Finding It

by Leah Marie Brown

  Poppy is humming in the shower down the hall, and Fanny is crashing around the kitchen, opening cabinets, slamming drawers, no doubt in search of coffee. Even though Fanny is not a morning person, I know my competitive, hyper-driven, let’s go-go-go friend is suited up and ready to shear some sheep. It was Fanny’s drill instructor-like cadence that pushed/shamed/goaded me to complete that skazillion mile Provence to Tuscany bike ride. She’s a city girl, but just watch, she will shear more sheep, climb more paps, muck out more stalls than anyone else in our group—and in her spare time, she’ll build Angus a new barn.

  I grit my teeth. Sometimes I wish my super-charged compadre would just kick back with me. What’s wrong with coasting every now and then?

  I sit up, pull the duvet around my shoulders, and stare out at the obscenely beautiful landscape beyond my window frame.

  Fanny knocks on my door.

  “Come in, Fanny.”

  The door creaks open and Fanny pokes her head in. “How did you know it was me?”

  “Puh-leez.” I roll my eyes. “Do you hear her in the shower? Humming and singing like Cinderella? I knew it couldn’t be you.”

  “Funny.” Fanny steps into my room and rubs her arms. “Merde! It’s cold.”

  “I know, right? And it’s nearly summer.”

  I hold the quilt up, and Fanny bounds into my bed. We huddle together under the fluffy duvet and listen to Poppy singing Taylor Swift’s “Shake it Off.”

  Fanny and I laugh out loud when veddy proper Poppy melodically declares she “has nothing in her brain.”

  “What song she is singing?”

  “‘Shake it Off’ by Taylor Swift.”

  Fanny chuckles. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.” I pull my knees to my chest and wrap my arms around them for warmth. “She’s a Swiftie.”

  “Wow! Television shows about time lords and Taylor Swift. She’s not what you expect when you first meet her.”

  “Right? I really dig her.”

  Fanny doesn’t say anything.

  “She’ll never replace you, though.” I grab her hand and squeeze it. “You’re my BFF.”

  “Best French Friend?”

  “Forever.”

  We let go of each other’s hands and sit quietly, staring out at the paps covered in a patchwork of yellow and purplish-pink, flowers.

  “When did Cinderella sing?”

  “What?” I glance at my friend. “What are you talking about?”

  “Before, you said Poppy sounds like Cinderella. I’ve read Charles Perrault’s tale about the orphan girl forced to live in the attic, but I don’t remember anything about her singing.”

  I forgot that my best friend has never watched an animated Disney film. Once, I tried to get her to sit down and watch Beauty and the Beast. I even belted out Belle’s opening song about her little town full of little people waking up to say, “Bonjour, Bonjour!” She looked at me with that uniquely Gallic expression of haughty disdain.

  “Disney’s Cinderella.”

  “Ah.”

  “In the movie, she sings to her posse of mice and birds.”

  “Posse of mice?” Fanny slaps her forehead. “Mon dieu!”

  Poppy pads down the hall fully dressed, a towel around her head. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

  “Well”—Fanny tosses the duvet off her shoulders and bounds out of bed—“we better get a move on!”

  I groan. “Do we have to?”

  “On se bouge!” She claps her hands three times. “On se bouge!”

  “On se bouge! On se bouge!” I reluctantly roll out of bed. “Mon dieu, je déteste ces mots!”

  Fanny laughs as she leaves my room, closing the door behind her with a decisive click. She learned long ago the danger of feeding into my grumbling. Normally, I am like Gizmo, the soft, sweet, furry creature in the movie Gremlins, but feed my bad mood and I transform into a truly frightening monster.

  On se bouge. I really do hate those words. Literally translated on se bouge means “we are moving.” I became overly-acquainted with the words during my now infamous bike tour of France and Italy. While I was gasping for breath/resting on the side of the road/lagging behind the group/sprawled out in bed, Fanny or Luc would clap their hands like a pair of heartless cheerleaders and cheer, “On se bouge, Vivia!”

  I look at the fluffy duvet cover and consider climbing back into bed, pulling the covers over my head, and spending the day dreaming about sheep, when my BFF—Ball-busting Fitness Freak—opens my door and pops her head in.

