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  “The surgery wasn’t easy on him. He was very stressed.” I force myself to look away so I don’t start bawling like a baby in front of this sexy L.L.Bean wannabe mountain man.

  “Got a lot of patients right now?” Greg is looking around the room, taking in the posters on the wall about vaccinating animals, the pamphlets about neutering, and a handmade sign I created on the computer and taped to the desk to remind people that they shouldn’t feed wildlife in the area.

  “Almost a full house.”

  He nods, his eyes still roaming. “The guys in the band tell me they don’t see you at the house very often.”

  “I spend most of my time here. I don’t like leaving them alone for long. The animals, not the band.” I try to laugh at my lame joke, but I can’t quite get there, and he gives me no indication that he’s even heard me. My smile falls away at the awkwardness. He doesn’t want to talk about how I feel uncomfortable in their presence, how they’re able to make me feel nervous without even saying a word, or how they make me sometimes feel like they’ve stolen my family away from me.

  He comes over to my desk and glances down at its surface. The letter from the town is in plain view. I can tell he’s reading it too. I put the puppy down, and of course the little butthead goes right for my purse. I ignore him so I can get to that letter.

  I try to act like I’m just straightening the desktop and fold the papers up, shoving them back into the envelope, which I put in the paper tray that holds my bills. I move some other papers, too, but I can’t concentrate on what I’m doing with Greg so close and staring at me. I’m shuffling my mail the way I used to shuffle cards when I was three years old.

  “We’ve got a great horned owl in the back if you want to see him,” I say, hoping to distract Greg from the stuff on my desk.

  “Really? A great horned owl?” He stands up straight and makes a funny face, like he’s thinking it through and surprising himself with his interest in the subject. “Isn’t that an endangered species?”

  “Nope. They’re protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, but they’re not listed as threatened or endangered. They sometimes take over territories of threatened species, in fact.”

  “Interesting. And you’re treating him for injuries?”

  “Yep.” I nod enthusiastically. “He’s really big, too. Super big.” Super owly too. You should go back there and forget what you just saw on my desk.

  “I think I’d like to see that.” He raps the top of the desk with his knuckles. Then he smiles. At least, I think he smiles. I’ve never actually seen the guy looking happy, but I’m pretty sure that’s what all those teeth are doing at me right now.

  “Come on. He’s in the back.” I walk away, leaving Oscar Mayer to the trouble he’s going to get into in my purse, hoping Greg will follow. I’d rather deal with another soggy tampon than with this man who makes my heart beat way too fast knowing I’m being sued.

  The heavy footsteps I hear behind me tell me I’ve succeeded in getting him away from the legal document, which is probably very titillating stuff for a lawyer. The last thing I need is the band and my mothers getting into my business out here. I’m going to deal with this problem myself. They have enough going on, and I don’t like the idea of those men—as nice as they are—getting involved in my life. My family used to be involved in the lawsuits as they came up, but that was before Red Hot turned our lives upside down. They already have enough of a presence here on the farm . . . I don’t need them in my clinic too. It’s the one place left that I can go to and be alone.

  When I reach the back room, I walk over to the last kennel on the right and lift up the sheet. I turn to see Greg’s reaction.

  Greg stands a couple feet away, his eyes going wide. “Wow. He is huge; you weren’t joking.”

  “Yeah, he’s a big boy.” The owl blinks and turns his head, reminding me of a robot with his precise movements.

  “How on earth . . .” Greg shakes his head, staring at the bird and then at me.

  “How did I get him in there?” I’ve had that question asked so many times, I expect it at this point. No one can imagine how a girl my size, with no education besides a bachelor’s degree in biology, can do the things I do with these creatures.

  “Yeah. That was one of my questions.”

  “I’ve got special gloves.” I wiggle my eyebrows, teasing him.

  He almost looks embarrassed as he turns to look at the other cages. “You have some dogs and cats, I see.” He pauses, bending down. “And . . . what is that? A rabbit?”

