Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 149301 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 747(@200wpm)___ 597(@250wpm)___ 498(@300wpm)
“You don’t need a greenhouse to grow lemons and oranges.”
“Well, I’ve done it on the field, and yeah, they yield, but they grow better in controlled environments. I want to experiment a little, and also keep some safe from when we have the bad rainstorms, and droughts. A controlled environment could in the long run help me save money and harvest more product, so a greenhouse would be ideal.” Her lips curled as she held her cup to her mouth with both hands. Her dark, upturned eyes were the only thing visible as she looked at him from over the brown rim. She reminded him of the Cheshire cat. Beautiful, resourceful, fearless, mysterious and sneaky. “You think you could handle that?”
“You tryna hire me? If so, just ask.” He leaned back in his seat, and he loved the way she placed her cup down on the coaster, leisurely ruffled her black curls into place, and smiled at him.
“…You built this house. It’s beautiful. To me, this is your business card, so yeah, I’m askin’.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“I’ll take that as a ‘Yes.’”
His phone buzzed, and the camera and silent alarm notifications rolled in.
“Looks like your rescuers are here, Poet. I’ll go get Peter Cottontail.”
They both got to their feet as yellow lights spun around right outside the window, and the sound of the tow truck grew louder. When he returned with the rabbit, she was speaking to the tow truck driver outside.
“Here he is. Thank you so much for your assistance today, Kage” She said the words so formally, but her eyes showed friendship, mischief and magic. “I really appreciate it. Looks like I was wrong about you. You’re not so mean after all.”
He set the cooler down between them, then handed her his actual business card.
She took it, read it, then leaned forward to place a kiss against his cheek. Then, she jumped in the passenger’s seat of the tow truck, and without another word, took off down the road…
CHAPTER THREE
The Cats in the Cradle
Melba was afraid of cats. When she showed up at Poet’s door for the third time that week with some sort of handwritten citation, a black and white furry critter with a silver bell around its red-satin-collared neck, skipped and jumped around the old woman’s slouchy, socked ankles, sniffing and inspecting the scene. Melba had inadvertently tripped a bell, which was the sound Poet used to let the strays that stayed on her land know there were treats available. This particular one had gotten so used to Poet, that it sometimes came into the house, and eventually accepted a collar around its neck. When that bell was tripped, they’d come uh runnin’!
In addition, to add insult to injury, a little dispenser fell down, dumping a divine catnip and silvervine mixture onto Melba’s beat up sneakers—a booby-trap of sorts, all orchestrated by Poet herself.
“Oh! OHHH! HELP ME, GOD!” Melba howled, the little piece of paper flying in the wind as she screamed and turned about like a tornado. Poet had suspected this day would arrive, and based on Melba’s two other visits earlier in the week, the odds were high that she’d be returning with more of her nonsense.
She stood there, slowly eating her sweet red apple, her gaze fixed on the choppy, violent dance of sheer terror that played out before her.
“Get them offa me! GET THEM OFFA ME! I hate ’em! I hate these fuckers!” the lady screeched as she darted off, the cats still hot on her tail.
“Melba, what were you sayin’, honey? I can’t understand you!” Poet called out between slow bites of the delicious fruit, her smile so big her face hurt.
But Melba couldn’t answer. The woman was at least fifty feet away, zigzagging through the open front field, wailing and struggling with her lungs, now hoarse as two other cats joined in on the fun. They lapped and jumped up her legs that were now baptized in catnip, too. Poet closed the front door and returned to the kitchen, where she was preparing a grilled cheese and onion sandwich for her Aunt Huni.
“Huuuuni!” Poet called. “Do you want water or tea?”
“SP’ITE!” Huni said in her silly sing-song voice when she was trying to get her way.
“No Sprite, Huni. You know what the doctor said. You have to watch your sugar intake and you don’t like diet pop, so I didn’t buy any.”
“COLA!”
“…Huni, come on now.” Poet chortled as she opened the refrigerator and grabbed a pitcher of unsweetened tea. “No ma’am. You know better. I have some blackberry tea though.”
“LEMUH-ADE!”
“I don’t have that, and you like yours too sweet anyway. This tea has fresh lemon juice and a little bit of honey. I even put a mint leaf in it. The honey is raw, and the amount is so miniscule that it shouldn’t spike your insulin levels too bad.”