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Chapter 4
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Dane was having more fun than he’d had in a long time. There was something comforting about being around Susie. And that kiss. She’d tasted like cinnamon and sunshine. He wanted more … so much more.
He grinned to himself as he walked to the barn. He pulled the latch to the left, and the door swung open. To his surprise, an overhead light came on. It must have been on a motion sensor. The inside of the barn was very tidy. There were a couple of horse stalls piled floor to ceiling with rectangular bales of hay and a larger gated stall that was empty. He went to the only interior door and opened it. Another light automatically came on. Inside were metal shelves neatly labeled. On the bottom shelf there was a large bag of feed labeled “pig pellets.” He picked up the bag.
How much was he supposed to feed the pigs? Didn’t they eat a lot?
He looked around for some type of scooper but there was nothing. Next to the pig pellets was a large metal pail. He poured pellets all the way to the top of the pail.
Next to the dog food were two large bowls. Did Prince Albert eat dog food? He shrugged and filled both bowls with dog food and stacked them on top of the food in the pail.
On the shelf above the dog food was a bag of chicken feed. Inside the bag was a cup. He filled it and stacked it on top of the dog food. He’d feed everyone their dry food first and then go into the house for the other food.
He hugged the lopsided stack to his chest and carefully made his way out of the barn and over to the pigs.
“Just a word to the wise, pigs are always hungry and they’re crafty. They know if they trip you, you’ll drop what you’re holding.” Susie fiddled with the ice pack on her foot.
He felt really bad about her foot and her nose. Around her, he felt like a clumsy idiot.
“Right.” He set his lopsided bundle of food containers on the ground outside of the pigsty, removed the dog food and chicken feed, and left them on the ground. He took the bucket and opened the gate.
If Rachel Mays, the leading lady in his current film and his best friend, could see him now, she’d laugh until she hyperventilated.
“How are you this morning, Governor?” He assumed the larger pig was the Governor.
“That’s Ima. She’s almost twice as big as her father,” Susie called from the porch.
“Sorry, ma’am.” He bowed to Ima. “I meant no offense.”
Ima sat with her rump down like a dog waiting for a treat.
“I have a good nutritious breakfast here.” He turned back to Susie. “Do I just dump it or do I set the pail down?” How was he supposed to serve the pigs?
“See that long wooden V running down the middle of the sty? Pour the pellets into the trough and then back your way out. Don’t turn your back on the Governor, it’s rude and he doesn’t like it.”
“You also aren’t supposed to turn your back on the queen.” He’d been schooled by the Buckingham Palace etiquette police before meeting Queen Elizabeth. He poured the pellets into the trough and backed out of the sty bowing all the way.
“You don’t need to bow. The Governor isn’t that pompous.” Susie laughed.
“Just didn’t want to take any chances.” He opened the gate and let himself out. “I’d hate to have to explain pig-related injuries to the director.”
“I can see how that might be a problem.” Susie slipped off her left running shoe and analyzed her foot. She grimaced, and he felt terrible.
“I’m sorry about your foot and your nose.” If he told her a million times, it wouldn’t be enough.
“My fault—well, at least the foot. My nose is all on you.” She thought about it for a couple of beats. “The kiss was nice though.” Her face turned red. “We did kiss. That’ wasn’t my imagination … right?”
He could feel his whole body smile. “Yes, we did. It was nice.” He’d like to do it again many, many times. “I’d like to do it again.”
“Me too.” The blush on her face deepened.
He loved that she blushed. With her, there was no artifice. She wasn’t acting. At least, he hoped she wasn’t acting. He’d only known her for a very short time, but she seemed genuine. Having grown up in Hollywood, he knew how to spot insincere from a mile away.
“I look forward to it.” He blew her a kiss. “Now, on to the chickens.” He looked around and didn’t see them.
“The henhouse is on the other side of those trees.” She pointed to a copse of trees on her left.