  “Chinchilla.”

  He looks up at me with suspicion in his eyes. “A chinchilla? Are you serious?”

  “Of course.” I shrug. “I get all kinds of animals in here.”

  He goes back to staring at it, touching the outside of the cage. “Is that a species native to Maine?”

  “No.” I laugh. “It’s somebody’s pet.”

  “Oh. Yeah. That makes more sense. I think.” He stands, looking into the other cages.

  I’m pleased that he’s interested in the animals, but I’m exhausted. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m not really in the mood to run a full tour. I take a deep breath and sigh, my hands folded at my waist. He came here for a reason, and it wasn’t just to see an owl. I wish he would just get to it, whatever it is.

  He stands and looks around the room, sliding his hands into his back pockets. “So. You’re probably wondering what I’m really doing here.”

  “The thought did cross my mind.” I smile, glad we’re getting down to brass tacks. I had enough of the runaround today with Officer I-Never-Did-Learn-His-Name.

  “It’s band business, actually.”

  I’m immediately on my guard. Band business has nothing to do with me. “Okaaay.”

  “I guess they’ll be leaving soon,” he says.

  “So I hear.” So I hope.

  “But they’ll be back.”

  “I heard that too.”

  “I was just wondering . . . what you think about that settlement . . . or inheritance? Do you have any interest in picking it up?”

  “Picking it up?”

  “Accepting it. Taking it. Taking the money they’ve offered.” He finally looks at me, no longer feigning interest in my work or in helping me. He’s here to get me to take that money so he can say his job is done and go back to his office in Manhattan and stop playing lumberjack model in the sticks with a bunch of hippies.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  He nods. “Okay, good. That’s good.” He gives me a brief smile and turns around to leave.

  I probably should just keep my mouth shut, but I can’t help saying one more thing. “Why do you ask?”

  He pauses but then he keeps going, walking faster now. “No reason. So, I’ll see you at the house? Dinner?”

  “Maybe.” I follow behind him but stop at the desk while he keeps walking to the front door. I take that moment, while there are no witnesses to catch me doing it, to stare at his rear view and assess his physique. He’s tall, but not overly so . . . maybe four inches taller than me. His shoulders are well made, not crazy broad but not narrow either, which is a point in his favor. His butt is amazing—round, tight, and substantial enough that I think he must have been an athlete in college. Or maybe he does a lot of squats. Gluteus maximus, indeed.

  I giggle in my head, imagining the conversation my sisters and I could have about him. We can seriously gossip when we put our minds to it. We haven’t done much of it lately with all of us being so busy, and I miss it. I could totally chitchat about Greg. I wonder if he has a girlfriend. I hear from Amber that he has a niece who works in his office, but other than that and the fact that he has a dog named Tinkerbell—Tink for short—I know nothing about him or his family. Not that I want or need to know anything about the guy, but still . . . it might be fun to get to know him a little. My body goes warm with the idea.

  I glance down at my paper tray with the legal document in it, and my feelings toward hi
m chill immediately. I can’t help but recall that vision of him looking at my mail and then acting like he was interested in my patients just so he could talk to me about the band’s legal issues. He’s nosy and sneaky. Why is he so hung up on that damn inheritance, anyway? He should be glad we turned the band down; it leaves more money in their coffer for his fees.

  No, I won’t be gossiping about Greg with my sisters; nor will I be learning anything more about him or his family. There’s no point. He has his final answer now: I’m not taking the money. He can go back to New York, leave behind his misguided wardrobe choices, and forget all about us. I know I’ll be forgetting about him about two seconds after he walks out that door.

