Rose

by Elle Casey

  “Maybe I should be wearing gloves.” He’s squinting at his hand, as if he’d be able to identify microbes sitting there if he looked close enough.

  “Feel free. They’re in the other room.”

  He looks at my hands. “You’re not wearing any.”

  “I’m washable. I don’t worry about it unless I have an open wound of some sort.” Maybe I should wear gloves, but I’ve been doing this so long and have been covered in poo too many times to count . . . it doesn’t even faze me anymore.

  He thinks about it for a couple seconds and then sprays the next tray.

  I think I just gave his ego some kind of challenge. “You can go get some gloves if you want. I promise I won’t make fun of you.”

  “No, that’s cool. I can handle it. I’ve gotten my hands a lot dirtier than this, believe me.”

  “I find that hard to believe. I’ve never been in your office, but Amber tells me it’s pretty swanky.”

  “Who says I got my hands dirty in that office?” He winks at me.

  “Okay, I’ll bite. What are we talking about here?” I grab a wad of paper towels and start doing my half of the tray.

  “I wasn’t always a lawyer, you know.”

  “Really? I thought you were born wearing a suit.” I can totally picture it too—a newborn baby in loafers and a tie.

  “I was born in a birthday suit, yes. It’s a little different from the one I wear to work now, though.”

  “Ha, ha. Very funny.” Do not think about him naked . . . do NOT think about him naked!

  “Actually, I was born in that birthday suit in Upstate New York on a farm. I didn’t even get to the hospital before I hit the cold air.”

  My hand stops in midwipe, and I look up at him with my jaw dropping open. Words fail me.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  I shake my head. “No. I really don’t.” I can’t see it at all. His manicure and his two-hundred-dollar haircut are getting in the way.

  “I have pictures.” He pauses before finishing. “Maybe you could come and see them sometime.”

  My mind races. I wonder where he keeps those pictures. Would it be in his office or his apartment? Is he suggesting I might be there someday? No. It’s just an expression. He’s being silly. Cleaning poop trays with a person always brings you closer together; my sisters can attest to this fact.

  “What kind of farm was it?” I ask, trying to direct myself away from the subject of his personal space and me being in it.

  “Apples. We had a pretty decent-sized orchard.”

  “No shit.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  He chuckles. “Yeah. No shit. And speaking of shit, we used some of the neighbor’s horse manure to fertilize our grove, so, like I said . . . I’ve gotten my hands pretty dirty in the past.”

  “How does an apple farmer end up as a lawyer in a Manhattan high-rise?”

  His mood downshifts into neutral again. “When I was a teenager, my parents had some financial troubles. They took out a loan with some shady characters, and when they were unable to pay the note when it came due, the farm was taken away from them. Foreclosure.”

  “Oh my god, that’s horrible. Who would take away somebody’s farm?”

  “The company that wanted to build a housing development on their land.”

  I feel sick to my stomach. “No. That’s horrible.” I could imagine how it would feel if someone did that to us. Our family would be crushed under the weight of sadness. I don’t think we’d ever survive it. Where would we go? This is the only home I’ve ever known, and unlike Amber, I have no interest in leaving.

  “Yes, it was. It was pretty devastating for a couple years, actually.”

  “What did you do?” I seriously want to hug him right now. He can’t be okay with this, but he doesn’t look sad.

  “We moved to the city. My dad got a job as a cab driver, and my mom worked as a housekeeper at a hotel.”

  “So, the country boy became a city boy, but not by choice.”

  “No, not in the beginning. But I ended up liking it. My parents are retired now, and they’re happy.”

  “Do they regret losing the farm?”

  “I think they do. We don’t talk about it much. It was a long time ago.”

  “Is that why you became a lawyer? To try to right the wrongs in the world?”

  “As a matter of fact, it is. I started out in environmental law, but my first internship out of school was with a big firm downtown, and they put me in with the corporate law group, so I quickly shifted focus.”

  “Found your true calling, is that it?”

  He shrugs. “It pays the bills.”

  Interesting. He doesn’t sound like he’s in love with his job. “So, is Red Hot your only client? Or am I not allowed to ask that question?”

  “You can ask it. You can ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer as long as it doesn’t fall under confidentiality rules. They’re my only client; you are correct about that.”

  “That must make your life easier. You don’t have to juggle too many accounts.”

  He shrugs but doesn’t say anything. His expression speaks volumes, though.

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess . . . Your job was a lot easier before Amber was in the picture.”

  I can tell he’s trying not to smile. “No comment.”

  “I can talk to her for you, you know. She doesn’t have to be difficult. Sometimes she just does it for fun.” My nutty sister . . . I wouldn’t change her for the world, but then again, I don’t have to work with her.

  He shakes his head. “No, don’t say anything. She’s not that bad.”

  “Baloney. I grew up with her. I know she can be a real pain in the butt when she wants to be.”

  “She’s really smart, your sister. She picks stuff up lightning quick. I like that about her.”

  “Yeah, she is smart. She was wasted out here on the farm.” I sigh, knowing she’ll be leaving again soon. It’s so much quieter without her here, but I don’t enjoy that part of her leaving. Sometimes it’s too quiet.

