Page 8 of Sweet Right Here
“He has such a big heart,” Sylvie said. “Not at all the type to cheat on a woman.”
Aunt Frannie agreed. “Way too much integrity for that.”
“Okay!” My face grew warm as fireplace embers. “Let’s get to this book. What classic tome are we discussing?War and Peace?Pride and Prejudice?To Kill a Mockingbird?”
Frannie held up her copy. “The Vampire’s Curvy Vegan Nanny.”
“Definitely better than Austen and Tolstoy.” Sylvie turned to her captive audience. “Who’d like to start?”
“Me!” Frannie opened her paperback to a dog-eared page. “Who knew fangs and tofu could be so darn hot?”
Chapter Four
“Is that what you’re wearing for your first day?” My grandmother frowned at my outfit as I joined her in the kitchen Monday morning.
I grabbed the mug she offered and poured myself a cup of steaming coffee. “I work with horses all day. I can’t dress like Olivia.” My jeans, leather boots, and floral blouse were surely considered stylish for working outside all day. “What’s wrong with my outfit?”
Sylvie passed me the cream. “Same thing I told you on prom night. Too much coverage and not enough cleavage.”
“I don’t have cleavage.”
“Please tell your boobs, with the right encouragement, they can be anything they want.”
“Or you could accept them for the underachievers they are.”
My grandmother chuckled and popped two pieces of bread in the toaster. “Don’t forget this Saturday night we’re having a party at the bookshop to celebrate your return home.”
“You say that like you’ve mentioned it before.”
She kissed my pillow-creased cheek. “I think what you meant to say was, ‘Thank you, Sylvie. I’ll bring my appetite and party attitude.’”
I leaned into my grandmother’s hug. “Thank you.”
“Want me to whip you up a hearty breakfast?”
“No, I’m too nervous.”
“Don’t be, sugar. Miller puts his pants on one sinewy leg at a time like the rest of us.”
“I’m not nervous to be around Miller.” Good heavens, I’d known him for years. Why was everyone acting like a Greek god had moved to town? “It’s just so much up in the air.”
“You love spontaneity.”
“Not when I have ten thousand dollars in a canceled wedding still to pay for.” My parents had paid for a lot, but Ned and I had gone over their budget, knowing we’d cover the rest when the bills came due. Ned no longer recalled that fact, and I’d given up on trying to get him to pony up. “Giving me six months to get this program off the ground is really cutting it close. That’s barely enough time to build a client list, let alone provide enough therapy opportunities to see measurable gains.”
“Reminds me of the time the CIA tasked Frannie and me with parachuting into Yemen with two minutes to retrieve a hostage and detonate a bomb. We had nothing more than our stunning looks, duct tape, and questionable kung fu skills.”
“Yes.” I inhaled my coffee. “It’s just like that.”
“Hon, you created a renowned equine-assisted therapy program in Nashville in a short amount of time.”
“But it took two years to gain traction.” The therapy we provided to military veterans allowed the clients to spend time with horses—not riding, but in connecting. The vets formed bonds with the animals by grooming them, providing for their maintenance needs, as well as some minor training. Something about the bond between a person and a horse fostered healing. And once that connection was made, minds were quieted, ideas were shifted, and healthy changes could finally occur. Pairing that relationship with follow-up therapy, which was where I came in, had resulted in a stack of success stories that made me proud. The grant I’d received said Arkansas was interested in giving equine-assisted therapy a chance, like a trial run. But my hope was that our program would be so successful the Department of Veterans Affairs would want to take it all over the state.
Sylvie poured a dash of cream into her coffee. “My point is, you developed a successful program once. You can do it again.”
“Maybe I was crazy to leave Tennessee and a job that was thriving.” I’d craved a fresh start, a reboot. To live in a town where Ned did not. The last thing I wanted was to run into that jerk with his new girlfriend. But maybe moving to Sugar Creek and starting a new program, one funded entirely by a government grant, was too risky.
When the success of my work in Nashville got national attention in the therapy circles, Miller’s board of directors had called, pitching the idea of using the same approach at Miller’s Hope Farms—a nonprofit facility geared toward helping veterans. I’d trained other therapists in the Nashville clinic, and the place could easily run without me. So, welcoming a new challenge and a chance to be closer to family, I’d put in my two weeks’ notice, packed up my house, and moved back home.
