The tires crunch over gravel as we stop before a massive wooden gate. Beyond the gate, a green hill rises in the distance, and on top of it rests a quaint, pale-yellow house with white trim. My home for the next three months.
“How do we get in?” I ask, not spotting any electronic interface. No cameras, no buzzers, no security-code pads. Only a white wooden gate strung between two stone columns and a fence sneaking around the hill on both sides.
Celia whips out her phone. “On the reservation, it said to call this number once we reached the gate.” She taps the screen and waits on the line.
“Yes, hi, this is Celia Warren. We have a reservation—yes, that’s us, we’re at the gate.” Celia hangs up and adds to me, “They’ll be here in a moment.”
Minutes later, a light-blue pickup winds down the hill toward us. As the vehicle gets closer, I can make out more details. It’s an old battered Chevrolet that makes me feel suddenly transported into a Nicholas Sparks movie. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. If nothing else, Emerald Creek will be perceived as authentic by moviegoers, evoking precisely the right sentiments in the Love to Hate You target audience.
When the truck stops on the other side of the gate, an old woman in her seventies at least hops out and waves at us, smiling. Her hair is stark white but still thick, collected at the top of her head, and she’s wearing a short-sleeved floral dress. She reminds me of Grandma Duck.
“Welcome to Sagebrush Ranch.” The woman gestures at us to stay in the truck. “We’ll make introductions once at the house.” She opens the wooden gate.
As we drive past her, I look back. Grandma Duck has closed the gate and has gotten back in the truck, which she now reverses in a single, impressively swift maneuver to follow us up the hill. At the top, the farmhouse is perched on a large, flat surface with a view of the valley below. It’s a two-story building with a large wrap-around porch lined with flower beds. The area surrounding the home is tidy, a contrast to the thickly wooded area made of tall, spiky trees we just coasted by up the hill.
Jerry parks in the open space before the house, next to a black pickup much newer than the one our hostess is driving. The Chevrolet pulls up right afterward.
A minty breeze blows in my face as I get out of the truck. The wind also carries a soft lavender smell in its wake with just a hint of honeysuckle. No livestock odors, thankfully. We must be downwind from the animal paddock off to the left of the house where cows and goats are grazing grass. Their large oval pen is delimited by a sturdy wooden fence with rose bushes growing alongside it. Ah, maybe that cowboy should come have a look at how to properly build an animal enclosure.
I look up.
The sky is mostly clear, but one cloud is hanging low, cloaking in its shadow a stable, what looks like a tool shack, and a giant red barn off farther to the left of the house. Behind all these buildings, green hills and pastures extend as far as the eye can see.
Grandma Duck dismounts with a friendly smile. “Hello, and welcome again. I’m Willette Hunt. I hope you had a pleasant journey.”
We shake hands and Willette invites us into the house. Jerry carries one of my suitcases while I drag the other up the front steps. Celia breezily overtakes both of us with her single suitcase half the size of mine. How she managed to pack for three months in that tiny case remains a mystery.
Inside, the house is stylish in a country way. Plenty of whitewashed wooden furniture, vase flowers everywhere, and light pouring in from the wide windows.
“Your rooms are upstairs.” Willette points to the stairs and eyes my attire—the shoes in particular—dubiously. “Do you want a hand carrying that?”
“No, thanks.”
I grab the handle of my suitcase and stubbornly drag it up one step at a time. On the landing, Willette shows us our rooms and the shared bathroom.
Okay, the accommodation isn’t ideal, especially the shared bathroom aspect, but I’ve slept in worse places. And my room is big and spacious with a small desk where I can power up my laptop if I need to work and, most importantly, a walk-in closet!
“Well, I’ll let you settle down and once you’re ready, I’ve made lunch,” Willette announces.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “We wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
“No trouble at all, dear. I wouldn’t feel right not giving you a proper welcome.”
“If you’re sure, thank you.”
Willette nods. “I’m sure. Come down whenever you’re ready.”
I stare at Jerry, who, after dropping my case in my room, is waiting for instructions on the landing. “How far are we from the set?”
“I’d say fifteen to twenty minutes.”
“And from the town center?”
“About the same.”
