by D. A. Young
After dressing warmly in long johns, jeans, a cable-knit black sweater, and knee-high wellies, Annabelle unwrapped her hair, unraveled her Bantu knots, and shook her hair out. She applied lip balm and grabbed her black and cream Fair Isle scarf before leaving her room.
In the hallway, she was bombarded by the aroma of something frying. Was that chicken? Annabelle checked her phone. It was five-ten in the morning. Who was frying chicken this early? She headed downstairs to the second level where Max was coming out of his bedroom, already dressed for the day as well, Georgina was right behind him tucked into a navy and burgundy striped chenille robe. They all stopped, surprised to see each other.
“Good morning. I thought you were cooking.” Georgie waved at Annabelle with a yawn. “I usually get up with Max and eat breakfast with him before going back to bed for a while longer then heading to work.”
“Even though I tell her it’s not necessary and that she should sleep in,” Max reminded his wife affectionately while smoothing down her pixie cut. “It must be Betty. She usually gets in at six in the morning. Though she did mention that she and Hank had a stepping party last night.”
Betty Stratton was the housekeeper and had been with Cinnamon Farms for as long as Annabelle could remember. Every time she’d visited the farm, the older black woman had something ready for Annabelle to eat.
Max sniffed the air. “Is that coffee?”
Annabelle took a whiff as well. “Mmmm, why yes, I do smell the aroma of that lovely caffeinated coping mechanism that determines daily whether my powers will be used for good or evil. Let’s go!”
Annabelle hustled ahead of them down the stairs and hallway, with Sherlock and Watson, the couple’s black, white, and tan Australian shepherds nipping at her heels. She skidded to a halt in the kitchen entrance at the sight of Graham making four plates. He was dressed in black jeans, a charcoal turtleneck, black beanie, and black Timberlands. Over his clothes, he wore a checked red and white apron with frills that should have looked ridiculous, but instead, he gave it a touch of masculine flair.
Graham looked up and treated Annabelle to an intense head-to-toe perusal that left her feeling overheated in her layers. His greeting was meant for everyone, but his eyes remained on Annabelle. “Morning, y’all.”
“What are you doing here so early?” Annabelle crossed the room and gave him a kiss, whispering in his ear. “I missed you last night, Mr. Carlton.”
“I missed your hardheaded butt too, Doc.” Graham’s sour mood at sleeping alone receded, knowing he was not alone in his feelings. “To answer your question, I’m here to make my baby breakfast.”
“I don’t normally let another dude call me that and get away with it, but it smells so good in here, I’ll let that shit ride, but only for breakfast,” Max joked as he poured four cups of coffee and Georgina poured glasses of orange juice. “What are we eating?”
“Does this mean that you’re not mad at me anymore?” Georgina wiggled her eyebrows at Graham over the rim of her coffee mug. “Max was very persuasive in helping me see the error of my ways last night, big brother.”
“Clearly, you’re a slow learner because he was still ‘persuading’ you into the early morning hours. I stopped counting after the third time,” Annabelle grouched and Georgie choked on the sip of coffee she’d just taken.
“You know she’s on a learning curve, so of course, I had to go slow and take my time, A.B.,” Max replied then jumped out of reach of his irate wife’s hand-swatting. “Make sure she understood what I was lay-, er, saying.”
Graham’s good humor was fully restored at Annabelle’s surliness. It was Annabelle’s turn to choke on her orange juice when he set a plate with a golden, fluffy, buttery biscuit split in two with chicken fried chicken and gravy over it, topped with eggs over easy and sprinkled with chives and whispered in a voice promising unlimited intimate adventures, “That could be us too, Doc, but you’re over here blockin’ this blessing and the bonus vitamin D package it comes with.”
“Ewwww! Did he really just say that while I’m trying to eat?” Georgina gagged, her annoyance at Max now redirected toward her brother. With a baleful stare, she pointed her fork at him, waving it threateningly. “I don’t need that visual in my head, big brother.”
