Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
“I assure you it is not. This is Harrison Fletcher, the owner of Vino and Veritas.” It still felt a bit odd, titling myself that way. But the farmer’s skepticism, and my unfortunate reaction to his voice, had my tone shifting to hyper-formal, the way it sometimes did when I was rattled. “We received some chickens. Live chickens.”
The chickens verified my statement when they started in a fresh round of squawking.
“Oh! My Ayam Cemani shipment.”
I assumed Ayam Cemani was the name of a chicken breed. Either way, he’d spoken the name with the sort of reverence I generally reserved for a genuine Monet or perhaps a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch.
“They were delivered to you? How?”
“We’d like to know that too. However, here they are. How soon can you collect them?” That was all I truly cared about, not this man’s potential hotness, and not how this mix-up had occurred. Staging a good portion of the nonfiction section was my goal for the day, and I’d rather not have some errant chickens derail me.
“Well…” The farmer drew the word out, letting me know I wasn’t going to like what came next. “I’m knee-deep in manure at the moment, but I’ll try to be there as soon as I can. Maybe an hour, maybe sooner.”
Ah. The sort of precise time-telling I was coming to expect from country life. He likely meant “when I get around to it,” and I couldn’t help my sigh. “All right, but they’re blocking my loading dock, and I’m expecting a shipment of picture books any time now.”
“Move the boxes if you need to. Just be gentle with the birds, please. They’ve had a long trip up from Virginia.” He sounded way more concerned about the birds’ welfare than my time and hassle. “And whatever you do, don’t take them out.”
“Oh, no risk of that,” I assured him. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about what to do with a chicken.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised, Mr. Fletcher.” More of that teasing tone, light and without a bite, but I still wasn’t sure how I felt about being a source of amusement for him.
I gave him directions to the store. “See you soon, Mister…” I paused meaningfully.
“Finn. Finn Barnes. I’ll be there shortly.”
Finn. He sounded like a Finn, friendly and down-to-earth in a rural sort of way.
“Finn Barnes will be here to collect the chickens soon,” I informed Oz after he rejoined me in the loading area. “He suggested we could move them, but that’s probably—”
“Great idea.” Oz hefted both boxes of chickens way too easily.
He was the sort of brawny, young guy who didn’t need hours at the gym to be able to bench press a small car. I kept in shape, but my lean build was never going to compete for a spot in a lumberjack calendar like Oz and half the other young men roaming Burlington. Oz headed for the stockroom with the boxes, and I frowned as I trailed behind him.
“Is this wise?”
Oz shrugged. “It’ll keep them warm and out of the way.”
“There you are!” My mother came bustling into the stockroom right as Oz was setting down the chickens. “I want you to see what I’ve done with the children’s area.”
“In a moment. We’re dealing with a chicken situation.”
“Chickens? In boxes?” Her eyes lit up, and predictably, she sank down in front of the boxes, heedless of both her age and her long skirt and emitting the same sorts of noises one might make at a litter of kittens. Mom has a soft spot the size of Connecticut and had never met a cause she couldn’t support or a troubled being she didn’t want to rescue.
“They’re not ours. There was a postal mix-up. A farmer is coming to get them soon.”
“These poor dears. They must be so scared.” She peered into the boxes. “And they’re such pretty babies too.”
“More like loud and stinky babies.”
“We should move them out of the draft.” Straightening, Mom’s tone shifted back to commanding as she motioned Oz closer. “How about that corner?”
“No problem.” Oz started to heft the boxes again.
“Wait,” I cautioned. “It says lift only from the bottom.”
“Okay.” Oz attempted to shift one carton in midair, causing the squawking inside to intensify. Trying to step around my mother, he lurched the other way and—
Riiiiiip. The side came loose.
And from there, everything happened in rapid-fire succession. A chicken escaping. Me trying to catch said chicken and failing. Mom trying to push the box back together so more didn’t escape, but not before a second chicken joined the first in a frantic bid for freedom, racing right over her arm and skirt to scurry across the floor.
“Quick. Shut the door,” I commanded. This was already bad enough. We didn’t need chickens roaming around the store. Or escaping out the loading dock. But I should have made the command clearer because Oz set the boxes down and lunged for the door. And somehow, someway, we ended up with Oz outside the stockroom while my mother and I were left to contend with the angry escapees.