  “Do you want an energy bar?” She grins as she waves a candy bar-shaped object wrapped in plain brown paper. “They’re Açai berry and soy!”

  * * * *

  “Oooo! I love your Wellies!”

  I look down at my feet and back at the perky, pretty blonde seated next to me on a wooden bench. We have gathered around a stone fire pit to sip orange spiced chai, nibble cinnamon muffins, and become acquainted with the members of our group.

  “Thanks!” She’s wearing pretty pink Burberry pashmina. “Love your scarf.”

  “Gee, thanks!”

  The pretty blonde says her name is Devon. She’s a school teacher from South Carolina traveling with her mother, Kathy, a fifty-something blonde with sparkling blue eyes and an infectious laugh, and her sister, Paige, a quiet college student attending the University of Virginia.

  I have already met Lori Lee, Megan, and Mari, wives of U.S. Air Force pilots deployed somewhere in the Middle East, and Cindy, Lily, Victoria, and Kieran, romance writers looking for inspiration for their next novels.

  The last two Chick Trippers to arrive at the breakfast bonfire are Tava and Lisa, two young mothers from Michigan who have joined our group of sixteen soul-searching, sheep-shearing sistahs to celebrate surviving breast cancer.

  Wise-cracking Tava is laugh out loud hilarious, with a dangerous, devil-may-care, “I’ve survived worse than this; so bring it, muthafuckas” attitude. If there were a thought bubble floating over her head, it would read, “I had Cancer for breakfast, now whatcha got?” She is exactly the sort of colorful character I instinctually gravitate to at parties.

  But it’s Lisa’s thoughtful demeanor that draws me in this morning. The willowy redhead sits with her long, slender fingers wrapped around a mug of chai and a quiet smile curving her lips. While the rest of the Chicks chirp away, Lisa sits alone, participating without interacting.

  I don’t know what I could possibly have in common with a young mother and cancer survivor, since I couldn’t nurture a houseplant, let alone an infant, and barely survive my monthly menstrual cycle, but Lisa rouses my inborn desire to protect the underdog, to include the excluded.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  “Of course not.” She moves over, making room for me on the bench beside her. “Love your rain boots, by the way.”

  What is it with these Wellies? They’ve been on my feet less than twenty-four hours and already a dozen people have complimented them! Who knew a pair of pink rubber rain boots would make such a crazy big fashion splash?

  “Thanks.” I sit on the bench and stretch my legs out in front of me, crossing my ankles. “I know it is ridiculous, but these boots make me silly happy.”

  “It’s not ridiculous.” She takes a sip of tea. “Life is too short not to be silly happy. Wear your rain boots and stomp in puddles with the giddy abandon of a child, if that’s what makes you truly, silly happy.”

  “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “I just might go puddle-stomping later.” I look into her wise-beyond-her-years blue-gray eyes. “Wanna come with me?”

  “Thanks”—she stretches one of her legs out in front of her and lifts her foot—“but I don’t know if these old things could take much stomping.”

  She’s the only one in the group not wearing tall, rubber rain boots. Black utilitarian rain boots are the footgear of choice with the Chick Tripper
s, but Lisa is sporting a battered pair of Columbia hiking boots. I look from her nondescript worn hikers to my “Here I Am World, Notice Me” fuchsia Wellies and feel a stab of shame for prattling on about something as frivolous as overpriced rain boots to a woman who is probably just happy to have her feet still above ground.

  “Looks like we are the odd women out, doesn’t it?”

  Lisa chuckles, but she tucks her feet under the bench, out of view. “It would appear so.”

  My friend Grace lost her mother to ovarian cancer our senior year in college. Poor Grace, a broke, recently graduated college student with a stack of hospital bills and student loans couldn’t even afford a new suit to wear to job interviews.

  I suddenly feel shallow.

  “Listen to me”—I tuck my feet under the bench—“going on about a pair of stupid boots. You’d think I discovered the—”

  I stop speaking and stare at the orange flames dancing toward the cobalt sky, too embarrassed to look at Lisa. My cheeks feel as hot as the flames.

  “—cure for cancer?”

  I mentally slap myself upside the head. I am such an assjack. What kind of person makes a joke about cancer to a cancer survivor? An assjack. I am mentally flagellating myself when Lisa rests her hand briefly on my knee. I look at her, notice the flames reflected in her pretty gray eyes, and realize this wallflower is not lilting.

