Wild At Heart (Wild 2)

“I’m planning on giving him a call in the next few days,” Jonah promises.

“Good. Come on, let’s go, Calla. I haven’t got all day!” She caps off her request with a wave of her hand, one that tells me I’m coming with her whether I like it or not.

I shoot a glare at Jonah—he’s still grinning, amused by Muriel’s stern demeanor or by my visible discomfort over my predicament, or maybe both—and head for my rubber boots.

* * *

“There’s a good boy.” Muriel pulls chunks of banana peel from her pocket and tosses it over the fence to Zeke. “You’re looking a little thin. Aren’t your new owners takin’ good care of you?”

Zeke bleats and rushes to gobble it up, as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks.

“Jonah comes out every morning and night to feed and check on him,” I say, a touch of defensiveness in my tone.

“Well, no wonder he’s not eatin’. You know, Zeke doesn’t like men.” Again with that matter-of-fact voice.

“He doesn’t mind being fed by one.” Something tells me my childhood horror stories wouldn’t earn any sympathy here.

She harrumphs, and it could be in agreement or disappointment with me—I can’t read this woman—but then says, “Probably the stress of change. First Colette gone, then Phil, though Zeke never liked …” Her words drift as her eyes go wide, locked on the triangular face watching us from the tiny opening. “Is that a raccoon in your chicken coop?”

My stomach tightens instinctively. There’s no mistaking the displeasure in her tone. “Yes?” He’s taken to his new home. Though he has free range of the entire pen, he usually lingers inside the coop.

“You can’t have a raccoon living in your chicken coop. How are you gonna have any chickens?”

We’re not, I want to say, but admitting that would somehow feel like another strike against me. So, I say the next best thing I can think of because I’m tired of bearing the brunt of Muriel’s disapproval and I’m still angry with Jonah. “Bandit is Jonah’s pet.”

Maybe she’ll scold him, too.

The jerk would probably enjoy it, though.

Another harrumph, and then she continues traipsing through the boggy, brown grass as if this property is her own, leading the way to the spacious clearing and the enormous rectangular enclosure that Phil put at about a quarter acre in size. “That’s your greenhouse.” She points out the small, dilapidated structure on the far end of the pen—the wooden frame missing pieces, the plastic sheeting tattered and dangling. “Bad storm came through and twisted it all up last summer. Never got around to fixin’ it in the fall.” She flips open the lid on a panel next to the gate and flicks a power switch. “This is a voltmeter,” she announces, pulling a black rectangular box from her plaid coat pocket.

“I think I found one of those.” I put it in the hallway closet with everything else that Jonah said we couldn’t throw out, but I have no idea what to do with.

“’Course you would have. You’ll want to make yourself a little garden kit, so you have it at the ready when you head out here every morning.”

I struggle to school my expression. When I head out here every morning?

“And check your fences often.” She taps it against the electric wire and watches the screen. Nothing appears. “See? Not workin’. They’ve been having issues with this one and the animal pen for years. I remember foxes got into their chicken coop one winter years ago and slaughtered the lot of them. Another year it was a wolf. Jonah’ll need to fix this soon, or you’ll have critters in here mowin’ down everything, and you don’t want to lose an entire summer’s worth of work overnight.”

Does Jonah even know how to fix an electric fence? Should I be embarrassed that I moved across the continent for a guy and I can’t answer that?

She tucks her tool back into her pocket. “I harvested and cleaned the beds up as best I could last September. Buried the leftovers for some good compost. Colette was always good at keepin’ on top of the weeds so there wasn’t too much of that, at least. And I didn’t get a chance to amend the soil, but we can do that once the ground warms up a bit more. Spring’s takin’ its sweet time comin’ this year.”

My attention wanders beyond the garden to where patches of snow persist within the thicket, despite the warmer temperatures. The last claims of winter, holding on tight. “When do you think that’ll be?”

“Another week or so, if we don’t get too much rain.” Reaching the gate, she pauses to inspect a cinch in the wire. “Before you have that hot tub in and screened porch of yours finished.”

Muriel must have been standing by the door for a moment, listening, before she knocked.

I pretend to survey the patch of dirt within the fencing but really to hide the heat in my cheeks. “I don’t know the first thing about gardening,” I admit, wishing my mother were here to navigate this conversation so I wouldn’t feel so inept.

“You’ll know more than the first thing by the end of summer,” Muriel assures me, emphasizing her determination with a firm nod, as if she’s made it her personal mission. “You’ll need to pick up all your seeds at the local Feed & Mill. We’ll get your little greenhouse set up for next year’s seedlings but for this year, I should have some extra lettuce, peppers, onions, and tomatoes you can use. Oh, and cabbage, for your sauerkraut. You’ve been saving all the jars from the cellar, right?”

“We have,” I confirm. Mainly because I’m not sure what to do with them, so I just put them back on the cellar shelves after Jonah’s done polishing off their contents. But right now, under the perpetually disapproving eye of Muriel, I’m relieved I’ve done something right.

“Smart girl. Good. Makes it easier when you go to do all your preserving.”

Right. My preserving. I recall the day I walked into Agnes’s house last summer while she was pickling vegetables from Whittamore’s—payment to Mabel for her labor. Her kitchen was a war zone of jars and dirty pots, her skin and shirt stained purple from beets, despite having worn gloves. My nose curled from the vinegar and cloves in the air. I remember asking myself why anyone would go to all that trouble when they can go to the store if they want a jar of beets.