Finding It (22 page)

“Aye.” Angus crosses his thickly-corded arms over his chest and leans back, evidently pleased with the more scholarly focus on his livestock. “We raise Scottish Blackface, Black Welsh, and Rambouillet for the wool and Friesian and Lacaune for dairy.”

“Lacaune?” Fanny perks up. “That’s a French breed. My grandmother had Lacaune sheep on her farm in Normandy.”

“Aye.” Angus nods. “The Lacaune produces milk with a higher milk solid ratio, which is why it is the breed of choice with French cheese makers, particularly those who make Roquefort.”

“However,” Fiona interjects, “we value each animal for the intrinsic and intangible value it brings to our lives.”

Angus grimaces and rolls his eyes, reminding me of an animated character. When I catch his exaggerated expression, the reporter in me can’t resist asking the slightly impertinent question.

“Are we to interpret from your expression that you don’t share your wife’s more holistic approach to sheep rearing?”

“Och, no!” He snorts and waves his hand. “I was raised to view the mangy beasts as commodities, not wee fluffy cuddlies.” He looks down at his wife and grins. “But I love and respect Fiona, so…”

“…so he compromised for me.”

“I dinnea ken what yer saying, woman!” His fierce scowl has me wondering how the Scottish could have possibly lost at Culloden. “You don’t see me naming and petting the wee beasts like family pets.”

“Ach! You protest too much, Angus Alexander Kinloch MacFarlane, but deep down in that rough, calloused Scottish heart of yours, I know you’re aching to grab Goldiflocks and give her a good squeeze.”

“Och!” Angus waves. “Away with you woman.”

Watching Fiona and Angus together is creating an ache in the pit of my stomach, the same ache I got that summer when my mum made me spend three weeks at Camp Walahanka. I miss Luc the same way I missed my home, bed, mum, and dad. I miss the easy familiar. I miss the warm, all-consuming contentment of knowing I belong somewhere, to someone.

Knock it off, Vivia! You do belong somewhere, to someone. You are Vivia Perpetua Grant,
GoGirl!
columnist, and eager world traveler. You don’t need a man to define you—do you?

We follow Angus and Fiona into a large, airy, well-lit barn, A brawny Scot wrangles several black sheep into a round observation pen.

“These are Black Welsh Sheep.” Fiona steps into the pen, drops to her knees, and wraps her arm around the neck of one of the great black, wooly beasts. “And this is Baasheba, Daughter of the Oats. She is my most treasured Black Welsh because she is beautiful, gentle, and produces the healthiest lambs.”

Fiona reaches into her pocket, pulls out a handful of oats, and offers them to Baasheba.

“Black Welsh Sheep are hearty, self-sufficient, and extremely maternal,” Angus explains, his brogue becoming thicker the longer he speaks. “They produce lovely wool.”

A large black demonic-looking ram with heavy curved horns ambles over to Fiona and nudges Baasheba out of the way so he can feast on the remaining oats.

“Awwww,” several of the Chick Trippers croon.

Whatever. I’m not feeling the love. That massive lint ball from Hell could do some serious damage with his devil horns. Just sayin’.

I am about to pull out my iPhone to check how much longer until Braveheart rings the bell signaling our lunch break when a tall, muscular strawberry-blonde with a crew-cut strolls into the barn, a cock-eared Border Collie trotting by his side.

Cue the bow-chicka-wow-wow music, Magic Mike, Grinning Hottie has stepped back on the stage.

Angus’s handsomer, blonder doppelganger leans against a wooden post and crosses his arms over his broad chest. He’s totally casual, even though every Chick Tripper stopped watching Fiona frolic with her flock the moment he stepped into the barn.

Look at him! Standing there, grinning like the Grinch after he stole the last can of Who Hash. He knows the effect he’s having on this estrogen-heavy crowd, and he’s loving it.

I stubbornly return my gaze to the observation pen. I will not look at Grinning Hottie. I will not look at Grinning Hottie.

I look at Grinning Hottie.

An intense, prickly heat ignites in my cheeks and spreads down my body like California wildfire.

Grinning Hottie must be able to see my pink cheeks from across the barn because he grins even more, until two deep dimples appear in this tanned cheeks.

“Calder!” Angus strides over to his friend and slaps him on the back. His brogue becomes as thick as his forearms. “Whin did ye git 'ere, ye rogue? Ah thought ye said ye wouldn't be back ’til Monday next.”

Calder? Okay, so that’s kind of a badass name.
My name is Calder, Calder McCloud, from the Clan McCloud.