Graham awarded her a Cheshire cat grin. For months, his sisters had been tormenting him with the flagrantly amorous affection they displayed with their significant others in front of him. When living here, Graham had lost count of how many times he’d wanted to take Max apart for the sounds he made Georgie produce that no brother should ever be subjected to hearing. The sound of chalk down a chalkboard held more appeal to Graham.
Calmly, he fixed her plate while Annabelle and Max discussed this morning’s farm routine. Graham set the plate in front of her and spoke under his breath, “You sure you don’t want to hear about how she just can’t get enough of my co—”
“Aaaargh!” Georgie shouted and covered her ears as Annabelle and Max gave them questioning looks. His baby sis looked positively green at his words. “You’re disgusting!”
“Whaaaat? I was just gonna say coffee,” Graham replied innocently then laughed evilly in Georgina’s shocked face as he took the seat next to Annabelle, across from his sister and raised his juice class to her. “Payback’s a bitch, fam. Stay strong.”
Alexei was right. Vengeance was sweet and rewarding.
***
After breakfast, Graham went back to the Cashmere Inn to start breakfast for the guests, and Annabelle left with Max for the main office, next to the large cherry-red barn, to speak to Donna Courtland, Cinnamon Farms’ office manager and get her new hire paperwork situated. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the roosters were crowing at the top of their lungs, and there was a light fog that was slowly dissipating with the biting wind. Annabelle was eager to get to work. She’d always loved this place. One of a few black-owned farms around, Cinnamon Farms was also one of the busiest farmsteads in Wilkins County, with a great breeding program for horses, cows, geese, pigs, ducks, sheep, chickens, and turkeys.
Like his uncle before him, Max was community-oriented and opened the farm gates to the public during certain times of the year. For fall, the pumpkin patch and fields were used for hayrides, corn mazes, and picking pumpkins. During winter, when the lake froze, it became the local ice skating rink. With spring, came the big Easter egg hunt and carnival. Since the opening of the Cashmere Inn, he’d added activities like culinary classes and farmstead classes where guests would interact with Tavish and Trevor, the Master Gardener, who would teach them the “farm to table concept”. Brad Dutchens, Cinnamon Farms’ head of the cheese-making and charcuterie, was also available to educate guests on cheese and cured/smoked meats selections.
“You’re like a kid ready for the first day of school and damn near skipping,” Max teased her as she swung her vet bag and hummed under her breath. “It’s good to have you back, A.B. I don’t know if Georgie mentioned it or not, but I haven’t been satisfied with the hospital’s services. As you know, I never cared for Davis, but after that piece of shit ran off and Brenton was dead, the board has brought in vets that are clearly in it only for the money. I see no compassion for the animals. Everything is extremely clinical and most of the time, the animals refuse to cooperate.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Max,” Annabelle said sincerely. “Animals are so finely attuned to their environment and human counterparts that it completely alters their psyche when they’re uncomfortable. If you’d like, I can meet with the doctors and vet them for you for the best compatibility match.”
Max slapped his work clothes covered thighs in frustration. “I don’t even want to deal with those hospital knuckleheads. I feel like they’re holding a grudge against me for Davis’s cowardly actions and the pressure I’ve put on them after what happened to Gus! Fuck ‘em. I was thinking of hiring a concierge vet from out of state.” Max stopped walking to consider her, his black eyes alive with speculation. “Unless you want th
e job? A.B., if you say yes, I promise to give you carte blanche of the entire farm. You know I trust you implicitly with the animals. If you say yes, I’ll have an office with an examining room built specifically to your design. You could even accept patients from town if you’d like.”
Wow. Two promising job proposals in less than a week. Except where Annabelle had reservations about accepting Linda’s offer, Max’s felt like fate. The rolling hills of the farm and the noises of the animals waking up for the day were the sweetest sights and sounds that Annabelle had feared never hearing again. Already, she envisioned Rory running around the farm, making herself right at home. Accepting Max’s position felt… right.
“Yes!” She blurted out then grabbed his arm, searching his surprised face. “Max, are you sure about this? That you want me to have this position? I heard about Gus, and I’m so sorry that happened. It’s all my fault, and I accept full responsibility.”
