Page 2 of A Good Egg

"So I'm temporarily unemployed." I sipped my tea, wincing as it burned my tongue. "Just until I figure things out."

Gram's expression shifted then, a flicker of worry creasing her brow. "Well, you're welcome here as long as you need. Lord knows this old place could use some young energy."

For the first time, I truly looked at the kitchen. The yellow gingham curtains hung limply, in need of washing. A small stack of envelopes sat on the counter, red "PAST DUE" notices visible even from where I sat. The ancient refrigerator hummed laboriously, a sound I didn't remember being quite so loud.

"Gram," I began carefully, "is everything okay? With the farm, I mean."

She busied herself with adjusting a dishtowel. "Things have been a bit tight since your grandfather passed. The egg production isn't what it used to be, and the apple orchard had a poor yield last fall."

My chest constricted. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You had your life in Boston. Your dreams." She shrugged, a gesture of dignified pride. "I've managed."

The stack of bills suggested otherwise. I thought of my meager savings, barely enough for a deposit on a new apartment.

"There's a man who keeps calling," Gram continued, her voice carefully neutral. "Some developer named Westbrook. Wants to buy the farm for a timeshare complex or some such nonsense." She sniffed dismissively. "Told him the O'Malleys don't sell out. Hung up on him twice now."

"A developer?" Alarm bells rang in my head. "How much did they offer?"

"Doesn't matter. This land isn't for sale."

Despite her defiant tone, I saw the exhaustion in the slump of her shoulders, the worry lines etched more deeply around her mouth. Gram was tired—too tired to be battling banks and developers alone.

A sudden commotion at the backdoor interrupted us—a familiar, indignant clucking followed by the sound of something decidedly beak-like tapping against glass.

"Well, would you look at that," Gram smiled. "Someone's sensed your return."

I crossed to the door and opened it to find a plump Rhode Island Red hen, fixing me with an expectant stare. "Henrietta?" I gasped. "You're still ruling the roost?"

The hen cocked her head and clucked with what I could only interpret as affirmation.

"She's slowed down on the egg-laying," Gram said, "but she's still the boss of the henhouse. Some things never change."

Henrietta strutted past me into the kitchen, her feathers ruffled with self-importance. She pecked experimentally atmy shoelaces, reacquainting herself with me after our long separation.

"I can't believe she remembers me," I marveled, crouching to stroke her warm, feathered back.

"Animals know who their people are." Gram watched us with a hint of amusement. "Unlike some human beings I could mention."

Henrietta clucked softly, peering up at me with her bright, beady eyes. In that moment, I felt a warm rush of belonging that I hadn't experienced in years. This ridiculous, loyal chicken had been waiting for me to come home.

"Come on," I said, standing up. "I want to see the rest of the place."

We walked through the house, Henrietta following at a dignified distance, while Gram explained the various repairs needed: a leaky roof in the sunroom, faulty wiring in the upstairs hallway, a septic system on its last legs. With each new item, my heart sank further. The farm was in worse shape than I'd initially thought.

When we stepped onto the back porch overlooking the fields, I caught sight of the old barn—the one where Gramps used to host square dances for the town back in the seventies. Its red paint had faded to a dusty rose, but the structure looked solid.

"What about the barn?" I asked, a nascent idea taking shape in my mind. "Is it still sound?"

"Carter Beckett reinforced the foundation last summer. Said it was the least he could do for your grandfather's memory." Gram leaned against the porch railing. "Why?"

The idea crystallized with surprising clarity. "What if we converted it into a café?"

"A what?"

"A breakfast and lunch place," I elaborated, warming to the concept. "Farm-to-table, using our own eggs and produce. We could start small—weekends only at first—but I think it could work."

Gram eyed me skeptically. "Running a restaurant is hard work, Maisie Grace."

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