He headed that way. Feeding time wasn’t that hard. He could get used to this. He had this.
“Fair warning, the chickens can be a little high maintenance.” Susie didn’t sound concerned.
Leave it to Susie to have high-maintenance chickens. To be fair, he didn’t know much about chickens.
“No, I got this. I’m good.” He’d handled the pigs. How bad could the chickens be?
He set down the bowls of dog food next to the chicken coop’s gate and grabbed the cup of chicken feed. He opened the gate and all of the chickens rushed him. They were like the paparazzi accosting him outside of the police station the last time he’d bailed out his mother. The chickens might not have been apex predators like the paparazzi, but he knew how to handle a mob.
Using his foot, he gently scooched the chickens out of his way and looked for some sort of trough to deposit the food, but all he saw was an elaborate three-story henhouse with lots of homemade wooden signs on it that said things like “Egg-cellent” and “Eggs-traordinary” and “Egg-citing.” He grinned and shook his head. Susie really loved puns—good and bad ones. Now that he thought about it, there were no good ones.
“Where do I put the food?” Around him, chickens squawked and flapped their wings like they were itching for a fight.
“Usually, I just throw it through the chicken wire and call it a day,” she called from the porch. “I don’t recommend going into the pen unless you’re collecting eggs.”
“I’m inside the pen.” He dumped the food out and stepped back. It was like the hordes of shoppers on the news who stampeded stores on Black Friday.
“Since you’re there, can you grab some eggs? Fair warning, sometimes they don’t like to give them up.”
“Got it.” Like a spy crossing into enemy lines, he scooted around the eating chickens and edged his way to the henhouse. His hand closed around the first egg and he pulled it out. That was easy enough. Using the hem of his shirt as a makeshift basket, he placed the egg in there. He grabbed two more. He went for a third egg, and a hen emerged from her roost and pecked his hand.
“Ouch.” He pulled it back.
The hen started squawking, and all of the other chickens stopped eating and stared up at him. And then all hell broke loose. Wave upon wave of chickens came at him. This was what D-Day must have been like when the Allied troops stormed Omaha Beach. They backed him up against the wire that enclosed the henhouse. There was no way out. It seemed like thousands of chickens were pecking at his feet. This wasn’t going to end well. He could see the headlines now: “Actor mauled by a blood-thirsty mob of chickens—All that was left was his shiny belt buckle.”
There was no way around it. It was either make a break for it or all his mother would have left to bury was his buckle. He held his precious eggs against his belly, hurdled five chickens, and hit the ground at a dead run. He was out the gate before the chickens realized that he was gone.
He leaned against the closed gate and took a moment to catch his breath and then knelt down to pick up the dog bowls. Carefully, he placed the eggs on top of the dishes and went to present his eggs to Susie.
“Your eggs, my lady.” He bowed grandly. He was so proud of himself. This must have been what a caveman felt like when he dragged a woolly mammoth back to the cave to feed his lady.
“Just put them over there in the pie safe.” She nodded in the direction of a wood-and-tin cabinet on the other side of the porch. He opened the doors and all of the wind dropped out of his s
ails. There had to be twelve cartons of eggs just on the top shelf alone. It looked like the caveman had risked death to drag home the woolly mammoth just so he could toss it on top of the stack of woolly mammoths his lady had already dragged home.
“Thanks for the eggs.” She looked him up and down. “Based on your rapid breathing, I’d say you met Hen-rietta. I should have warned you. She’s kind of an ass.”
He couldn’t help the laughter. “Of course you have a chicken that’s an ass.”
“Every henhouse has one. You know the type. She likes to tell the other chickens what to do. I’m pretty sure Hen-rietta was a bible-thumping shrew in a former life.”
Did chickens have past lives? “I’m sure chicken karma will catch up to her someday.”
“A girl can hope.” Susie smiled, which made him smile.
“Let me guess, you got her from some sort of chicken rescue group.” He loved that every animal at her house had a story.