  He pauses and looks up at me. “You’re really smart too. But I’m sure you don’t feel like you’re wasted out here on the farm. You make a big difference in the lives of all these animals.” He gestures at the cages.

  I shrug, agreeing with him but also feeling a little sad about it. “No, I don’t feel like I’m wasting my life. Sometimes I’m frustrated that I’m limited in what I can do, but I definitely feel like my work is worthwhile.”

  “Why don’t you go to vet school? It would only take you four years.”

  I hate that a tiny light of hope glows in my heart at his words. I tamp it down immediately, like I always do when the subject of me going back to school comes up. “I can’t. Who would take care of the animals while I was gone?” I look at the chinchilla, proud that I brought him back from the brink of death. He was too young to go, and his owner was so sad when she came in with him.

  “I’m sure you could find somebody to take over. Some volunteers, maybe?”

  “Believe it or not, people are not banging down the door to work at an animal rescue in the middle of central Maine.”

  We both chuckle over that. “Do you get a lot of donations?” he asks.

  “Not really. When people are grateful for what I do for their animals, they usually give me what they can afford. Every once in a while a local business will give me something. But I pretty much make just enough to keep the lights on. I don’t get a salary or anything. Whatever personal income I have comes from the farm. I participate in planting and harvesting and going to the market to sell things, and I get a portion of the income that comes from that. We all share in everything equally here. My sisters and I started getting our shares of the farm’s income when we turned sixteen and could really help out in a significant way.”

  “If you got more charitable donations, you could hire some employees and then maybe go off to vet school, right?”

 
I feel a burning sensation in my stomach. It’s stress. I always freak out trying to put together the puzzle of me leaving here. “In theory, maybe. But that’s a big maybe. Running a business from a distance is difficult enough, but when it involves live animals—and people who may or may not be qualified to deal with them—that’s a different story. Plus, I’m needed here on the farm. It’s a lot of work doing all the chores and stuff, especially now that Amber is mostly gone.”

  “What about hiring a vet?”

  I smile sadly. “That’s a joke. Do you have any idea what kind of salary a vet would demand to live out here in the middle of nowhere and work full time?” I shake my head. “I love your ideas, believe me, but it’s just not going to happen for me. That ship has sailed.”

  We slide the newly cleaned tray in and pull out the next dirty one. Both of our noses wrinkle as the odor comes wafting up. Raccoons are not the nicest animals to clean up after. Greg gives the tray a liberal spraying before we even begin.

  “I’m just trying to bring the stench level down,” he says, talking with his nose plugged.

  “I get it. Believe me.”

  “Nobody can say you’re not completely dedicated.” He sprays some more.

  “No, they can’t.”

  Greg sits back on his heels, trying to gather some fresh air from over his shoulder. “So what about that lawsuit? Do you want to talk to me about it? Maybe I can give you some ideas on how to handle it.”

  “I guess we could talk about it.” After chatting with him for the last hour, I feel really at ease. There’s no doubt in my mind that Greg Lister is one of the good guys. Not only does he clean up animal poo at no charge—when he normally works for over a thousand bucks an hour—but he also used to be a farmer . . . or the son of a farmer, which is just as good in my book. Once I found out about that, it kind of sealed the deal for me. Every farmer I’ve ever met has been a salt-of-the-earth kind of person. Maybe that’s why Greg is so good at putting together his country-boy outfits. He knows the look from his childhood and not just a magazine.

  “I noticed in the public record there’ve been a few lawsuits between you and the town,” he says.

  “Yes. They’ve had a bug up their butts about shutting me down for years.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Well, there are a few theories out there, but the one that seems most likely in my mind is the one that involves Betty Beland.”

  “Betty Beland. She sounds sinister,” he says, smiling.

  “No, she doesn’t. I know she doesn’t. She sounds like a wonderful kindergarten teacher or a pastor’s wife, but she’s not, believe me. Betty—who’s kind of in charge over there—got divorced, and about a month later her ex asked me out on a date.”

  “Ouch. So, we’re talking a woman scorned?”

  “Yeah. And I didn’t even say yes to him, which is the kicker.”

  “I’m guessing it didn’t matter whether you said yes or no. It was the idea that this guy liked you that bugged her.”

  “Exactly. But there’s also the theory that some well-placed people in town don’t really like that there’s what they consider a hippie commune out here, so they do whatever they can to encourage us to relocate. We’re too close to their precious suburban lives, maybe. I think they’re worried their kids will start smelling like patchouli oil or something.”

  “You guys running around naked and dancing under the moon bothers them?”

  I smile, enjoying the vision. “Something like that.”

  “I hear you have a good reputation out at the farmers’ market.”

  “We do. We’ve been there since it started. Our mothers were three of the founders, actually. But the snobs on the town council are not the kind of people who have booths at the farmers’ market. They’ll shop there because they think it’s quaint, but they won’t mingle with the merchants, if you know what I mean.”

  “Tell me exactly what it is they’re claiming is the problem.”

