Page 31 of Our Long Days
“They’re fainting goats—myotonic goats. The farm I bought them from didn’t know until they came home with me.”
“Fainting goats?”
He nods.
“Poor babies.” I stroke the kid’s wiry coat. After a few passes, its eyes ping open, and, as if nothing happened, it jumps up and trots away.
“See? He’s good. It happens if they’re excited or spooked.”
“I forgot you had goats.”
Chuckling, he raises his hands, rocking left and right. “Goats. Devil spawn. Same, same.”
“How old are they? How long have you had them? What are their names? Can I have one?” My questions spew out of me.
He ticks off each reply with a finger. “Two years old. Almost a year.” He points at the black and white one chewing on his pant leg. “Vincent van Goat.” Then, the white one. “His brother, Butt Head. And no, sorry. They’re pricks, but I’ve grown attached.” A bashful smile pulls at his lips. “Lottie helped me name the latter.”
“Of course she did.” I imagine my niece having the time of her life playing with them.
His gaze narrows. “How did you get here?”
I divert my attention, response brusque. “Walked.”
“From your mom’s?”
“Yes. I like the alone time.” Dex’s place is on the outskirts of town, a little under four miles. It takes me roughly an hour to walk the full trek.
He exhales through his nose. “Florence, it’s not safe.”
“I can look out for myself,” I volley.
A thick eyebrow arches. “From a bear?”
Rolling my eyes, I pull out a can of bear spray. “I’m not stupid. Like you, I’ve lived in Maine my entire life.”
“I didn’t imply you were stupid or unprepared, butifyou work for me, there’ll be no walking to work. I’ll pick you up and drop you off.”
Blades of grass tickle my bare legs. He smells like wood shavings, sweat, and outdoors, a heady combination.
“Isn’t accommodation included with the job?”
His jaw ticks, like he just remembered that perk. “Yes. In the A-frame. If you want it.”
The small building in question sits behind him, approximately one hundred yards from his house.
I nod, deciding how difficult it will be working for him but also being neighbors.
Noting my apprehension, he nudges my shoulder. “How about that tour?”
“A tour would be good. I didn’t get one last time…” My voice trails off.
Dex averts his gaze, and I internally curse, neither of us acknowledging my passive comment as we rise to stand.
He picks up half a dozen logs, back flexing as he ambles toward his workshop tucked between the two cabins.
We enter through a gap in the steel sliding door, journeying inside. An earthy, slightly leathery scent lingers in the air. Large, complex looking machines are dotted around the room, but it’s the huge mahogany table that holds my attention. Its rough edges are filled with clear resin, polished and sparkling under the overhead lights.
It’s riveting to get a peek inside his sanctuary—a close second to seeing him in action, I’m sure.