“My flight was scrubbed, so I thought I would see if I could lend a hand.” Calder stands up straight so he’s eye-to-steely-eye with Angus. “Besides, since when dae I need an excuse tae spend time with my auld brother?”

“Vivia and Lisa,” Fiona says, ignoring her husband and brother in law. “How would you like to be the first to bond with Baasheba?”

Lisa hops up. “I would love to!”

I dart a nervous glance at massive horned lint ball from Hell ramming his head into the side of the observation pen.

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say, “I’m not really the touchy-feely kinda gal.”

“Yes, you are!” Poppy cries.

“Yes, she is!” Fanny chimes in.

Calder MacFarlane has walked over to the edge of the observation pen and is watching me closely, an I-Stole-The-Who-Hash grin twisting his lips.

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are!”

Damn Fanny!

“She’s the most touchy-feely person you will ever meet!” Fanny vehemently declares. “She hugs her mail lady, her dentist, the man who makes her favorite spicy chicken…”

I consider offering the solid argument that Mister Foo never tried to ram me, but Fanny is full steam ahead in her defense of my touchy-feeliness.

“She once hugged a homeless woman we found wandering around Golden Gate Park in search of her lost cat.”

“The cat died,” I explain to Fiona. “Years before.”

“She hugged me,” Poppy pipes up, “within the first twenty-four hours of meeting me!”

“You see!” Fanny proudly declares. “She hugged a British woman, a strange British woman, which means she will hug just about anyone.”

“Thanks.” Poppy sniffs.

“Come on, Vivia,” Fiona encourages. “Baasheba loves to be cuddled.”

Fanny is beaming. Poppy is beaming. Fiona is gesturing for me to join her in the pen. The Chick Trippers are murmuring their encouragement.

Calder strides over.

“How about it, Vivia?” He holds out his hand. “Are you ready for some heavy petting?”

Ewe Need a Good Ram Every Now and Then

Text from Camille Grant:

Dear Vivia, Have you considered writing an article about grown daughters who abandon and neglect their elderly mothers? I believe you would do a bang-up job. Let me know if you need a source. I might be able to help. Your faithful reader, Camille Grant.

“How about it, Vivia?” Poppy purrs.

“Arrre ye rrr-ready for some heavy petting?” Fanny butchers Calder’s brogue. “Rrr-really, rrr-really rrr-ready?”

We are sharing a pot of Earl Grey and a carton of Borders Shortbread in the kitchen before rejoining the group for the afternoon’s activities.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“That accent?”

“’Tis my brogue, ye wee lassie.”

“Make it stop!” I press my hands to my ears. “It is literally painful to listen to you attempt a brogue, Fanny. You’re worse than that actress in those awful whisky commercials.”

“I dinna ken which commercials yer on aboot.”

“I know those commercials!” Poppy sits up. “They were wretched. The actress looked like she totally lost the plot. What was it she said at the end of each commercial?”

“‘Are ye thirsty, Angus?’”

“Yes! That was it. Barking mad.”

“I dinna ken which commercials yer on aboot,” Fanny repeats.

“YouTube it. You’ll be ashamed.”

“If ye’re rrr-really rrr-ready”—Fanny whips the plaid dishtowel off the counter, wraps it around her waist, and grins—“I have a wee beast under my kilt you can pet, lassie.”

“Eww!” I yank the towel off Fanny’s waist, give it a twist, and snap her with it. “You’re disgusting.”

Poppy grabs a biscuit, pinches it between her thumb and forefinger, and gently dunks it in her Earl Grey, her pinky raised in the stereotypical blueblood way.

“Yeah, I’m out.”

“Too far?” Fanny asks.

“Perhaps a smidgen.” Poppy dabs her lips with her napkin. “Vivia has only just become acquainted with Mister MacFarlane. It is too soon to be making jokes about his genitalia.”

“Thank you, Poppy.”

“You’re quite welcome, Vivia.”

“Pardon me, Duchess.” Fanny curtsies. “What is the customary waiting period one must observe before making a socially acceptable genitalia joke? A year?”

Poppy folds her napkin into a perfect square and places it neatly to the right of her cup and saucer, before fixing Fanny with an earnest look. “At least twenty-four hours.”

Fanny bursts out laughing and Poppy joins her.

“Nice.” I stand and toss my half-eaten cookie on my plate. “Really nice.”

“You mean, rrr-really nice.” Poppy gasps. “Don’t you?”