Max put his hands on her shoulders firmly. “Annabelle. That didn’t happen because of you. It happened because Fowler is an unhinged psychopath who made the mistake of threatening Georgie. So what do you say?”
“I’d need to go back to Furla, give notice, and pack up.”
Max released her with a huge grin. “How does three months from now sound?”
By then, hopefully, Davis wouldn’t be looming over her head. “Great! That will give me enough time to get my affairs in order.”
At the office, Annabelle received a warm reception from Donna, Cinnamon Farm’s office manager, who went over the new hire packet with her before meeting Max at the mobile chicken coops that were rotated around the farm. Today, they were located on the opposite side of the barn. Annabelle wasn’t surprised that Max had continued to stick with his uncle’s tradition of raising only Plymouth Rock, Sussex, and Delaware chickens. Next, they moved to the barn and were greeted by Laura Stickler, the horse breeding manager. Like Donna, the small blonde woman was happy to see Annabelle, and she was leading Apache, Max’s prized stallion.
“Hey, boy. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!” Annabelle stroked his gleaming black coat and rubbed the diamond-shaped white spot in the center his forehead. She rubbed her forehead against the side of his neck and hugged him. “Laura, he looks really good! No signs of abnormal gait, equine influenza, tetanus, or distemper?”
“This guy’s as fit as a fiddle, Doc. We’ve followed your strict regimen and diet for all the horses and have never seen signs of any illnesses,” Laura reported proudly.
Her assistant led a white palomino with soft brown eyes and brown spots on her hindquarters. Annabelle recognized her instantly and gave her the same affection she’d given Apache. “Hey, Lady!”
“She’s Georgie’s horse now, but she wanted you to ride her today,” Max informed her. “Feel like riding today? I can show you all the expansions we’ve done.”
“Let’s go!” Annabelle assisted Laura with her saddle and soon, she and Max were trotting off behind the barn and past the Larder, a smaller white barn where cheese was made. Annabelle could see they’d moved the rows of cows, sheep, and pig pens back, a mile away, and that was the direction they headed in.
When Annabelle left, they were only carrying two breeds of dairy sheep, the East Frisian from northern Germany, one of the best in terms of milk from ewe, and Karakul sheep, from the desert regions of Central Asia. Nothing had changed, she noticed as she glanced around, looking for a hybrid sheep but saw none. “Max, I thought you were going to cross these two breeds and create a flock that efficiently produced the most milk possible from the pasture available here?”
“That’s still my plan, but as I said before, the trust I have in those vets to care for them leaves a lot to be desired,” he replied darkly.
They moved on to the pigs. Currently, Cinnamon Farms carried three breeds: Herefords, Durocs, and Gloucestershire Old Spot pigs.
Annabelle scanned the pigs,searching for any obvious signs of illness but saw none. “Have you thought about incorporating Berkshire pigs? I know the Durocs are usually show pigs and you get your pork, ham, and salami for charcuterie from them, but the Berkshire pigs are also an excellent choice for farmers who want to raise livestock with a legacy, and taste consumers appreciate. The only downside is that they are smaller than these pigs here.”
Max nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking of incorporating some just to see how well they do. Especially around those temperamental Herefords. I’m thinking of eliminating the G.O.S. since they’re easily prone to sunburn. I know a farmer who’d pay a pretty penny for them up north.”
“Maybe you could make them your show pigs instead? I know the Durocs are the obvious choice, but surely, it’s worth a try?” Annabelle wheedled. “I know what farm you’re talking about, and it looks just like the one in that Hannibal Lecter movie!”
Max threw his head back and laughed at her. “Doc, you haven’t changed one bit! Always trying to save all of the animals! Keeping you around is gonna put me in the poor house for sure. It’s damned good to have you back.”
“Thanks, Max,” Annabelle said quietly, “for everything.”