  “I don’t know exactly exactly; you can read the document if you need details. I think it’s pretty much that the land-use rules have changed recently, and now this building is not in the right zone. And I’m not supposed to be using this barn as a place to shelter animals. And then there’s the same old nonsense about me doing the work of a veterinarian when I’m not licensed.”

  “Are you?”

  “No, of course not. I used to have a contracted veterinarian named John Masters who would come in and do whatever surgeries were necessary and put together the treatment plans, but he backed out on me after Banana’s surgery. I’m pretty sure the town council got to him. They may have threatened him with causing trouble with his license if he didn’t stop working with me. I wouldn’t put it past them to tattle on him to the licensing board or whatever.”

  “Do you have proof of that? Did he tell you that?”

  “No. But he was acting really cagey when he was here last time, when he told me he had to quit, and it was the same day I got the lawsuit notice in the mail.”

  “Who’s doing your surgeries now?”

  “No one. Luckily, I haven’t had anybody walk in needing anything, but if I did, I’d have to call the local vet and ask if I can send them over to him.”

  “That could be a problem if somebody has an urgent injury, couldn’t it?”

  “Yes, it could. But I did put a notice out at the last farmers’ market and, as you probably saw, one on the door . . . telling people that we no longer have veterinary services here. So I hope anybody who has an injured animal will go right to the town vet instead.”

  “Okay. Do you mind if I go take a look at that document now and see what I can do to help you?”

  “Are you kidding?” I point at the kennels next me, hoping to sell him on the idea of staying. Not only am I not in any hurry to have him read that document—it’s embarrassing to be sued—but I’m also having too much fun with him to stop yet. “We have five more cages to go. You expect me to do these all by myself?”

  “Don’t you usually do them by yourself?”

  Busted. “Maybe.” I wilt. My plan is not working.

  He smiles and crouches down next to me again. “I guess I can help you finish.”

  “Awesome. And if you do a really good job, you’ll get a sticker.” I grin big.

  “A sticker?” he asks, confused.

  “I give them out for good behavior.”

  “Oh, I get it.” He grins. “My niece Linny used to love getting those at the dentist.”

  “Your niece?” All I know about her from Amber is that she’s spunky and works at Greg’s office sometimes.

  “Yeah. She works at my office doing filing and things.” Greg picks up the bottle of disinfectant.

  “Are you close?”

  “You could say that.” He grabs a few paper towels and sprays them, getting ready for the next tray.

  He doesn’t elaborate on his relationship with Linny, and I don’t want to push him.

  “What does a guy have to do to earn a sticker from you?” he asks, pulling out the next tray.

  “He’s got to clean every cage without stopping and without complaining about the smell the entire time.”

  “Man . . . Anyone ever tell you you’re a harsh taskmaster?” He starts scrubbing as he watches me and waits for my answer.

  “Who, me? Don’t be silly.” I kind of love the idea of bossing him around a little. I point to a corner. “You missed a spot.”

  He grins, moving his towels over to clean where I indicated.

  Should I feel guilty about making this high-priced lawyer help me clean out dirty kennels? Maybe. But I’m not going to let myself do that, because I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed being a poop picker-upper.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  After we finish our cleanup, we take the two dogs for a walk through the woods. Greg is proudly wearing the sticker he earned for perfect kennel cleaning on his collar. It’s an orange with arms and legs, wearing white gloves and giving a
thumbs-up.

  “It’s really beautiful out here,” Greg says. “Like heaven on earth.” He’s walking next to me with his hands in his pockets, his heavy boots crunching twigs and kicking up dried leaves.

  “It is. I haven’t traveled much, but it’s the prettiest place I know.”

  “I heard you make maple syrup from your own trees out here.”

  “We do. It’s pretty good too, if I do say so myself. You’ve had it on your pancakes.”

  “Any chance I can get some to take back with me? I should probably give Veronica a gift for watching Tinkerbell.”

  Hearing her name takes some of the joy out of the moment for me. She likes him and she’s watching his dog. They have a connection I wish I had with him in a way. I know it’s not smart to want to be involved with him, but I can’t seem to help how I feel. I work to ease the slight tension my weird emotions have created. “Sure. We sell it to friends and family at a discount,” I say, teasing. I’d never charge him for our syrup, especially since he’s being nice enough to look over my legal papers and scrub poo stains off trays for me.

  “Sweet,” he says.

  “No pun intended?”

  He chuckles. “Yeah. I’m not really one for puns.”

  “You know, my sister Amber thinks you’re a real stick-in-the-mud.” I look over, hoping I didn’t offend him. I wish they could get along better. Maybe I can help that happen.

  He loses his smile. “Yeah, I know she does.”

  “How come you don’t talk to her like you’re talking to me?” I know for a fact that he doesn’t open up with her, because Amber has pretty much filled me in on every conversation they’ve ever had. Her descriptions of interacting with Greg always include her trying to be friendly and him shutting her down.

  “I need to keep a professional distance between myself and my clients.”

  “Is she your client?”

  “No. But she works for them.”

  “Back when she first met you, she wasn’t.” I keep pushing because I want to know the whole story. Is the problem Amber, or is it something else?

  “That’s true. Maybe I just feel more comfortable talking to you than I do her.”