* * * *

We spend an hour watching Angus, Calder, and one of the
Magic Mike III
bit players take turns shearing sheep “the old way,” wrestling the poor animals to the ground and using a pair of traditional clippers. The newly sheared sheep huddle together in a corner of the pen, naked, pink, and trembling like pre-teen girls at a swim party. I feel sorry for them.

Then again, I wish a big brawny Scot would wrestle me to the ground and make half my body weight magically disappear. Or just wrestle me to the ground. That would be okay, too.

I glance around the circle of Chick Trippers surrounding the pen and my shame dissipates. I am not the only woman feeling the mojo vibes emanating from the virile men working inside the pen. Cindy, the romance writer, keeps fanning herself with her hand and muttering, “Oh, my Lawd. Sweet baby Jesus.” Megan is snapping pictures with her iPhone. Devon and Paige are giggling like school girls. Even stiff upper-lip, raised-pinky Poppy looks completely discombobulated by the totally old-school masculine display.

I lean over and whisper in her ear, “What’s wrong, Pop? You mean to say when you were dating Tristan Kent, he never whipped off his shirt and hogtied a ram for you?”

Poppy’s only response is to flush red and sputter.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love me some tall, dark, and brainy Frenchman, but there’s something damned sexy about watching a broad-shouldered Scot roll around in the hay until he’s sweaty and panting.” I wink at Poppy and nudge her in the ribs. “You know what I’m saying? I’ve never wished for a good rammin’ more than I do right now, but then, ewe need a good rammin’ every now and then. Am I right?”

Poppy just stares at me, her eyes wide, her mouth hanging open. I am about to repeat my sordid little rant when I have that sudden prickly sense someone is behind me.

I turn around and find Calder standing on the other side of the pen, one sweaty, muscular arm resting casually on the top rail.

Maybe he didn’t hear me. It is loud in here with all of the bleating and “Oh, my Lawd-ing” going on.

Calder pierces me with his blue-eyed gaze. It’s one of those steely poker player stares meant to unnerve me into revealing my hand. He’s bluffing! I knew it! He didn’t hear a thing.

“Did ye have a question about the ram, Vivia?”

Oh Lawd! Sweet baby Jesus! He heard me! He heard me! Think, Vivia. Think. What did you say? What did you say?

“I-I don’t know.”

I can’t remember exactly what I said to Poppy. I was just jacking around, flipping her some shit. Half of the time, I don’t know what I am saying even as I am saying it. I mean, seriously, who could possibly keep up with my rushing stream of consciousness? My thoughts are like the Amazon—always flowing.

Ramming! I said something about ramming. I think I said I wanted him to ram me. Oh Lawd, Jesus, help me!

I begin fanning myself with my hand.

“If ye remember whit ’twas ye wanted tae ken aboot rams,” he says, laying the brogue on thick. “I’d be happy tae help ye.” Calder winks and walks away.

I turn to Poppy. “Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”

“You know what that means, right?”

“Yes,” Poppy whispers. “It means it is now safe to make jokes about his genitals.”

Fanny snickers.

When Fiona calls an end to the sheep shearing demonstration and invites our group to follow her outside, I want to drop to my knees and give thanks to my Almighty for putting an end to my suffering. Seriously? How long can a woman worship at the altar of man before she loses her religion and starts thinking naughty things? Where wicked thoughts come, wicked deeds soon follow, my mum always said.

I am the first one out of the barn, bursting into the sunlight and gasping, like a drowning swimmer.

Lisa follows, links her arm through mine, and whispers, “I think you have an admirer.”

“I have a fiancé,” I whisper back. “At least, I think I have a fiancé.”

Luc’s vintage Tiffany ring hangs on a chain around my neck, the smooth three-carat diamond cold against my breast.

Lisa frowns up at me. “Sounds complicated.”

“It is.”

“True love usually is.”

“Really”—I blink back tears—“because I thought true love was supposed to be easy. Boy and girl meet, fall in love, have a pesky little black moment, make up, and live happily ever after.”

Lisa stops walking and unlinks her arm from mine. “Maybe in romance novels, but not in real life. If by ‘Happily Ever After’ you mean juggling work and home, raising colicky babies and tantrum-prone toddlers, losing a job, losing a parent, getting cancer…” Lisa shrugs. “If you mean that, then yes.”

“Wow.” I frown. “You make it sound so…bleak.”

Tava, Fanny, and Poppy join us by a wooden fence separating two fields, two flocks of sheep.