Page 6 of The Way We Score

The frame is sturdy two by fours painted white. The tin roof has a rooster turret on top, and it reminds me of a children’s playhouse with wrought iron climbing frames propped against the sides and large flower pots filled with vegetation.

Pale, fleshy plumeria blends with lacy ferns, and a group of six specialty chickens roost in boxes like bunk beds safe from dogs or raccoons or opossums or any other predators.

“The doctor only said you shouldn’t do all the bending and feeding and cleaning. You can still go with me and talk to them while I do all that stuff.” I slide my hand over her tissue-soft one. “You have to be careful, though. Isn’t poking around the coop how you fell?”

“No, it was that dog Gladys was sitting. It went crazy, chasing Henny Lane and Mother Clucker up the ramp. I was trying to catch him when my clog got caught under a crate.”

She tries to demonstrate how it happened and almost loses her balance again.

“Easy there.” I grab her arm. “We won’t have any excuse if you go down on my watch.”

Her lips purse, and she shakes her silver head. “I’m not going down.”

Mom always had dark red hair, but now it’s all silver. She likes to say there’s no point in dying red hair. I wouldn’t know.Mine’s only ever been strawberry blonde—pink, as she calls it, which isn’t as hard to maintain.

“I wouldn’t have gone down the first time if it weren’t for that darned dog,” she continues grousing.

“That’s good, because you’re not as young as you used to be.”

Which is why it’s taking her break so long to heal. Knowing she’d fallen and broken her leg with me three hours away in Birmingham had been hard. Every mile, every minute it took to get all the way down here had felt like an eternity.

It got me rethinking everything.

We take our time descending the short flight of stairs at the back door. My childhood home is a small beach cottage with only two bedrooms and one bathroom.

When I was growing up, Mom liked to say it was enough for us. Wanting more than we needed was greedy in her book.

It’s a very old-school Newhope attitude, considering the town was founded by utopian populists who owned all the land in common. It’s an attitude that’s quickly disappearing as the old-timers die out and rich young couples filter into the pristine coastal community.

“This henhouse is about the same size as my bedroom.” I lightly tease.

“And it houses six chickens.” Mom lifts her chin as if she’s proud of her communal thrift.

“I thought you only had three chickens.”

“Don’t question the chicken math. It happens.”

My eyes narrow, and I hold back the quip on the tip of my tongue. I don’t care how many chickens she has, as they clearly make her happy.

Being back here makes me happy, even if I’m hiding from a certain someone. The scents, the sound of the water lapping against the bay, the smiles of neighbors and friends, the familiar roads and paths, all of it is a balm to my aching insides.

It’s giving me all sorts of ideas like remote work or evensomething crazier, hanging out my own shingle, doing wills and estates and being a simple, country lawyer.

Forget the big city. Forget trying to make partner. What has it brought me? A lot of money and a lot of heartache.

“I think that dog really upset Henny Lane.” Mom leans heavily on her walker, gesturing to her favorite little white hen. “She’s been acting strangely for the last two weeks.”

The chicken in question has long, white feathers that almost seem like hair blowing in the breeze. Her face is tiny under her massive, white mane, but she’s proud.

“She seems okay to me.” I give my mom’s arm a nudge. “Just look at that expression. I think she knows she’s named after a famous Beatles song.”

The chicken jerks her beak side to side as we get closer.

“Honestly, Liv.” Mom scoffs. “How could she possibly know that?”

My mom has never gotten my sense of humor.

“Hey, Henny.” I soften my tone as I gently lift the small bird into my arms. “You okay, little girl? It’s going to be all right now. That bad old dog is gone.”

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