  “It’s okay,” she says, smiling. “Cancer took my breasts, not my sense of humor.”

  “Thank God, because if you plan on spending a week around me, you will need a healthy sense of humor.”

  Lisa chuckles.

  The Chick Trippers continue to chatter about their lives back home and their hopes for the week ahead, but Lisa and I sit quietly, sipping our tea and staring at the bonfire. It’s not an awkward or uncomfortable silence. It’s easy and soothing. I don’t have many friendships that offer the peace that comes from just being—and I like it.

  Fiona catches my eye from across the bonfire and a slow I-am-so-proud-of-you smile curves her lips. It reminds me of my mum. Fiona and her spooky x-ray mind-shrinking vision. What else does she see when she looks at me? I look away before she peers deep into the dark, twisted attic of my psyche and discovers my obsessive-compulsive inability to consume milk if it is within two days of the sell-by date.

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Do what?” I flinch, practically shouting the words. “What did I do? I didn’t do anything.”

  “Don’t minimize your joy because you are worried what others might think. If boots make you happy, buy them, wear them, puddle stomp the heck out of them.”

  “It is silly to get so happy over such a little thing.”

  “I don’t know.” Lisa lifts her cup of tea and slowly inhales. “Big pleasures—trips to Scotland, new cars—they’re great, but I’ve found it is the small pleasures—a good cup of tea, shiny new rain boots—that really matter in life. It’s the little things that get us through each day, that sustain us through trials.”

  I raise my nearly-empty cup of tea to my lips, but instead of slamming back the last few drops, I inhale the spicy scent.

  “You’re a wise chick.”

  “Eh”—she shrugs—“I don’t know how wise I am, but cancer has definitely given me a different perspective on life. Things that used to mean so much to me—my career, my bank account, my appearance—don’t matter as much as they did before cancer. Now, the important things, big and small, truly matter.”

  * * * *

  Fiona and Angus officially welcome our group of Chick Trippers to the MacFarlane Farm and promise us “an unforgettable week of recreation and relaxation.”

  “Today will be a long, busy, but hopefully memorable, day.” Fiona says, walking in a circle around the bonfire. “We will begin by touring the farm and acquainting you with the flock. After we break for lunch, Angus will demonstrate the proper way to round up a flock of sheep. Later, you will be broken into pairs. Each pair will be responsible for the care and feeding of a mini-flock.”

  Holy Shit! She can’t be serious. How am I supposed to take care of a flock of sheep? Maybe now would be a good time to tell Fiona the tragic outcome of my houseplant purchase. Excuse me, Fiona, I would like to be excused from this activity on the grounds I drowned a cactus.

  I am about to raise my hand when Fiona stops walking, turns in my direction, and fixes her freaky mind-meld gaze on me.

  “Now,” she says, smiling. “I know some of you are worrying you lack the skills needed to take care of undomesticated animals, right?”

  I nod my head and look around the circle at the other Chick Trippers. I am the only one nodding my head.

  “Well, don’t!” Fiona continues walking around the circle. “This week is about two things: nature and nurture. In the mornings, we will care for the flock, but the afternoons will be about caring for ourselves through Yoga, hiking, horseback riding, sightseeing, and therapeutic services like facials and massages.”

  Yes, now we’re talking!

  Fiona shares her philosophy on the therapeutic benefits of caring for animals and her vision for the McFarlane Sheep Farm as a destination vacation for women seeking balance, empowerment, and broadening experiences.

  Fiona, Angus explains, is too much of a bleeding heart to raise sheep for slaughter—so she breeds her animals for the wool and milk.

  “We keep a mini-flock, comprised of carefully selected rams and ewes, in a separate barn for breeding purposes,” Angus says. “A few of our breeding beasts cost more than an automobile.”

  Devon, the pretty South Carolinian school teacher, raises her hand, and asks, “Are there different breeds of sheep?”

  “Aye.” Angus crosses his thickly-corded arms over his chest and leans back, evidently pleased with the more scholarly focus on his livestock. “We raise Scottish Blackface, Black Welsh, and Rambouillet for the wool and Friesian and Lacaune for dairy.”

