Chapter Three

Derek

Sapphire Falls was turning out to be exactly what I’d expected, lots of charm and whimsy and small-town friendliness; in other words, the town was a lot like Gabby herself. I could totally see her growing up in a place like this, which is not to suggest she doesn’t fit in in Los Angeles, because she definitely does. Most people in SoCal are transplants anyway, people drawn there by the weather, or the industry, or the “laid-back lifestyle” that may just be the biggest myth of all. Given how much it costs to live there, you’d best believe we’re driven to succeed.

But, all the same, I do believe the environment you’re raised in can have a big impact on how you turn out. I'd never met anyone who’s more nuts about animals than Gabby is. When she told me she’d grown up on a farm, it made all the sense in the world. 

I, on the other hand, am the product of a more urban upbringing. Today was only the second time in my life that I’d ever even been on a farm. Considering that the first time had been during a grade-school field trip, I’m not even sure that counts.

I'd say the impact my early environment had on my life is fairly obvious.  I started attending city-run classes in kickboxing and karate as a kid, when I got tired of being bullied. You can clean that up, if you’d like, say I was interested in self-defense. But the truth is I wasn’t looking to avoid fights as much as I was searching for something that would give me an edge. I know my counselors were hoping it would provide me with a way to channel my aggression, but it really didn’t help all that much. For that I would have to turn to yoga. Now I work as a personal trainer and exercise instructor—a natural extension of those early interests.  But I have no idea what path my life might have taken had I grown up somewhere else.

We arrived at Gabby's family's farm at about four in the afternoon.  A large metal sign hanging from the front gate proclaimed it to be the Quick Browne Goat Farm. "So who's Quick?" I asked.

Gabby shot me a puzzled look. "What are you talking about?"

"On the sign." I pointed behind us. Browne was the family name, and the goat part was also obvious, but Quick?

Gabby smiled. "Oh, I don't know. The goats, I guess. You know that sentence they make you memorize when you learn touch typing: 'the quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog'?"

"I've heard of it, sure."

"It's like that. "

Puzzled, I turned in my seat to stare at her. "It's 'like that' how?"

"Well, I mean, we've always had some of the laziest sheepdogs you've ever seen. I'm sure they've been jumped over a time or two."

"By foxes?"

"No." Gabby eyed me strangely. "By goats. It's a goat farm, remember?"

I probably should have given up at that point. I've gotten into these kinds of conversations with her before. They never end well. "Okay, but then where do the foxes come in?"

"They don't."

"But..."

"Look, the whole point of that sentence is that it uses all the letters of the alphabet, right? They had to use fox. Goat wouldn't have worked at all in that context."

"Obviously."

"Okay, and so what should also be obvious is that it wouldn't make any sense to call this the Quick Browne Fox Farm. Right?"

None of it made sense; that was the problem. And I was just about to say so when she hit me with that smile.

Now, here's something you might not know about my Gabe. She has one of the greatest smiles in the whole damn world. It's fucking radiant. It's the kind of smile that makes men stupid. If you haven't seen it, you'll just have to take my word on that. I knew I was in trouble the very first time she flashed it my way. I'd never before been covetous of a facial expression, but in that moment I desperately wanted to keep her smiling at me—and only at me—just like that, forever. 

I know it's only a matter of time before her career takes off, because I can't be the only one who feels that way.

"Well?" Gabby prompted. "Would it?"

But her smile had done its usual good work. My train of thought had so thoroughly jumped its tracks that my brain was the mental equivalent of a heap of twisted steel. "Uh...what were we talking about again?"

Gabby shot me a mock glare. "The Quick Browne Fox Farm. Remember?"

"Oh, right." Now, I'm all for sticking to my guns, but I also know when I'm beat. "Yeah, you're right. That's crazy. That wouldn't work at all."

"Exactly," Gabby purred as she pulled the truck to a stop. She glanced at me again, and her smile went from bright to brilliant; I felt a thrill of delight, until I realized the reason for it wasn't my easy capitulation, it was the fact that she was home.

