Page 43 of Touch the Sky
After a week of living in ‘the back,’ as Shel and I have both adapted to calling it, the place is finally starting to look a little less like a post-moving disaster zone.
There are still some random boxes stacked in teetering piles in a few corners of the living room and Shel’s loft, but we’ve excavated pretty much everything we need for daily life. I’ve even gotten a few decorating tasks done, mostly just hanging up some photos of us and my parents, installing a cute polka dot shower curtain Shel fell in love with, and filling the kitchen windowsill with mason jars I snagged at one of the several vintage shops in La Cloche.
I haven’t bought any flowers to put in them yet. While I’m washing my hands at the sink, I make a mental note to ask Gabrielle if there’s a florist in town she recommends.
Through the window, I can catch a tiny glimpse of the highway, where Shel’s school bus will be trundling up to the farm any minute now. I slump with the relief of getting home in time to meet her.
I’m still wearing my work clothes, my back coated in dried sweat and my arms streaked with dirt. I drove over an hour to visit a riding school today. I almost turned the job down sinceI knew I’d be cutting it close on timings, but considering how much I spent on brand new bed frames and mattresses, along with a whole host of secondhand necessities, I really couldn’t say no to the money I’d get shoeing a whole fleet of school ponies.
Once my hands are clean, I set out a glass of milk, some apple slices, and a cookie from the Tupperware of treats one of Jacinthe’s aunts left us.
Jacinthe wasn’t lying about the whole town bringing us offerings of food. Our mini fridge is stuffed to bursting with casseroles. I haven’t had to cook all week.
A flurry of movement by the window draws my eye, and I look over to see Shel sprinting up the driveway, with the yellow flash of the school bus disappearing behind her. Her huge messenger bag thumps against her hip. Her hair is streaming behind her, along with the ears of her trusty bunny hoodie.
She’s worn it every day this week, but I haven’t tried to stop her. If it makes her feel safe amidst all the change, she can wear it as much as she likes. I am planning on discreetly tossing it into the wash tonight, though.
“Hey, Mamma!” she says after yanking open the door.
“Hey, Shelly Belly!”
She grimaces at her most dreaded nickname, but her disdain doesn’t stop her from dumping her bag and going straight for the snack I prepared.
I wait to see if she’ll share anything about her day before I ask. She’s the kind of kid you usually get more out of if you give her the space to start the conversation herself.
Sure enough, I only have to spend a couple minutes hovering at the sink pretending to do dishes before she slurps down a gulp of milk and starts talking.
“I sat with that boy on the bus again today. Ali. I think maybe he wants to be friends.”
I press my lips together to keep from whooping. She’s mentioned this Ali kid from the bus a few times. As far as I can tell, he’s on the quieter side too. They bonded over a copy of a young adult fantasy series he was reading that Shel devoured last year.
This is the first time I’ve heard her bring the word ‘friend’ into it, though. So far, she hasn’t met anyone at her new school she really clicks with.
“It definitely sounds like he does,” I say, forcing myself to stay in Cool Mom mode instead of sliding to the floor in relief. “Does he live in La Cloche?”
“Up past it,” Shel answers. “He said he lives a couple stops from here. He’s jealous I live on a farm. He said his house is in the middle of nowhere and it’s really boring.”
There’s a note of pride in her voice when she mentions the farm. School might still be a struggle, but Shel has taken to life at La Grange Rouge like she was born in the hayloft.
She’d been slipping towards the dreaded teenage battle to get her out of bed in the morning, but here, I can barely keep her inside past dawn. She spends every spare moment down with the horses and the cats. She’s already developed a daily habit of playing carrot toss with Joaquin the donkey, and she even lugs her guitar out to a bench beside one of the pastures so she can practice with no one but the animals to hear her learning her chords.
“If he ever wants to hang out here, I’d be happy to give his parents a call,” I offer.
Shel chews a bite of her cookie with a pensive look on her face.
“Yeah, maybe,” she says after swallowing. “I’ll think about asking him.”
Part of me wants to push and say we could all meet up this weekend, but instead, I just tell her that sounds good. Still,I can’t resist walking over to squeeze an arm around her and smack my lips to her head.
“Oh, there’s Jacinthe,” I say, the rumble of an engine making me look over to see her truck turning off the highway. “She must have been working at the inn today.”
Most of my days this week have started with a wave to Jacinthe. She’s usually finishing up her morning barn chores just as I’m getting my farrier rig ready to head out.
I’ve offered to pitch in with some of the chores since I’m an early riser anyway, but she always shuts me down with a shake of her head and a firm, “Pas du tout.”
We see each other less than I expected in the evenings. If she’s not running a sunset trail ride or fixing things around the farm, she’ll be at the inn fixing things there or helping out with cleaning and reception duties. As far as I’ve heard, bookings at Balsam Inn have been constant since they opened, and the trio is considering hiring some extra staff in addition to the cook who does the guests’ breakfasts.
Of course, Jacinthe is convinced they can keep doing everything themselves to save money. Her mom told me all about it one evening when she came out to join me and Shel for a hot chocolate on the porch.
