memories into the land. Sealing them in forever. And after the leaves were down, the track would remain hidden until spring.
Jink, the newest member of the household, wheezed her asthmatic cough and wound around Hannah’s ankles. Hannah reached down and combed her fingers through satin fur. If only everything in life were as simple as adopting a stray cat.
“Go scavenge,” Hannah said. “Catch a vole for breakfast.”
The voles had inflicted more damage than the drought. Two months earlier the loss of her scarlet ruellias—a gift from an aging client who couldn’t afford her vet bill—would have caused genuine pain. But now she had real context for the themes of life and death.
Hannah’s right foot nudged a pile of broken acorn shells—a squirrel’s last supper—and she stared down at the decking. Boards long overdue for pressure washing and weatherproofing, she and the ex had nailed them together fifteen years before with dreams of withstanding hurricanes and ice storms and poundings from little boys and big dogs. Dreams came, dreams left, and she would do what she always did: adapt.
In the distance, a car spluttered and clonked as it began the torturous journey down her driveway. A predawn pet emergency, no doubt. Containing work between the hours of eight in the morning and ten at night was a pipe dream. Clients knew she was available 24/7, and how could she not be? A holistic vet specializing in peaceful euthanasia could hardly keep office hours. Not that she had an office, other than her duct-taped Ford truck.
The dogs rose one by one to close around her in a circle. Mush for brains, all five of her rescue babies. Introduce people to their world, and they could flee. An eternity ago she had juggled the demands of work, laundry, motherhood and cooking as if she would never surface for air. These days she was responsible only for herself and a pack of strays. Turn around, and everything changed.
Rosie, her blind German shepherd, whimpered.
“It’s okay, baby.” Hannah kneaded Rosie’s head, and the dog trembled against her leg.
Hannah didn’t mean to have favorites, but she and Rosie were conjoined at the heart. Some woman had found Rosie four years earlier, scavenging for food in the Occoneechee Mountain parking lot and bleeding from a gash on her paw. The woman flew in with kinetic desperation, wanting to adopt Rosie now, wanting Hannah to fix Rosie now. But Rosie had needed stitches and a quiet, warm place to sleep. Hannah insisted on keeping the dog overnight; the woman begrudgingly agreed. Older, but still beautiful, she had a gray pallor and yellow patches around her eyelids that suggested heart disease. Hannah had planned to inquire gently about her health the next day. But the woman hadn’t returned as arranged, and for that, Hannah was grateful. Her mother had encouraged her to believe in fate. And Hannah and Rosie-girl? They were meant to be.
The car lurched around a bend and stopped, the beam of its lights illuminating a lumbering opossum. Only one person she knew braked for opossum. And thank goodness, because she couldn’t face anyone else’s high-voltage chatter.
There would be comfort food in the back of that turquoise Honda Civic, too. High in carbs, sickly sweet and much appreciated. Dropping a jean size had been the only welcome side effect of her son’s breakdown; dropping two jean sizes had been a warning.
Poppy’s car spluttered through a mechanical imitation of Jink’s asthmatic cough. Time to remind her friend, yet again, about the importance of oil changes. Guided by instincts—some good, most not—Poppy’s monkey mind never settled on the mundane, unless it involved sugar or sex, horses or art.
The Honda chugged around the final curve. Hannah’s ex had insisted on this ridiculous gravel drive despite the acres of pasture that lay between the house and the road. He’d pronounced it authentic and likely to deter bikers from joyriding up to their house after spilling out of the redneck bar opposite. Of course, that could have been Inigo’s secret wish all along, since he’d upped and left six years earlier for a gay ménage à trois in rural Chatham County. A midlife crisis with not one younger lover but two. Both guys.
Hannah searched the top of her head for her reading glasses and had a flashback to stuffing them into the seat pocket of the airplane. Oh well, another pair lost.
Poppy parked and flung open the door decorated with a prancing mare. She painted horses on every surface except paper. Take the norm, turn it inside out and flip it backward—that was Poppy’s thought process.
“Hey, girl.” Poppy emerged, bottom-first. “Thought you might need a sugar fix.”
“At seven in the morning?” Hannah and the dogs walked down the steps.
Poppy jiggled a Whole Foods bag, and her silver horse earrings danced a rhumba. Then she took out her gum and dumped it in the car’s trash can. “Never too early for chocolate.”
“Come here. You’ve earned a hug.” Silly move caused, no doubt, by sleep deprivation. Even drunk, Poppy wasn’t a hugger.
Poppy stiffened, and Hannah tried to cover her mistake with a pat on the shoulder blade.
“Thank you. For looking after the animals, the house and—” Hannah pulled back and chewed the corner of her lip. She hadn’t cried in two and a half weeks. Why now? She sniffed. “But you should not be shopping at Whole Foods, not on your budget.”
“I know, I know, but I figured you needed first-rate treats. Chocolate croissants, still warm.” Poppy sniffed the bag. “Mmm-hmm. And extra chocolate supplies. Had no idea Brits understood chocolate, but this, girlfriend, is the real deal.”
Poppy reached inside the bag and waved two long, thin sticks of chocolate wrapped in twisted yellow foil. They resembled emaciated Christmas crackers, the kind Inigo had introduced to Christmas dinner when the boys were little. Such a fraud, the ex, flooding their lives with all things British—or rather Celtic—when he’d left Wales as a two-month-old. A Christmas memory snuck out: Inigo, Galen and Liam popping crackers and giggling. Her guys, the three people she thought she’d known best in the world. Turned out she hadn’t known them at all. If her mother were still alive, how would she label this bottomless emotion Hannah refused to name? Was it grief? Was she mourning her before life?
Think better, Hannah.
“Cadbury Flakes, they’re called,” Poppy continued. “The Brit section in Whole Foods is opposite the dog food, but don’t let that put you off. What time d’y’all get back last night?”
“Late. Or early, depending on your definition. And it’s just me.”
“Our boy?”
“Couldn’t spring him from the post-hospitalized program. Another twelve days and then he can come home.” Hannah paused. “I need to find him a therapist here. And an A.A. group.”
“On it, babe. I know a shitload of drunks.”
“Somehow, I never doubted that.”
Poppy disappeared into her car, muttering about a lost cell phone. She bobbed back out. “Sleep on the plane?”
“I rested.”
“The answer’s no, then.”
“Welcome to my brave, new world.”
Poppy took a bite out of one of the chocolate croissants, then shoved it back into the bag. Her eyes flicked toward the house; clearly she was thinking,
