispatch someone who threatened the lives of my animals. “You need to come inside,” Teri called. “There’s an urgent matter.”
“What could be so urgent?” I muttered.
“Your mother,” Kaye Langman said, smiling. Had her teeth always been that pointy? Or had I just never really seen her smile before? “Dahlia’s being… well, Dahlia.”
That was enough to get my feet moving, and Jilly was a step or two ahead of me. Keats waved his tail merrily as he led the way up the stairs and in the front door.
Inside, so many people milled around that I couldn’t see my petite mother. But I could certainly hear her. She was unleashing on someone. I could only hope it wasn’t on camera. With the bright, hot lights overhead, I suspected everything was on camera.
“Find Mom and herd her back,” I told Keats. “Use your teeth if you must.”
He set off, deftly weaving through a sea of legs. There was a sudden high-pitched yip that didn’t come from the dog.
“Stop that right now, you cur,” Mom bellowed. “Ivy Rose Galloway!”
The crowds parted to let us through and we walked onto the kitchen set.
Jilly gasped. “Oh my goodness. It’s modeled on ours.”
“Only even nicer,” I whispered. “Someone had eyes on us, Jilly.”
A woman standing at the granite counter was greeting people warmly and handing out cups of steaming hot chocolate. She was wearing overalls and her hair was in a sloppy ponytail. Looking over at us, she gave a tight little smile. Her expression was bland and her hazel eyes serious.
It took me a second to realize I was looking at Vivian Crane. It took me a second longer to realize I was staring into a mirror—or at least a magic mirror that showed what I’d look like in middle age.
“Oh my gosh, she’s wearing a wig and contact lenses,” I whispered. “Just to look more like me.”
Edna snorted behind me. “No wonder Dahlia’s having a conniption.”
Mom pushed through the crowd, or more specifically, was pushed by a whirling dervish of a sheepdog, who managed to press people back while urging his sheep forward.
“We really do need one of those,” someone said. I turned to see Becky Bower, with Ray and Eric on either side, with their cameras.
“My mother?” I said. “There’s one available if you need her. I might even pay you.”
“We do need a mom,” she said, as if the idea had just occurred to her. “But I meant the dog. He’s quite talented, whereas Byron just sits there like a blob while the goat climbs all over him.”
“Byron? As in Lord Byron, the decadent poet?” I asked.
“I was hoping he’d have more personality when I named him,” she said.
“He’s doing his job as a livestock guardian,” I said. “Make no mistake, he’d move plenty fast if a coyote went after the sheep or goat. There are predators around here.”
“So I’ve heard. At least of the human variety.” Becky waggled her eyebrows. “Your dog would be a better bet in a duel to the death.”
Keats mumbled a humblebrag. Jilly, Edna and even Mom laughed. Becky tilted her head, missing the joke. Keats-speak was lost on her.
“He’s an amazing dog,” I said. “And no, he’s not for hire. He’s got a full-time gig at our place—a real working farm where I muck out the stalls and Jilly peels the potatoes. We don’t have a snow machine to—”
“Cut,” Becky said. “Ivy, look. We’re doing our best to work with you, not against you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. “Why would you work against me?”
Jilly squeezed my elbow as a reminder to lock in my HR persona. I did, but Mom wasn’t as easily managed. She straightened her shoulders, threw back her head and claimed more than her share of the space.
“These people want you to keep quiet about what they’re doing,” Mom said. “About how they’re stealing your life story. It’s tacky and utterly shameless.”
“It’s not like that,” Becky said. “We’re just doing a show here. But we really do want you on the payroll as an advisor, Ivy. We want to do this right, and we don’t want bad publicity. No matter what you do, people seem to like you.”
There were whispers behind me.
“Why is it always about Ivy? What makes her so interesting?”
“I don’t know, but she’s all anyone talks about.”
“The Galloways are attention seekers. They don’t even care who dies.”
“I wonder who will play Kellan Harper. I bet he dumps her over this. It’s the last straw.”
I turned quickly to catch the last speaker. It was Beverly Roxton.
Jilly squeezed my arm again and whispered, “He won’t. Don’t let her get to you.”
It got to me. The other comments rolled off my armor like raindrops but that one sliced through. I was always worried about the last straw with Kellan. Would I know it when I saw it?
Turning back to Becky, I saw the green camera light was on again. I pulled out my best HR smile—the one Vivian was wearing. I was grateful for the armor I’d developed over years of sheer misery in the corporate world.
“Becky, I wish you nothing but the best with your show,” I said. “I’m afraid I can’t help you in any way, though. I have a contract with the former owner about publicity.”
“Hannah Pemberton?” she blurted. “The billionaire?”
“The Pembertons, yes. They’re so protective of Runaway Farm’s reputation. I’m sure your network’s thought all that through.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Is that a threat? Because we have a very robust legal team.”
“That must be such a comfort,” Edna said. Turning to me she added, “People like them will go down first, you know. In the apocalypse.”
I had to fight back a snicker as I held out my hand to Becky. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot. I truly do wish you well. Especially Vivian. It isn’t easy to run a farm or even act like it.”
It looked like Becky would refuse my hand but someone cleared her throat behind us.
“That’s kind of you, Ivy,” Vivian said. “You’re welcome here at Faraway Farm anytime.”
Up close, she looked older than Mom, or at least very tired. The other day in the salon she’d been more feisty. Now she took my hand and shook it.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ve got to get home and put fifty animals to bed.”
“Fifty?” Vivian’s shudder gave her away, but Keats had already told me she wasn’t an animal lover. Both women got a flat “no” in the character department. “You’re as brave as everyone says, Ivy.” She glanced toward the door. “Ther
e’s the mayor. You’ll need to stay.”
She spoke like someone who was used to issuing orders and having them obeyed. But I still had my free will and a brilliant dog. “Out, buddy. Evasive measures, please.”
I didn’t need to ask him twice. He was done with this crowd and eager to get home. It was a circuitous route, but I followed the white tuft of his tail that had never led me astray. Jilly clutched my sleeve with one hand and Mom with the other, while Edna brought up the rear.
“I wanted to speak to the mayor,” Mom said, once we were outside. “What is this town coming to? That’s all I can say.”
“Yep, that’s all you can say… today.” We closed ranks to get her to the truck. Edna slipped into the back seat with Jilly, leaving me to boost Mom into the front.
“Asher has a step for me in his truck,” she said, as I shoved her from the rear.
“Stop fighting,” I said. “It was easier getting an alpaca in here than you.”
“And the miniature horse,” Edna said. “They just don’t bend like you hope.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” I said, finally getting Mom seated.
“I’m staying with you tonight,” she said. “I’m too upset to be alone.”
Lately, she was finding more and more excuses to stay at the inn, and worse, she’d upgraded herself to one of the nicer rooms. When I had a full house, that would have to end.
We dropped Edna at her house and drove the rest of the way in silence—if you didn’t count Mom’s huffy snorts.
I left her in Jilly’s custody and went right through the barn to the manure pile, barely scanning the animals as I passed. It was late afternoon, and we’d have to bring the outside animals inside soon. I just needed a few minutes with my shovel and some hard labor to take the edge off. Keats followed me, making an odd squeaking sound that was new to his communications repertoire. It was an alarm of some kind and it stopped me in my tracks.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Everything looks okay to me.”
He panted a quick no-no-no and passed in front of me, tail straight and puffed. A bad omen if ever there was one.