  I meet plenty of men at the clinic when they bring their pets in, but I don’t generally date anyone I have contact with through work; I don’t want to create conflict, and there are always high emotions where sick or injured pets are concerned. I haven’t gone out much at all since college. I don’t have any time for it, and nobody has interested me enough to make me want to put in the effort. My one serious relationship during my junior year ended with me being cheated on and my boyfriend of eleven months telling me I was too basic to bring home to his parents, so I’m in no hurry to hand my heart over to another man. Too basic? I don’t even know what that means, but I sure didn’t like hearing it about myself. I guess living on a hippie commune is basic in a way, but he didn’t say it like ‘back to basics.’ It was more like he was saying I was plain. Boring. Not interesting enough. He was a jackass, but it still hurt. Even thinking about it now makes my heart ache.

  Sometimes I’m sad about not having a special someone, but most of the time I’m fine with it. Maybe one day I’ll settle down, but then again, maybe not. I often doubt I’ll ever find a guy who could put up with my work hours and the animals. If I ever had to choose between a man and my patients, I’d choose the animals every time, so I’m probably doomed in the romance department. No man likes to be second place behind puppies that eat tampons.

  Greg stops at the door and turns around before he opens it. “You sure there’s nothing I can do for you?”

  My mind jumps to the letter on my desk, but I shake my head emphatically. “Nope. I’m all set.”

  He nods once and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Another burst of cold air hits me, and this time it feels like it’s settling into my bones.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I was going to call and ask somebody to bring some dinner down to me, but I have to get out of the clinic for just an hour or two tonight or I’ll go insane. Going home for a meal will give me a chance to take a quick shower, change my clothes, and gather some bedding so that I can set up a proper place to sleep tonight. I might even break down and bring a cot to the clinic. Banana and the patients need me to be at my best so I can take care of them, and right now, every cell in my body is crying out for a good night’s sleep. But when I have a full house like I do now, and a couple of high-maintenance, critical cases, I really need to be on site as much as possible.

  The house is loaded with people and the noise that comes with such a big group. Our seasonal guests have gone, but our new guests—the men who will probably soon become semipermanent fixtures on the farm—are still here. When they first came, they stood around and watched people work, but now they’re into the swing of things, all of them lending a hand at mealtimes and otherwise. When I come in the front door, Cash, the band’s rhythm guitarist, is walking by with a giant cooking pot in his hands. He reminds me of Chef Boyardee with his big, round belly, pudgy cheeks, and graying hair. All he needs is a chef’s hat and he’d be a dead ringer.

  I catch a whiff of the pot’s contents as he passes. “That smells good.”

  “Spaghetti. My grandmother’s recipe.”

  I look at him in surprise. “You cook?”

  He grins as he puts the heavy pot on the table with a grunt. “Yeah. Maybe. I hope it’s edible, or we’re going to have to order some pizza.”

  His bandmates laugh good-naturedly as they help to set the table. My mother, Sally, comes out behind him, carrying a handful of silverware. “It’s great. I already tried it, so you’re all safe.”

  I go into the kitchen and find both of my sisters and my other two mothers inside. “Hey, girls.” I try to sound chipper and not completely wiped out.

  Amber and Emerald turn around and squeal, running at me with their arms open. I’m enveloped in love, my sisters bringing with them the smell of garlic, flowers, and paint.

  “Have you been out in your studio?” I ask Em. She smells of acrylics.

  “Yep.” She’s smiling from ear to ear. “Sadie and I have both been out there, painting up a storm.”

  I reach up and rub some green paint off her earlobe. “I can’t wait to see what you’re working on.”

  “Getting ready for Christmas,” she says, pulling away and rubbing her hands together with glee.

  “Where is the little rascal?” I ask, looking around the room.

  “She got so tired, she fell asleep before dinner.”

