We arrived at
Gabby's family's farm at about four in the afternoon. A large metal sign hanging from the front
gate proclaimed it to be the Quick Browne Goat Farm. "So who's
Quick?" I asked.
Gabby shot me a
puzzled look. "What are you talking about?"
"On the
sign." I pointed behind us. Browne was the family name, and the goat part
was also obvious, but Quick?
Gabby smiled.
"Oh, I don't know. The goats, I guess. You know that sentence they make
you memorize when you learn touch typing: 'the quick brown fox jumped over the
lazy dog'?"
"I've heard
of it, sure."
"It's like
that. "
Puzzled, I turned
in my seat to stare at her. "It's 'like that' how?"
"Well, I
mean, we've always had some of the laziest sheepdogs you've ever seen. I'm sure
they've been jumped over a time or two."
"By foxes?"
"No."
Gabby eyed me strangely. "By goats. It's a goat farm, remember?"
I probably should
have given up at that point. I've gotten into these kinds of conversations with
her before. They never end well. "Okay, but then where do the foxes come
in?"
"They
don't."
"But..."
"Look, the
whole point of that sentence is that it uses all the letters of the alphabet,
right? They had to use fox. Goat wouldn't have worked at all in that
context."
"Obviously."
"Okay, and
so what should also be obvious is that it wouldn't make any sense to call this
the Quick Browne Fox Farm. Right?"
None of it made
sense; that was the problem. And I was just about to say so when she hit me
with that smile.
Now, here's
something you might not know about my Gabe. She has one of the greatest smiles
in the whole damn world. It's fucking radiant. It's the kind of smile that
makes men stupid. If you haven't seen it, you'll just have to take my word on
that. I knew I was in trouble the very first time she flashed it my way. I'd
never before been covetous of a facial expression, but in that moment I
desperately wanted to keep her smiling at me—and only at me—just like that,
forever.
I know it's only
a matter of time before her career takes off, because I can't be the only one
who feels that way.
"Well?"
Gabby prompted. "Would it?"
But her smile had
done its usual good work. My train of thought had so thoroughly jumped its
tracks that my brain was the mental equivalent of a heap of twisted steel.
"Uh...what were we talking about again?"
Gabby shot me a
mock glare. "The Quick Browne Fox
Farm. Remember?"
"Oh,
right." Now, I'm all for sticking to my guns, but I also know when I'm
beat. "Yeah, you're right. That's crazy. That wouldn't work at all."
"Exactly,"
Gabby purred as she pulled the truck to a stop. She glanced at me again, and
her smile went from bright to brilliant; I felt a thrill of delight, until I
realized the reason for it wasn't my easy capitulation, it was the fact that
she was home.
I turned to look
around me. We were parked in front of yet another picturesque farmhouse; this
one was white, with blue trim and shutters, a wraparound porch, and a white
picket fence. Blue hydrangeas clustered around the foundation. Blue morning
glories twined along the fence. Baskets overflowing with light and dark
lobelia hung from the eaves of the porch. "I see someone likes blue."
Gabby nodded.
"My mom. It's a Sapphire Falls thing."
"Makes
sense."
The theme,
unfortunately, was not confined to the house. Now that I knew what I was
looking for, I saw hints everywhere. In the English Sheepdog dozing on the
porch swing; mostly white with
bluish-gray patches. In the flock of mop-headed chickens pecking at the
lawn—oddly reminiscent of the dog, with similar plumage in matching shades.
Even the drive where we were parked, with its blue-gray gravel, and its border
of whitewashed rocks fit the picture. It
was impressive, in a slightly over-the-top, borderline obsessive kind of way.
Not that I'd ever say so.
Just 'cause my
family's dysfunctional, doesn't mean I don't know better than to criticize
someone else's.
I’d have had to
be an idiot not to notice the eager expression Gabby’d been wearing ever since
we'd left Omaha. While, intellectually, I knew she loved acting, that she loved
the life she'd built for herself out on the coast, that she loved me, I
still found myself starting to worry. How much work was it going to take to
drag her away from here next week?
"Let's go
see where everyone is," Gabby said as she jumped from the truck. I started to follow, but just then a man came
striding around the corner of the house to greet her. He was tall and lean, with the kind of
weathered skin and corded muscles that you only get from spending most of your
life working out-of-doors. I'd pegged
him as Gabby's father even before she turned and waved impatiently for me to
join them.
Gabby's dad,
Mick, looked every inch the aging hippy farmer Gabby had described him as
being. His hair was long, just starting to go gray, and the bandana on his head
was clearly there for functionality, not as a fashion statement—despite it being
blue and white, like everything else around here.
He had a firm
handshake, a steely gaze, and a smile that would probably have been a whole lot
warmer if I were someone else. But I was the stranger who would shortly be
marrying his daughter, the bastard who'd gotten her pregnant. I suspected it
would be a long time before he forgave me for either of those offenses. And, until he did, I figured my chances of
getting a genuine smile out of the man were slim to no-fucking-way.
"Did I tell
you that Derek teaches yoga?" Gabby asked, threading her fingers with mine
and leaning against my shoulder. I was intensely aware of her tit pressed tight
against my bicep, and not in a good way, given that her father was looking on.
I felt like she was claiming me for her own, marking me as hers, all of which
I'd normally be in favor of. But, right now, with the hostile vibe already
rolling in waves off her old man? Not so much.
"That's how we met."
"So you've
said," Mick replied dryly. I didn't miss the way his face hardened as his
gaze latched onto all the places where Gabby's body and mine connected. It was
all I could do not to push her away. Something told me that would be worse.
"My dad's
been practicing yoga for years," Gabby informed me, seemingly oblivious to
the tension.
"Very
cool." I smiled at Mick. "What style do you prefer? Sivananda? Kripalu?" I was expecting him to be into
something like that, something old skool and classic. Maybe a little Bikram in
the winter.
What I wasn't
expecting was, "Goat."
"Daddy!"
Gabby scowled at him.
"What?
You've never heard of goat yoga? Look it up, if you don't believe me."
Mick gazed at me challengingly, and added. "Sometimes the chickens join in
too."
"I think I
saw something about that online." Of course, I'd assumed it was a joke,
but maybe I was wrong? "I'd be interested in seeing that in action while
I'm here. We don't get much of a call for it in Los Angeles."
"Their
loss."
"I guess
so."