“No.” She waved that off. “I won her on a Mexican game show.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Surely he hadn’t heard her correctly. He set down one bowl of dog food in front of Queen Victoria and the other in front of Prince Albert. Neither animal so much as cracked an eye open. Susie really needed a better security dog. No doubt Rodney was good at alerting her of danger, but how effective was a security donkey when it came to home invasion? She did have Hen-rietta, but Hen-rietta would only be effective if the invader invaded the chicken coop. It worried him to think of Susie living out here alone without better protection.
“Two summers ago, my friend Nina dared me to go on a Mexican game show—”
“Hold that thought.” He held up an index finger. “I need to get apples for Rodney and scraps for the pigs. And I don’t want to miss this story.”
He ran into the house, took four apples off the bowl on the kitchen table and grabbed the plastic bag of scraps for the pigs. He dumped the scraps in the trough and went to the paddock fence.
“If you don’t mind yelling, I’d love to hear Hen-rietta’s story.” He held one apple under Rodney’s nose. The donkey gently took it out of his hand and chewed it slowly.
“My friend Nina dared me to try out for a Mexican game show when we were on vacation in Cancún. It was kind of like Let’s Make a Deal crossed with The Price is Right.” She readjusted the ice pack on her foot.
He really felt bad about hurting her. “It’s great that you speak Spanish.”
He fed Rodney another apple. It was surprising how gentle the animal was.
“I don’t speak Spanish, which is why I won a chicken instead of a car.” She leaned back in her chair. “I was the final contestant and I had to pick between two boxes and I chose the one with Hen-rietta.” She laughed. “Immediately after I picked the box without the car, the host turned to me and tried to give me a consolation hug, but I was jumping up and down and screaming. I was so excited. I ran up on stage to claim my chicken.” She shook her head. “The audience was like, huh? It was really funny. The show put the video clip on YouTube. Just google ‘girl wins chicken on Mexican game show.’”
As soon as he had internet, he was googling it.
“How did you get back into the US with a chicken?” He was pretty sure bringing livestock into the country was hard to do. He gave Rodney his third apple.
“At first, they told me I couldn’t bring her home, but I wasn’t about to give up. That was my chicken and I wasn’t about to leave without her. So I filled out the form online to have Hen-rietta declared an emotional support animal, and I got a New Age doctor to sign off on the paperwork, and there was nothing the airline or customs could do about it.” She grinned. “She has a vest to wear and everything.”
“Thank God. I had images of you hiring a chicken trafficker to smuggle her across the border.” He fed Rodney his final apple.
“Nope, she’s legal.” She held a hand up. “Although, United Airlines has invited me to never bring her on another flight again. She was a very inconsiderate passenger.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s also on YouTube. Google ‘woman brings Mexican game-show chicken on plane.’ In my defense, I had no idea how much chickens hated air travel. I even got some calming drops from a vet down in Mexico, but they just made her hyper. That was five bucks down the drain.”
“Ever thought of trying Hen-rietta as a watchdog?” He sat in the chair next to hers. “It doesn’t look like Queen Victoria is very effective.”
Prince Albert honked and glared at Dane.
“Yeah, you don’t want to bad-mouth her in front of Prince Albert. He doesn’t let anyone dis his lady.” She removed the ice pack from her nose and the one on her foot. “I need to take a shower.”
How was that going to work? He did his best to not picture her naked, but it wasn’t working. “Um …” His voice was high and squeaky again. He had to swallow the lake of saliva practically drowning him. “I guess I can help you into the … um …”
“I have a set of crutches in the hall closet by the front door. Would you mind getting them for me?” She nodded in the direction of the front door.
“Sure.” That was much easier, but he had to admit, he would have liked helping her into the shower—or even better, a giant bubble bath.
He retrieved the crutches and helped her stand.