  “Lacaune?” Fanny perks up. “That’s a French breed. My grandmother had Lacaune sheep on her farm in Normandy.”

  “Aye.” Angus nods. “The Lacaune produces milk with a higher milk solid ratio, which is why it is the breed of choice with French cheese makers, particularly those who make Roquefort.”

  “However,” Fiona interjects, “we value each animal for the intrinsic and intangible value it brings to our lives.”

  Angus grimaces and rolls his eyes, reminding me of an animated character. When I catch his exaggerated expression, the reporter in me can’t resist asking the slightly impertinent question.

  “Are we to interpret from your expression that you don’t share your wife’s more holistic approach to sheep rearing?”

  “Och, no!” He snorts and waves his hand. “I was raised to view the mangy beasts as commodities, not wee fluffy cuddlies.” He looks down at his wife and grins. “But I love and respect Fiona, so…”

  “…so he compromised for me.”

  “I dinnea ken what yer saying, woman!” His fierce scowl has me wondering how the Scottish could have possibly lost at Culloden. “You don’t see me naming and petting the wee beasts like family pets.”

  “Ach! You protest too much, Angus Alexander Kinloch MacFarlane, but deep down in that rough, calloused Scottish heart of yours, I know you’re aching to grab Goldiflocks and give her a good squeeze.”

  “Och!” Angus waves. “Away with you woman.”

  Watching Fiona and Angus together is creating an ache in the pit of my stomach, the same ache I got that summer when my mum made me spend three weeks at Camp Walahanka. I miss Luc the same way I missed my home, bed, mum, and dad. I miss the easy familiar. I miss the warm, all-consuming contentment of knowing I belong somewhere, to someone.

  Knock it off, Vivia! You do belong somewhere, to someone. You are Vivia Perpetua Grant, GoGirl! columnist, and eager world traveler. You don’t need a man to define you—do you?

  We follow Angus and Fiona into a large, airy, well-lit barn, A
brawny Scot wrangles several black sheep into a round observation pen.

  “These are Black Welsh Sheep.” Fiona steps into the pen, drops to her knees, and wraps her arm around the neck of one of the great black, wooly beasts. “And this is Baasheba, Daughter of the Oats. She is my most treasured Black Welsh because she is beautiful, gentle, and produces the healthiest lambs.”

  Fiona reaches into her pocket, pulls out a handful of oats, and offers them to Baasheba.

  “Black Welsh Sheep are hearty, self-sufficient, and extremely maternal,” Angus explains, his brogue becoming thicker the longer he speaks. “They produce lovely wool.”

  A large black demonic-looking ram with heavy curved horns ambles over to Fiona and nudges Baasheba out of the way so he can feast on the remaining oats.

  “Awwww,” several of the Chick Trippers croon.

  Whatever. I’m not feeling the love. That massive lint ball from Hell could do some serious damage with his devil horns. Just sayin’.

  I am about to pull out my iPhone to check how much longer until Braveheart rings the bell signaling our lunch break when a tall, muscular strawberry-blonde with a crew-cut strolls into the barn, a cock-eared Border Collie trotting by his side.

  Cue the bow-chicka-wow-wow music, Magic Mike, Grinning Hottie has stepped back on the stage.

  Angus’s handsomer, blonder doppelganger leans against a wooden post and crosses his arms over his broad chest. He’s totally casual, even though every Chick Tripper stopped watching Fiona frolic with her flock the moment he stepped into the barn.

  Look at him! Standing there, grinning like the Grinch after he stole the last can of Who Hash. He knows the effect he’s having on this estrogen-heavy crowd, and he’s loving it.

  I stubbornly return my gaze to the observation pen. I will not look at Grinning Hottie. I will not look at Grinning Hottie.

  I look at Grinning Hottie.

  An intense, prickly heat ignites in my cheeks and spreads down my body like California wildfire.

  Grinning Hottie must be able to see my pink cheeks from across the barn because he grins even more, until two deep dimples appear in this tanned cheeks.

  “Calder!” Angus strides over to his friend and slaps him on the back. His brogue becomes as thick as his forearms. “Whin did ye git 'ere, ye rogue? Ah thought ye said ye wouldn't be back ’til Monday next.”