“Okay, then it’s better if Celia and I keep the truck so no one has to drive us back and forth. But we need to familiarize ourselves with the roads first. Can you pick us up tomorrow morning for our first trip?”
“Sure, what time?”
“Seven, I want to get the ball rolling right away.”
* * *
Lunch is served under the shade of the porch. The large table is a rustic, wooden rectangle surrounded by benches in the same shabby-chic wood, which is a few shades darker than the whitewashed oak inside the house. The table is covered with an embroidered white cotton tablecloth and laid with wavy white plates with silver borders. The silverware has a Provençal feel, same as the centerpiece, which is made of an old wire basket containing six mason jars filled with lavender, wildflowers, and greeneries. All very stylish, very Pinterestable.
As I sit next to Celia, I count four plates. Mmm, who else is going to join us besides Willette? Her husband, perhaps?
The answer arrives pronto as I raise my gaze to the backyard and spot the cowboy from before coming our way.
The cowboy hat and boots are the same, the dirt-smeared jeans unchanged, the checkered shirt, however, is gone. The man is walking toward us bare-chested with the shirt casually draped over his shoulder. His skin shines with sweat in the midday sun. And if I had a thing for sculpted chests and washboard abs, the man could be making an impression… Thankfully, I prefer brains over brawn, so I’m not dazzled by this casual display of raw masculinity.
I avert my gaze and find Celia gaping at the incoming macho bomb.
“It’s just muscles,” I whisper to her.
Her eyes snap up to me, and she blushes profusely, closing her jaw.
Willette comes out bringing a tray of appetizers. Canapés and mini sandwiches. Our host drops the tray on the table, and when she spots the man, her entire face brightens.
“Oh, Travis, were you able to mend the fence?”
“All done, Mom,” he says, hopping up the steps of the porch.
He pulls his mother into a side-hug and kisses the top of her head.
Willette pushes him away. “You’re all sweaty. You’ll ruin my Sunday dress, dear.”
Travis gives her another kiss all the same and then, looking at us, tips his hat again. “Ladies, please allow me to take a shower before I properly introduce myself.”
And with that, he disappears inside the house.
Next to me, I hear Celia letting out a breath.
Oh, come on, he’s not that good-looking.
“Does your son still live with you?” I ask casually.
“No, Travis helps me with the heavy stuff on the weekends. My back isn’t what it used to be, and it’s hard to manage the farm on my own.”
That makes me wonder what happened to her husband. She’s still wearing a wedding ring.
“Do you have many animals?” Celia asks.
“No. Just a few cows, chickens, three goats, two llamas, and the horses, of course.”
And what if she had many? I comment in my head.
“Please, dears, help yourselves to the appetizers while we wait for Travis.”
The canapés and mini sandwiches are delicious. Willette could charge a fortune for food like this in New York. I’m scarfing down my fifth mini sandwich when the man of the house makes another appearance.
The hat is gone, the jeans are clean, and a light-blue dress shirt covers his chest. He’s also changed boots, wearing a pair less torn than the ones he had on before. His dark-blond hair is still wet from the shower and sticking out in all directions as if he simply ruffled it up with a towel and then let it be.
Mr. Cowboy gives his mother another kiss and then beams at us. “Hi, there, I’m Travis Hunt.”
While he shakes Celia’s hand, I have a few seconds to properly study his face: chiseled cheekbones, light-blond stubble, full lips, pearly white teeth, a slight chin-cleft, and intelligent hazel-green eyes. Admittedly, not completely unpleasant to look at.
Of all these charming features, the eyes worry me the most. As our gazes meet, they crinkle with some sort of untold mischief, as if he knows something I don’t.
To shake his hand, I stand up and find myself at an immediate disadvantage. Even off the horse, the man towers over me and he’s doing nothing to lessen the gap. Travis Hunt seems to enjoy his physical superiority. The suspicion is confirmed when we shake hands, and he holds both my hand and gaze a few seconds longer than appropriate. Mr. Cowboy has taken up the attitude of someone sizing up an adversary. Which makes no sense, unless he plans to have me battle another of his mother’s cows.
