Free Danger, Sweetheart by MaryJanice Davidson Page B

mother’s face
    (“This isn’t the movies, Son. You don’t get points for trying.”) and continued.
    You’ll recall we felt the best way
    (“No. The fastest way, and there’s a difference. You wanted a quick fix so you slapped a Band-Aid over a crack in the dike.”)
    to assist Mom would be to pay off the bank holding all the paper. This solved the immediate problem, but as a long-term tactic it was brought to my attention that it will prove to be a disaster. And so, though we are equally culpable in our mother’s perceived crimes against Sweetheart, I am the only one exiled. Because you are terrible.
    His glass didn’t have enough whiskey in it. Minutes later, fortified, he returned to his texting.
    The terms of my atonement are as follow: 1) No more selling people’s homes/farms to the bank. 2) The remaining farm, scheduled for closing next week, is off the market. 3) Said farm must be made profitable within six months. 4) By me. 5) Without my fortune, which she has pulled off the table. (You’ll recall that though she allowed access to our inheritance on our eighteenth birthday, we are not legally entitled to it until we are thirty, which is twenty-three months and seventeen days from today.) 6) I cannot terminate anyone or sell anything. 7) Resistance is futile. 8) If condition #7 is ignored, she’ll activate the nuclear option.
    Sound nigh impossible? I quite agree, but our mother
    (“You don’t get to be the hero with an attempt. So if you’re in it, for God’s sake be in it. If you’re in it, here’s what that means.”)
    does not.
    For this, in addition to many other crimes you have perpetuated upon me since our birth, you will be made to pay and pay. I warn you only as a courtesy as dictated by the bonds of family.
    Good night.
    Later, when Rake hadn’t responded to his text missive (to be expected, because Rake was terrible, but it was annoying all the same), Blake admitted the truth about why he agreed to remain in Sweetheart for a minimum of 181 days: his mother was a guilt ninja. Annoying how, even though you knew how and why you were being manipulated, it was still difficult to resist. And though he would never feign understanding of some people’s unreasonable attachment to particular plots of land over others, he wasn’t so clueless he could dismiss their feelings about such things.
    Meanwhile, he had to spend only one night in the bed-and-breakfast, after which he would move to (muffled groan) Heartbreak Farm. Only one night surrounded by chintz wallpaper, chintz overstuffed chairs, and chintz drapery.
    At once it was too much, and he needed to be away from the chintz. Or surrounded by different chintz. So with one thing and another, he found himself in some sort of porch/tearoom, which had only one inhabitant.
    To his astonishment, the lone inhabitant was an infant pig.
    She was standing in a small box stuffed with clean straw, looking up at him with bright eyes (he would discover later pigs had poor eyesight) and making small squeaks in greeting.
    â€œHello,” he said as he set his empty glass down on a nearby table. “No more whiskey for me tonight.” Was this common in Sweetheart bed-and-breakfasts? Were guests expecting to bed down with infant pigs, or required to? Heartbreak Farm would likely not demand he bed down with livestock, right?
    These are the questions I should have asked before agreeing to this.
    â€œEr, hello. Have you eaten? Or nursed? Whatever it is you do at your age?” Why am I talking to her? Do I expect her to answer back? He recalled his mother blurting something about the White Rose of York hours ago … could she have been referring to the pig?
    She uunnffed at him in response; he had no interpretation but chose to see it as the porcine equivalent of “come forth, fascinating stranger.” After a quick peek over his shoulder to ensure they were alone, he