I turned to look around me. We were parked in front of yet another picturesque farmhouse; this one was white, with blue trim and shutters, a wraparound porch, and a white picket fence. Blue hydrangeas clustered around the foundation. Blue morning glories  twined along the fence.  Baskets overflowing with light and dark lobelia hung from the eaves of the porch. "I see someone likes blue."

Gabby nodded. "My mom. It's a Sapphire Falls thing."

"Makes sense."

The theme, unfortunately, was not confined to the house. Now that I knew what I was looking for, I saw hints everywhere. In the English Sheepdog dozing on the porch swing; mostly white  with bluish-gray patches. In the flock of mop-headed chickens pecking at the lawn—oddly reminiscent of the dog, with similar plumage in matching shades. Even the drive where we were parked, with its blue-gray gravel, and its border of whitewashed rocks fit the picture.  It was impressive, in a slightly over-the-top, borderline obsessive kind of way. Not that I'd ever say so.

Just 'cause my family's dysfunctional, doesn't mean I don't know better than to criticize someone else's.

I’d have had to be an idiot not to notice the eager expression Gabby’d been wearing ever since we'd left Omaha. While, intellectually, I knew she loved acting, that she loved the life she'd built for herself out on the coast, that she loved me, I still found myself starting to worry. How much work was it going to take to drag her away from here next week?

"Let's go see where everyone is," Gabby said as she jumped from the truck.  I started to follow, but just then a man came striding around the corner of the house to greet her.  He was tall and lean, with the kind of weathered skin and corded muscles that you only get from spending most of your life working out-of-doors.  I'd pegged him as Gabby's father even before she turned and waved impatiently for me to join them.

Gabby's dad, Mick, looked every inch the aging hippy farmer Gabby had described him as being. His hair was long, just starting to go gray, and the bandana on his head was clearly there for functionality, not as a fashion statement—despite it being blue and white, like everything else around here.

He had a firm handshake, a steely gaze, and a smile that would probably have been a whole lot warmer if I were someone else. But I was the stranger who would shortly be marrying his daughter, the bastard who'd gotten her pregnant. I suspected it would be a long time before he forgave me for either of those offenses.  And, until he did, I figured my chances of getting a genuine smile out of the man were slim to no-fucking-way.

"Did I tell you that Derek teaches yoga?" Gabby asked, threading her fingers with mine and leaning against my shoulder. I was intensely aware of her tit pressed tight against my bicep, and not in a good way, given that her father was looking on. I felt like she was claiming me for her own, marking me as hers, all of which I'd normally be in favor of. But, right now, with the hostile vibe already rolling in waves off her old man? Not so much.  "That's how we met."

"So you've said," Mick replied dryly. I didn't miss the way his face hardened as his gaze latched onto all the places where Gabby's body and mine connected. It was all I could do not to push her away. Something told me that would be worse.

"My dad's been practicing yoga for years," Gabby informed me, seemingly oblivious to the tension.

"Very cool." I smiled at Mick. "What style do you prefer? Sivananda?  Kripalu?" I was expecting him to be into something like that, something old skool and classic. Maybe a little Bikram in the winter.

What I wasn't expecting was, "Goat."

"Daddy!" Gabby scowled at him.

"What? You've never heard of goat yoga? Look it up, if you don't believe me." Mick gazed at me challengingly, and added. "Sometimes the chickens join in too."

"I think I saw something about that online." Of course, I'd assumed it was a joke, but maybe I was wrong? "I'd be interested in seeing that in action while I'm here. We don't get much of a call for it in Los Angeles."

"Their loss."

"I guess so."

Mick continued to size me up as I shook hands with Gabby's brothers, Micah and Rafe, who had joined us by then, along with her sister, Arielle. Both the boys took after their dad, and it was obvious Gabby had inherited her height and long legs from him as well. Arielle was a shorter, curvier version of her sister, with eyes that were lighter and a tinge more green—aquamarine to Gabby's sapphire. While Gabby's brothers seemed friendly enough, Arielle looked about as happy to see me as her father did—which is to say, not much at all.

"Where's Mom?" Gabby asked once the introductions had all been made.

