Bittersweet Creek Read Online Free Page B

switching, they counted one ridiculously out-of-place city girl in their pasture—not that it bothered any of them as they chewed their cud, occasionally slinging their heads back to get rid of the flies. The cows knew an impostor when they saw one.
    Tromping back to the barn, I lost my balance and placed one tennis shoe in the corner of a fairly fresh cow pie.
    So that was going in the trash.
    And I was getting some boots.
    As I rounded the barn to perform my last appointed task, I couldn’t help but wonder if there wasn’t someone better suited to this job. I couldn’t pick even one row of beans, I’d lost my ability to properly navigate the pasture, and I didn’t know anything about cows with prolapsed uteri.
    Maggie May, oh she of the prolapsed uterus, mooed at me from the corner as if to say, “Still good.”
    â€œGo on, turn around and let me make sure your stitches are holding up,” I said. As if the cow could understand me or would do what I asked even if she could. Then the squat black Angus snorted and did a one-eighty so I could see that all was well beneath her tail.
    â€œWell, thanks for cooperating, Miss Maggie,” I said.
    She flung cow snot over her shoulder and in my general direction.
    â€œYou missed,” I said before walking back to the house. Using the concrete step to pry off my ruined shoes, I kicked them to the side. “Alas, poor Adidas! I knew them, Horatio.”
    On the other side of the door, the cat mewed, which made me jump.
    â€œWrong play, Mercutio,” I muttered to myself as I entered the back porch and discovered I had another task to go: doctor the cat’s ear. Mercutio howled and wiggled, but I washed his ear with soap and water. By the time I finished, we were both out of breath and sopping wet.
    â€œSee if I help you out again,” I said before stepping into the kitchen.
    â€œWho you talking to?” Daddy asked.
    Um, animals. Why am I talking to all of the animals? I’m like a weird Dr. Dolittle.
    â€œJust the cat, Daddy.” I looked at the instant coffee and willed the Keurig to get there faster, then reached for a water glass instead.
    â€œGenie called,” he said.
    Of course she did. I had been hoping for a day or two of peace before I met with Genie Dix to go over reunion particulars. We had been classmates since kindergarten, though, so I should’ve known she was too type A to let me rest when there was still so much work to do. “What did she say?”
    â€œWants you to meet her at The Fountain tonight for that singing thing.”
    I could tell by his growl that Daddy wasn’t too keen on the idea. “Karaoke?”
    â€œThat’s it.”
    â€œI told her your car broke down back in Nashville, so you had to leave it in the shop. She said she’d pick you up at eight.”
    I sighed. My flabby suburban self was tired.
    But they would have something alcoholic, probably beer.
    I leaned on the table to stand up because my quads hurt worse after a few minutes of bean picking than the last time I tried Pilates. A shower was in order. Then maybe I could curl up somewhere with a novel that didn’t involve mockingbirds, dead dogs, flowers, Algernon, or insanely long paragraphs about a boat ride into the heart of freaking darkness.
    Daddy folded down his paper so he could give me his tilted-head look. “You gonna go finish picking those beans?”
    Or I could drink some more water and dream the impossible dream out in the garden.
    Â 
    Later that afternoon I’d managed to pick the green beans and trudge back to the house. I went upstairs to get a change of clothes and everything I needed to shower, but as I hit the last step coming down I heard something I never thought I’d hear in the Satterfield home place:
    A meow followed by “Yeah, who’s a good boy?”
    I blinked twice. Was that Daddy? Talking to the cat? I pushed through the door that separated the