Warm Nights in Magnolia Bay by Babette Jongh (best summer books .TXT) 📗

she stood in the open doorway and shook her head. “Nope. I won’t keep you from your work. But I do have one quick question: You haven’t, by any chance, been tossing newspapers over the fence onto my back patio, have you?”

“No.” He turned toward her and laughed. “Should I be?”

She laughed, too. “No. I was just wondering. This morning, I stepped on a soggy newspaper someone had left on my doorstep, and when I came home this afternoon, there was another one. Dry and readable this time, though. I might clip some coupons later.”

“Whoa. You’re living the good life over there on your side of the fence.” He stepped close, close enough to see the threadlike gold rim around the pupil of her hazel eyes and the pale brown tips of her black lashes.

She smiled the shy smile that had captivated him from the beginning. “I wouldn’t say I’m living high on the hog, but life on the other side of the fence isn’t all that bad, either.”

She put a hand on his arm and leaned in. And this time, she did kiss him. “Thanks for everything.”

Her kiss had been a chaste peck, her closed lips soft on his. “You’re welcome,” he responded, looking into her eyes. He debated with himself for a moment, but decided he couldn’t allow that chaste little kiss to stand. He wrapped an arm around her and drew her body up against his, hip to hip, stomach to stomach, heart to heart. He could feel hers hammering, or maybe that was his. Her mouth had dropped open, an O of surprise.

He couldn’t stop himself from taking advantage of that surprised little O.

When he finally pulled away, her eyes were dazed, her cheeks were flushed, and her wavy hair stuck out where he’d run his fingers through the thick, soft strands. “That’s better.”

She nodded, and her hand drifted up to touch her lips. “Um… Okay. Well…good…um… Good night.”

“Good night, Abby. Sleep well.” The word sweetheart came up from somewhere inside him, but he had the good sense not to say it. She wasn’t his sweetheart. He didn’t have the time or the money or even the inclination for a sweetheart. And yet, when she left and he closed the sliding glass door behind her, he felt disappointed that he hadn’t taken her up on her dinner offer.

* * *

Every day for the rest of the week, Abby stepped out the door to find a new, crisp newspaper folded on her doorstep. Every day, Georgia sniffed the paper with intense interest, then looked up at Abby with a “Do something” demand in her imploring brown eyes.

This morning was no exception. “I don’t know what you want me to do,” Abby wailed. Disgusted, Georgia turned away, tail low. She hardly even ate her breakfast, just picked at it before walking away.

As always, after completing the morning feed and cleanup routine, Abby tended to the stray dog across the street by dumping and refilling the water bucket and putting out a new (disposable) food dish, which the dog invariably carried off into his vine-covered lair. As always, Georgia followed, attending to her supervisory duties and clearly judging Abby’s work to be inferior. When Abby began to head back across the street, Georgia sat and yipped, looking from Abby to the forest and back again.

“I can’t go in there,” Abby said. “He’s going to have to come out.”

Georgia wagged her tail and barked again.

Abby put her hands on her hips. “Puppy, puppy,” she called, knowing it wouldn’t work because it hadn’t worked yet, and she’d been doing it every morning. She made kissing noises. Again, no response. “Puppy, puppy, come on out. We won’t hurt you.”

Apparently satisfied that Abby had at least tried, Georgia stood and headed back down the driveway, tail waving like a banner.

Abby poured a glass of iced tea and sat in a chaise on the patio to check her text messages. The night before, Reva had texted Dog-tired after shoveling shit all day; I could have stayed home to do this. The text had been followed by a photo of a wheelbarrow full of animal poop with a close-up of Reva’s blistered hands in the foreground.

Abby had replied: Should I mail a pair of gloves?

Reva’s reply had come through later that night, after Abby had gone to bed. No, don’t need gloves; I was wearing gloves when I got those blisters. They keep us so busy! Hardly had a chance to relax all day. Even lunchtimes are used for instruction; we eat while watching PowerPoint presentations. It’s 11:00 p.m. already, and we have to get up at 6:00 a.m. Hope all is going well at the farm. Please text and send pics so I can communicate with the animals when I get a break. (You know it’s easier if you can see their eyes.) Especially Georgia. She keeps pinging me as I’m falling asleep; she says you need to be talking to that stray dog that’s been hanging around. How did the fence-repair project go with the new neighbor? How are the chickens?

This message had come along with a photo of a cafeteria with a blurry projector screen at the front of the room and a bunch of college-age kids photo-bombing the picture.

Abby took a sip of her iced tea and replied: Who’s the cute blond guy with the buzz cut?

The distress call of a donkey rose up from behind the barn, loud, insistent, and terrifying. Elijah sounded hurt, and his cries of fear and pain rose in volume and intensity. Abby dropped her phone on the chaise and ran toward the sound.

“Abby,” Quinn yelled over the fence. “Everything okay?”

“No,” Abby huffed as she ran. “I don’t know.”

“I’m coming to help,” Quinn yelled. “Hang on.”

Abby ran around the side of the barn to see Elijah in the field, tangled in the roll of used fence wire she and Quinn had left out. “Damn!” Abby had completely forgotten about that old wire. The poor donkey had