“No, Annabelle; thank you,” Max said just as quietly, sincerity ringing in his voice. “You’re good for my brother. His happiness is my wife and sister-in-law’s happiness as well. The Carlton siblings don’t open up to and accept just anybody into their lives. Take good care of his heart.”
“I plan to. Now, stop talking and prepare to eat my dust!” Annabelle took off at a brisk pace with Max galloping behind as they rode the horse trail and the sun rose over the hills.
There really was no place like home.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Annabelle drove along Main Street, and it was like time had stood still as she passed Fluidity Yoga and Pilates Studio, Atlantis Spa, various food trucks, and Serving Goddess, a full-service hair and nail salon. She sighed at the sight of brick and modern buildings designed in a mix of Federal, Victorian, and twentieth-century periods. The town square was still tree-lined with a mixture of magnolias, sycamores, bald cypress, and tulip poplar trees that were bare from winter.
She pulled Max’s truck into the only empty parking space in Feminine Intuition’s parking lot and gave a low approving whistle at the window mannequins dressed in sheer intimates, peeking from behind the diaphanous white lace curtains. Annabelle got out of the truck and entered the crowded Victorian style mint-green boutique. She was amazed to run right into Reverend Armisha Jackson and her lifelong frenemy, Esmeralda Gonzales.
“Is that really you, Annabelle Gaines?!” Armisha screamed, waving the risqué scarlet negligee in her hands around and causing all activity in the shop to halt. She tilted her head down to peer at Annabelle above the rims of her black square eyeglasses. Armisha shook her head incredulously and Annabelle took note that her fifty-pound, pineapple hairstyle dyed a warm honey-blonde didn’t even move as she answered her own question. “As I live and breathe, why yes, it is! Girl, get on over here and gimme some sugar! Essie! Look who it is!”
Mrs. Laurent shoved between the two women, and with a disapproving frown, she snatched the white lace garter out of Esmeralda’s hands and tossed it on the counter. “Put that damn garter belt down, Essie! You know Oswald has arthritis. It’ll be a bitch for him to pry off your thigh and bad for your poor blood circulation as well!”
Mrs. Laurent pressed both hands to her mouth as she looked Annabelle over. Apparently satisfied that she was none the worse for wear, she threw her arms open and rushed the young woman standing like a deer caught in headlights. “Girls, it really is her!”
“ANNABELLE!” The excited chorus was pitched loud enough to rattle the boutique’s windows and burst eardrums.
Annabelle found herself surrounded by a wave of pink velour and white easy steppers as the Spring Chickens swarmed her like locusts. Mind spinning, Annabelle’s senses were heavily assaulted by a mushroom perfume cloud consisting of White Diamonds, Rive Gauche, Chanel No.5, Estée Lauder Pleasures, D
ior Poison, Opium, and Altoids as she was passed around like a ragdoll for greetings, hugs, and kisses while being subjected to their relentless interrogation. Even in the midst of it all, Annabelle noticed they all had bags of lingerie.
“Where have you been?”
“Did you join a cult?”
“Why did you just up and leave like that?”
“Did you leave Davis for another man?”
“Does your cult practice witchcraft? What about a dress code? Do they have a dress code??”
“Did you leave Davis for a woman?”
“We thought you were dead!”
“Why did Davis leave?”
“Maybe she is dead, and is a figment of our imagination?”
“Do you know where Davis is?”
“Is your cult by invitation only? Or can anyone join?”
“Have the two of you been in contact with each other?”
“What about snacks? Does your cult offer snacks?”
“Don’t forget wine! Do they serve wine?”
“I feel like she needs to be saved,” Fern Keetowah-Marquez, Feminine Intuition’s seamstress, observed sympathetically as she stood with Eliza and Georgina, watching the chaotic scene unfolding. They were keeping a healthy distance from the sea of Pepto-Bismol by standing on the other side of the large cash wrap and hugging the wall. “We all know that they come on like gangbusters! It’d be the right thing to do…”
Georgie nibbled on her thumbnail as she watched Annabelle wildly search for an escape route. Reluctantly, she conceded, “I suppose you’re right…”