“So, ladies,” Travis says, sitting down on the bench opposite us, next to Willette. “What brings you into this neck of the woods?”
Celia jumps to answer. “We’re with the movie production; we need to sort some—”
“We’re here to supervise the shooting.” I cut her off before she can utter the word troubles. A single tweet could start a rumor. And the last thing I want is for word to spread that my production is behind schedule. That would make investors and sponsors nervous, and I sure don’t need that pile of crap on top of the dung—literal and figurative—I already have to deal with.
I shoot Celia a warning stare.
She nods back in an ‘I’ll keep my mouth shut’ way, looking a bit mortified.
I smile to let her know the crisis is averted, and we’re cool.
“Of course,” Willette says, serving the main dish: a quiche Lorraine that looks delicious. “The town has never been so busy; the population has doubled since you folks moved in. Which is great, right? Travis was telling me the other day how his office—”
“Mom, the ladies had a long journey,” Mr. Cowboy interrupts. “I’m sure they don’t want to talk shop at lunch.”
“No, please,” I say. “Tell us what you do, Travis.”
“I’m a lawyer,” he says, noncommittally.
At the announcement, Willette looks at him funny. But he gives her a subtle head shake, and she doesn’t comment.
What was that about?
“Anyway,” Travis continues. “The production will keep you pretty busy, I guess, but do you plan on seeing the sights as well?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “Is there anything to see around here?” Then I realize the comment could come off as offensive, so I hastily add, “I mean, what local attraction would you recommend?”
“The hike to the Potawatomi Waterfall, for sure, and the lake is always gorgeous in the summer…”
“And in a few weeks, we’re having the Dubois County Fair,” Willette chimes in. “It’s a big event. A carnival comes to town, there’s a baking competition and a horse-reining tournament. Cowboys come from all over the country to compete.”
I’ve no idea what horse-reining is, and I’m dying a little inside that a minuscule county fair will be the most exciting thing for the next three months. I’m used to Broadway, to the Met Gala, to living in the pulsating, cultural and artistic heart of the country. Now all I have to look forward to is a baking competition.
FYI, I don’t bake.
Travis seems to read my mind because he says, “Of course, it’s small fish compared to the entertainment New York has to offer.”
I raise my head quickly at the comment, lowering my fork. “How do you know we’re from New York?”
Travis shrugs. “The accent.”
“I don’t have an accent.”
“You think you don’t, but New Yorkers have a pretty distinctive way of talking.”
“And what makes you such an expert on New York?”
“Lived there a few years.”
I compare him to all the lawyer types of Manhattan, trying to imagine him in their midst with his cowboy boots, but I can’t reconcile the two images. What kind of law did he practice?
I finally take the first bite of quiche and shudder. “Oh my gosh, Willette, this is delicious.”
No wonder she’s excited about a baking competition. With food like this, she’ll win.
“Thank you, dear. It’s a secret family recipe.”
“Really amazing, Willette,” Celia agrees.
“Mom’s the best cook in the world,” Travis adds.
And while I might be ready to agree, I tease him a little. “Is that why you moved back home?”
“No.” His face darkens. “I didn’t want to live to work, and what else could compare to”—he looks behind his shoulders at the barn and green pastures—“this?”
I picture the Manhattan skyline, Fifth Avenue at Christmas, Central Park in the fall, the Hamptons in the summer… Yeah, what, indeed.
Travis and I exchange a silent ‘agree to disagree’ stare, and I let Celia take over the conversation for the rest of the meal. I’m too busy polishing off one slice of quiche after the other. Home-cooked food has risen to the top spot as the best cure for a hangover. I feel better with every bite.
When lunch is over, I get super drowsy, though. I’m stuffed, I haven’t slept, and the king bed upstairs is calling to me with more passion than mermaids to sailors.
I thank Willette again for the wonderful meal and offer to help her with the dishes, but she refuses. I say goodbye to Travis and remind Celia of our early wake-up call tomorrow before I excuse myself.
Upstairs, I barely have the strength to brush my teeth and shimmy out of my clothes before I snuggle under the soft covers in my underwear, not bothering to put on pajamas. The room is cool despite the outside heat, and, as soon as my head touches the pillow, I fall asleep.