Mick nodded behind him. "Oh, Alice is down the rabbit hole, as usual.  Why don't you take Derek down there and introduce him? Meanwhile, your brothers and I can get your camper set up. Oh, and hey, while you're at it, why don't you see if you can't convince your mother to knock off early for the day? Tell her I've already got the grill fired up, and everything's ready to go. I can start dinner as soon as she's back.

Gabby nodded. "Sounds good. Thanks, Daddy." Then she tugged on my hand and we headed off down a small footpath lined with hedges and flowering shrubs.

"So the rabbit hole, huh?"

"Oh, that's just what we call it," she said, waving that latest bit of weirdness away.  "We're not just about goats, you know.  We have sheep, too, which we keep in part because they're very maternal—something you can't always count on with goats. And in part because Arielle and our sister-in-law, Lana, have a little side business crafting knit goods. But my mom's pet project is rabbits. She's one of the largest producers of organic, cruelty-free angora in the whole state. There's an old shed in a bit of a hollow up ahead; that's where she keeps them. Hence, the rabbit hole.

"Hollow? Cruelty-free angora?"

Gabby shot me a dark look. "Do you even know what a factory farm is?"

I wasn't even sure what language we were speaking, at that point. "No, I don't," I told her, then added a hasty, "I'm pretty sure I don't want to."

"You can't refuse to look at things just because they might be unpleasant."

Which was monumentally unfair. "I don't do that. I just believe in picking my battles."

"If you say so. Anyway, my mother harvests all her angora humanely. The loose hair is removed with a comb—by hand, just like you would a dog. Rabbits molt several times a year, but they have to be groomed way more often than that, to keep their fur from getting matted, and to keep them used to being handled." 

"Sounds time consuming."

"Oh, it is. I think that's my father's biggest complaint." She shot me a small smile. "See? You're obviously both operating on the same wave-length. I knew the two of you would get along."

I nodded in a non-committal fashion, not wanting to be the one to burst Gabby's optimistic bubble. Getting along was not how I'd have phrased it.

She led us to a low, stone structure that appeared to have been built right into the hill at the bottom of a slope.  Inside, I counted about two dozen spacious cages—or hutches, as I guess they're called. Gabby's mom was seated in a wooden rocking chair, with one of the largest white rabbits I'd ever seen perched on her lap.  When I first saw her, I thought she was Arielle, the resemblance was that striking. But then her eyes lit up and she smiled, and she was Gabby all over again.

Of course her smile was all for her daughter, as it should be, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't feel the slightest trace of FOMO. It's that smile, I'm telling you. It gets me every time.

Alice got up quickly, somehow tucking that enormous bunny under one arm, and pulled Gabby in for a tight, one-armed hug. "Oh, baby, I'm so happy to see you," she murmured, rocking a little from side to side.  "How are you feeling? You're not too tired from the drive, are you? Have you eaten?" 

"I'm fine, Mom," Gabby insisted. "And, no, I'm not tired. But, now that you mention it, Dad says if you want to come back to the house, he's got everything ready for dinner."

"Well, of course he does," Alice said, still smiling brightly. "When is that man ever not ready to eat?" Then her gaze fell on me and her smile lost a fraction of its radiance. I tried not to take it too personally. "You must be Derek?"

"Yes, Ma'am," I said, hurrying forward with my arm outstretched to shake her hand, only to stop in my tracks when I realized her right arm was still full of rabbit. We ended up sharing a much more awkward hug than the one she'd exchanged with Gabby, with both of us angling our bodies to the side to avoid being kicked in the ribs by the rabbit who'd obviously had more than enough hugs for one day.

"Well it's nice to finally meet you," Gabby's mom assured me. "Now, let me just put Madison back in his hutch, and we can be on our way." 

A few minutes later, we were headed back toward the house. Alice had her arm linked through Gabby's. The two of them were chatting excitedly about the wedding—everything that had already been dealt with, everything that still needed to be done—and I was congratulating myself on how effortlessly it all seemed to be coming together.

Then Alice's brow furrowed and—in a pained tone with which I was going to grow very familiar over the next few days—she asked, "By the way, dear, did your father tell you what happened to Pastor Michaels' poor sister?"

So much for effortlessness.