Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81808 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
The days were getting shorter, which I liked, and after I made myself dinner, I went for a walk. Outside, in the crisp fall breeze, I felt better. The turn of the seasons always grounded me, reminding me that I was not part of the human world, but belonged instead to the eternal wheel. When Teague joined me on my small sojourn, I was thankful for the company and told him so.
“You know,” he said in my head in that marvelous heavy brogue of his, making me homesick not for a place, but a time, “just because you’re not human, doesn’t mean you can’t love them.”
I groaned under my breath.
“You always give up so easily, Mere. Someday, you may have to stand and fight.”
“I’ll remind you that I’ve fought many times in my life.”
“Oh aye, you have, but I mean for love, you gòrach. Simply for love.”
It was terrible, at times, to have old friends, because when they knew your history, they could call you on the lies you told yourself. I was relieved when he said nothing else and there was only that easy, companionable silence. Of all the ways to end a day, it was one of the best.
I spent Sunday morning chopping firewood, then went to the women’s shelter and did all the maintenance chores Crystal needed done. I also coordinated the delivery of the Thanksgiving meal we made every year for all the residents. Once that was done, I sat with Crystal as she talked about what she was planning for Yule. I was invited for all twelve days, as I was every year, and I appreciated that.
Sadly, there was an intake late in the afternoon—a woman with a baby, a toddler, and an eight-year-old carrying an orange tabby. I helped bring their things in from the minivan, and when the little boy asked if they could keep their cat, Ginger, with them, Crystal replied with her usual “of course.” It was always so comforting for people to hear that their pets were welcome.
“We shelter the whole family here, not just parts.”
Relief washed over the boy, and he started to cry. I wanted to find his father and tear his head off, but that would help nothing.
I was sitting in the lobby while Crystal figured out which cabin would be best for them when a big pickup truck with one of those spoilers on the hood that made a lot of noise came roaring up the street.
All of them—mother, little boy, and toddler—started to cry. Only the baby stayed quiet, not knowing what was happening, plus, I was rocking him in a very comfortable chair.
“Oh,” I said as we all looked out the window. “He looks like he might have been drinking.”
“Does he?” the mom asked, and then we all watched as he took several lurching steps across the lawn and then went face down into the grass.
All eyes on me.
“You can tell, even from a distance,” I assured them all.
“Heavens,” the mom whispered.
Crystal called the police in White Sulphur Springs, and they were out there within an hour. By then the family was settled and he was still passed out cold.
“Why these guys get in their cars drunk and come out here is beyond me,” one of the officers said. “And he brought his rifle. It’s nuts. It’s like signing your handiwork at a crime scene.”
“Yes, it is,” Crystal said, eyeing me.
When they left, with the man zip-tied in the back seat, screaming at them that he was stone-cold sober and hadn’t come to shoot anyone—which, with how they’d found him, passed out and armed, seemed highly suspect—I noticed Crystal still staring at me.
“What?”
“You’re a good man, Merritt Baker.”
“Don’t tell anybody.”
“I think your secret’s out.”
I asked her how many pies she wanted for dessert on Thanksgiving, and she kindly let me change the subject, but she hugged me really tight when I was on my way out.
“It’s nice to live here and feel completely safe, Merritt. You did such an amazing thing building this shelter.”
“I think the real trick was finding you to be the live-in manager.”
“Well, a reporter is coming on Thanksgiving to do a story on us. Maybe we’ll get some other donors so it’s not just The Bower enabling us to take in everyone who needs help.”
“Have I ever said it’s a burden?”
“No, but maybe if you were able to keep all your profits instead of funding a women’s shelter and an animal shelter, you could expand and franchise and—ohmygod look at your face, never mind.”
The horrified look I gave her had brought on a fit of laughter. When I left, she was still giggling.
On my way home, Benny Dunlap, one of our regulars at The Bower, pulled up beside me as I walked down the side of the road. It was only drizzling, so really, him yelling at me seemed overly dramatic.