Lucy handed Emily a metal bucket. “You start on the left. I’ll do the right.”
Emily shifted her feet in the scratchy hay. She’d never milked a cow before, not even when she had been shipped to her aunt and uncle’s farm in Iowa the fall before. Lucy had already turned away, tending to her own line of cows. Not knowing what else to do, Emily approached the cow closest to the door, slid the bucket under her udder, and crouched. How hard could it be? But the cow was enormous, with strong legs and a broad, trucklike butt. Did cows kick, like horses? Did cows bite?
She cracked her knuckles, eyeing the other stalls. If a cow moos in the next ten seconds, everything will be okay, she thought, relying on the superstitious game she’d created for tense situations like this one. She silently counted to ten in her head. There weren’t any moos, although there was a noise that sounded suspiciously like a fart.
“Ahem”
Emily shot up. Lucy was glaring at her.
“Haven’t you ever milked a cow before?” Lucy demanded.
“Uh.” Emily grappled for a response. “Well, no. We have really specific jobs where I’m from. Milking isn’t my responsibility.”
Lucy looked at her as if she’d never heard of such a thing. “You’ll have to do it as long as you’re here. It’s not hard. just pull and squeeze.”
“Um, okay,” Emily stammered. She turned to the cow. Her teats dangled. She touched one; it felt rubbery and full. When she squeezed, milk squirted into the bucket. It was a strange dusty color, nothing like the milk her mother brought home from Fresh Fields grocery store.
“That’s good,” Lucy said, standing over her. She had that funny look on her face again. “Why are you speaking English, by the way?”
The sharp scent of hay tickled Emily’s eyes. Did Amish people not speak English? She’d read various Wikipedia articles about Amish people last night in an attempt to absorb as much information as possible—how had she not stumbled upon that? And why hadn’t A said anything?
“Did your community not speak Pennsylvania Dutch?” Lucy prompted incredulously.
Emily adjusted her woolen cap nervously. Her fingers smelled like sour milk. “Um . . . no. We’re pretty progressive.”
Lucy shook her head in wonderment. “Wow. You’re so lucky. We should switch places. You stay here, and I’ll go there.”
Emily laughed nervously, relaxing a teensy bit. Maybe Lucy wasn’t so bad. And maybe even Amish country wasn’t so bad either—at least it was quiet and drama-free. But disappointment welled in her chest all the same. Ali didn’t seem to be hiding out in this community, so why had A sent her here? To make her look stupid? To distract her for a while? To send her on a wild-goose chase?
As if on cue, one of the Holsteins let out a loud, lowing moo and dropped fresh cow pies on the hay-strewn floor. Emily gritted her teeth. Perhaps a wild cow chase was more like it.
Chapter 11
Not Your Typical Mother-Daughter Outing
As soon as Spencer stepped into the lobby of the Fermata spa, a smile flitted over her lips. The room smelled like honey, and the soft, burbling sounds of the fountain in the corner were soothing and tranquil.
“I booked you for a deep tissue massage, a carrot body buff, and an oxygen facial,” Spencer’s mother said, taking out her wallet. “And then after that, I made us reservations for a late lunch at Feast.”
“Wow,” Spencer gushed. Feast, the bistro next door, was Mrs. Hastings and Melissa’s regular lunch spot.
Mrs. Hastings squeezed Spencer’s shoulder, the smell of her liberally applied Chanel No. 5 perfume tickling Spencer’s nose. An aesthetician showed Spencer the locker where she could stash her clothes and change into a robe and slippers. Before she knew it, she was lying on a massage table, melting into a puddle of goo.
Spencer hadn’t felt this close to her parents in a long, long time. Last night, she and her dad had watched The Godfather in the den, her dad quoting every line by heart, and later, she and her mother began planning the Rosewood Day Hunt Club benefit that would take place in two months. Plus, when she checked her grades online this morning, she’d seen that she had aced the last AP econ test. Good news like that called for an appreciative text to Andrew—he’d been her tutor—and he wrote back saying he knew she could do it. He also asked if she wanted to go with him to the Valentine’s Day dance in a few weeks. Spencer said yes.
Her conversation with Melissa still nagged at her, though, as did A’s note about a cover-up. Spencer couldn’t believe her mother would make Melissa blame Ian for Ali’s murder. Melissa must have misinterpreted their mother’s concern. And as for A . . . well, Spencer certainly didn’t trust anything A had to say.
“Honey?” The masseuse’s voice floated down from above. “You’ve suddenly turned to stone. Let go.”
Spencer forced her muscles to relax. Crashing ocean waves and cawing seagulls swelled from the sound machine. She shut her eyes, huffing three short yoga fire breaths. She would not overreact. That was probably just what A wanted.
After the massage, the carrot buff, and the oxygen facial, Spencer felt loose, soft, and glowing. Her mother was waiting for her at Feast, drinking a glass of lemon water and reading a copy of MainLine magazine. “That was wonderful,” Spencer said, flopping down. “Thank you so much.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Mrs. Hastings answered, unfolding her napkin and placing it neatly on her lap. “Anything to help you relax after everything you’ve gone through.”