“Thanks.” She leaned on the crutches and hobbled her way into the house. “Make yourself at home. Feel free to wander. I’ll give you the grand tour after I shower.” She hobbled down the hallway. “Oh, would you mind turning on the oven to 350, and when it comes to temperature, put in the cinnamon rolls.”
“Sure.” He walked into her two-story, white-clapboard farmhouse. He hadn’t taken the time to look around when he’d been tending to the animals. Now he could take his time, but first, he turned on the oven. On the stovetop sat a huge pan covered with a towel. He leaned over and sniffed. It smelled like cinnamon and oranges. He didn’t think he’d ever had a homemade cinnamon roll. Usually, he stayed away from carbs, but he’d already walked two and a half miles this morning, so one wouldn’t hurt.
As he waited for the oven to come to temperature, he glanced around the kitchen. The whitewashed cabinets and gray-marble countertops made it feel homey. It wasn’t big, but the light-blue walls and butcher-block island made it feel spacious. There was a large, whitewashed, farmhouse-style table with benches complete with cherry-red cushions along either side. This was a kitchen where life happened. He could see kids sitting at the table doing homework or the wine flowing at a dinner party. It was comfortable and cozy like a kitchen should be.
His kitchen back in LA was gray and modern. Everything was hidden behind doors because his decorator hated clutter. Now that he thought about it, his house needed a little clutter.
The oven dinged and he took the towel off the cinnamon rolls and slid them into the oven. He checked the time on the oven. He had no idea how long they were supposed to bake, but he was sure Susie would want to know when they went into the oven.
He wandered into the living room. There was an overstuffed white sofa that looked as fluffy as a giant pillow. He sat down on it and it sucked him in and hugged him in fluffy pillow-ness. Across from it was a huge TV mounted on the wall. On either side of the TV were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He rolled up from the sofa and went to see what she liked to read.
There was everything from archeology to zoology, with lots of thrillers, romance, and true crime. Her house was eclectic and so was her reading. On the walls was a mix of pictures, movie posters, and paintings. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the wall art, but it all came together to feel lived in. This was a room for afternoon naps or rainy-day binge-watching.
In LA, his living room was gray. Come to think of it, his house in Provo in the Caicos was also gray.
When had he let his life become gray?
He went to the back wall and browsed her framed art. There were oil paintings of landscapes, framed movie posters of Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz, and f
unny cartoons she’d framed. He could tell that every single thing had meaning to her. He had art on his walls too, but his decorator had bought it because it was a good investment.
Wow. All it had taken was ten minutes in Susie’s house for him to realize that he was living in a gray investment.
He continued on to a small bedroom-turned-office. On the wall hung framed awards and lots and lots of photos. It looked like she’d been teacher of the year the last seven years running. The wall behind her desk held a huge corkboard completely covered in bumper stickers. It looked like an art piece. He studied the framed photos along the wall across from the door. There was a family Christmas photo that looked to be several decades old. He could make out Susie as a teenager and Uncle Milton. He guessed the two other smiling people were her parents. He moved on to the next picture. It was of a group of women wearing matching shirts that said, “The Tough Ladies.” They were hugging and smiling, standing under a finish-line banner for the Cozumel Ironman.
The Tough Ladies—where had he heard that name? As he stared at the photo, he searched his memory. The Tough Ladies … they had been on the news a while back … something about a broken foot? Oh yes, they were a triathlon team who had carried one of their members the last ten miles at the Cozumel Triathlon. Susie must have been the team member who’d broken her foot.
Now, thanks to him, she’d broken it again. Was there a way to make up for that? Was it just guilt that made him want to make it right?
He smiled and shook his head. Nope, guilt had nothing to do with why he couldn’t make himself leave. He wanted to stay with Susie because she made him smile.
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Chapter 5
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Susie was in dirty laundry hell. She had nothing clean that was suitable to wear. What exactly did one wear to breakfast with a movie star? She wanted to look good without looking like she was trying too hard.
Sweet Susie Sweet Page 4
