Page 11 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
“People think they can keep a donkey in their house? How ridiculous is that?”
“Very. See Petunia over there?” Frankie rises and points to a small white donkey lying just inside the shelter at the far end of the enclosure. “She was one of those. And her people were not nice. She’s done well since she got here a couple of years ago. She’s still nervous, though. There’s no way she’ll come over to me with you here because you’re new and she’s not sure about you yet.”
Frankie casts me a quick look out of the corner of her eye like she might feel the same way as Petunia.
“At least she’s safe now,” I say.
“And that is the reason we exist. Come on, I’ll showyou where the tools and the hay and the feed and everything is. That’s what you’ll need to know.”
“Does that mean I got the job?” I follow her as she heads off toward a large barn and a smaller shed.
She throws me a mischievous look over her shoulder, one that includes that appealing slightly uneven smile. “Maybe.”
Excellent.
CHAPTER FOUR
MILLER
As we stroll away from the miniature donkeys’ enclosure, Frankie veers toward the feed and tool shed, but it’s the large barn that draws my attention. It looks like a strong gust of wind might blow it over, but the architecture is stunning. It has a traditional gambrel roof and giant sliding doors on industrial tracks, probably the original ones—way more beautiful than the modern versions that went into the units of our Back Bay development.
“Can we look at this first?” I ask her.
“Not much to see,” she says. “Just an old tractor. Oh, and some raccoons have set up home in there.”
“I don’t care what’s in it. I’m just interested in…” Shit, this pretending to be someone else is going to be tricky. “Buildings. I’m interested in buildings.” No one can say that’s not one hundred percent the truth.
She shrugs. “Sure.”
When we get there, I run a hand over the aged, silvery siding. “Has this wood never been treated?”
“No idea.” She uses the heel of her hand to knock open the giant bolt holding the doors together. “It was here when my grandparents bought the place. And that was just before I was born. That makes it at least thirty-one years old.”
She takes one door, I take the other, and we slide them apart, like theater curtains drawing back to reveal the new world we’re about to be transported to.
“Whoa.” I cough a little at the warm dusty air that wafts out, contrasting with the fresh chill out here. It can’t be in that bad of a shape then, if it doesn’t let in too much of the weather.
“There they go.” Frankie smiles and points toward scurrying in the far corner. “The raccoon family. There’s a hole somewhere at the back there.”
“This is huge.” The interior of the stunningly trussed roof was probably made with craftsmanship that no longer even exists.
I wander around the tarp-covered tractor in the center of the space and past a row of crates or something that are lined up against the side wall and covered in drop cloths. A bit of red-painted wood peeks out from under one of them.
“They’re the sleighs for the Christmas festival.” Frankie must have noticed me looking. “We put antlers on the donkeys and run rides to raise money every year.” She sighs. “That was the last time I was here. Just to help out with that.”
There’s obvious regret and self-blame in her voice.
“Oh, and also to give a bride a sleigh ride to her wedding on Christmas Eve,” she adds with more of a smile.
I cast off thoughts of who the hell would want to ride adonkey sleigh to their wedding when I reach the back wall.
Yeah, now I see some issues—and not just the ones caused by the raccoons.
“That’s where you’ll find all the trouble,” she calls. Her voice sounds soft and deadened by the wood walls and beams.
“Yeah, I see the rot.” I poke the toe of my shiny new muck boot at an area of the lower back wall that gives under the pressure.
I circle back around the other side of the tractor, looking up at the underside of the loft area overhead.