  Motherhood looks great on Em. She’s just barely pregnant, so that’s not what’s making her glow; it’s Sadie. Em isn’t the little girl’s mother officially, but she’s taken on the role of substitute mom with gusto. At the beginning of her relationship with Sam and his four-year-old daughter, I think Em may have felt that she was being trapped by this ready-made family, with Sam needing to be alone to do his creative songwriting work for Red Hot and his daughter here at the farm needing supervision; but that feeling only lasted about half a day. Sadie can do no wrong in Em’s eyes, and Em is the mother that Sadie never had. After Sadie’s mom died from a tragic drug overdose, she and Em bonded like glue. I’m happy for them and for Sam. They make a very cute little family.

  “What can I do to help?” I ask, pulling out of my sisters’ hug circle.

  “Everything on that table needs to go out,” Barbara says. She gestures at the round work surface in the middle of the room.

  “I’ll take these,” I say, grabbing a huge stack of plates.

  “Oh my god,” Em says. I look up to see her face going white and her lips pressing together.

  “What?” I’m completely mystified, looking down at the plates and then at my chest. Do I have a booger on me or something? Poo? A tampon chew-toy stuck in my hair?

  Amber points at Em’s face. “Don’t you dare.” She puts her hand to her mouth.

  Em shakes her head at Amber, her eyes going wide.

  Amber narrows her eyes at Em. “Don’t. I’m telling you, don’t.”

  Em dashes from the room with her hand on her stomach, and Amber goes running right after her.

  I sigh, realizing there was no personal crisis for me to avert; this is all them. I shake my head. “A couple weirdos is what they are,” I mumble, turning to go out the door behind them.

  “Oh, I had morning sickness so bad with you,” my mom, Sally, says.

  “And I had it terrible with Amber,” Barbara says.

  “They’re just feeding off each other’s baloney,” I say, pretty sure most of this morning sickness is in their heads, since it seems to rise up most often while they’re feeding off each other’s emotions.

  “Oh, it’s real. And you’d better be ready for it to happen to you, too,” Emerald’s mom, Carol, says, walking past and nudging me with her hip. “Karma brings morning sickness to women as a special punishment for doubting other women.”

  I laugh. “As if.” I’m pretty sure I’m not going to have to worry about it, since I’m probably never going to have children. I’d need to find a boyfriend first, and that ain’t happening anytime soon. My children are in kennels down the road, and that’s good enough for me. The good news? I’ll never suffer morning sickness with those kinds of kids.

  I carry the dishes from the room and help set the table. Soon we’re all seated in a giant circle in front of our plates, holding hands while Carol says a prayer. This is new for us; dinner prayers aren’t some
thing we ever did before, but she’s feeling particularly grateful now that she’s going to be a grandmother and the loves of her life—Red, Mooch, and Cash, the original members of Red Hot—are here in her home. She likes Paul, the bassist, too, but he wasn’t with the band when she, Sally, and Barbara were groupies, and he doesn’t share their history like the other three men do.

  I’m not exactly sure which of these men is the love of her life, though, which one is her favorite. When our three moms met the men of Red Hot, they were in the throes of a free-love movement. They never really left that life philosophy behind, and apparently neither did the band. I didn’t think it was going to work with the men being here long-term, but so far they’ve proven me wrong. Everyone seems to be getting along really well. I’ve seen no jealousy among our mothers, even though all three of them seem to be equally enamored of Red, Cash, and Mooch. And the band members and our mothers all seem genuinely happy to spend most of their days together, whether it means our moms are watching them jam on their instruments or they’re all out in the cold harvesting fruits and vegetables. They’re also being very discreet. I’m pretty sure these men are getting it on with our moms, if the good moods I’m sensing around me are any clue, but I don’t know who’s doing what with whom or where. And I’m glad for that, because the last thing I want to be thinking about is middle-aged parents getting busy under the same roof as me. Not that I’m here that often, but still . . .

  I glance at Greg and find him staring at me. It happens several more times throughout the meal as the conversation swirls around us. It makes me feel strangely anxious to have his eyes on me. Is he watching me eat and critiquing me? Wondering what I’m thinking? Remembering those legal papers on my desk? Thinking something worse about me that I haven’t thought of?