First Chapter: Featherbed by Annabeth Albert
Harrison
Chickens, literal feathered and clucking chickens—not the primed-for-roasting-at-375-degrees kind—were not at all what my Monday needed. But apparently the universe had noted my foul mood and sent fowl. As in, a box of weird-looking chickens currently sitting outside my bookstore’s loading dock.
“Is this a joke?” I asked Oz, our new stocker, who’d come to fetch me to deal with a “situation.” I’d expected a box-cutter injury or damaged goods, not chickens. “Like one of those haze-the-city-slicker things?”
I wasn’t going to be amused if that were the case. Oz was a nice enough younger guy, maybe twenty-five or so, but he’d been with us less than a week, and already he seemed to take great delight in correcting any wrong assumptions on my part about Vermont life.
“No joke. I like being employed.” Oz had a devilish grin. Nothing much seemed to bother him, and even now he seemed more stumped than alarmed. “And I’m more of a sausage guy than a chicken fan, myself.”
“Oz,” I warned, gesturing at the giant, clucking box. “If it’s not a joke, how did we end up with chickens? We’re a bookstore.”
I wasn’t entirely sure what sort of store around here might sell live poultry, but it definitely was not my brand-new bookstore, which specialized in LGBTQ+ titles and merchandise. Nothing feathered, stinky, or clucking allowed.
And these chickens were all three. The two large red-and-white boxes proudly proclaimed, “Live Birds” and had mesh-covered airholes through which we could see the indignant, squawking birds. And smell them. They didn’t look like the happy chickens that graced fast-food ads at all. These were all black and looked to be young. Older than fluffy chicks, but probably not grown enough for Sunday dinner. Maybe these birds were destined to be pets and not served at a table? I heard people did that around here, kept them in their backyards, gave them names. Some of my mother’s new neighbors apparently had a two-story chicken condo in their yard.
Vermont. Not for the first time, I had to shake my head. I’d agreed to my mom’s crazy plan to move to this mostly rural state, but I hadn’t been prepared for the culture shock.
Or chickens.
“Huh.” Fearlessly getting closer to the birds than I would, Oz bent down to examine the boxes more closely. The postal labels were smeared and mangled, like they’d been caught by some machinery. “These are for 4569 Church all right,” Oz said, “but I’d bet it’s supposed to be Old Church Road, down past South Burlington. There are some big farms in that area, including that hot chicken guy’s, I think.”
“There’s a hot chicken guy?” I had to blink.
“Yeah. I’ve seen him around at some of the farmers markets. And from a field trip in high school. His family owns one of those popular multi-season, multi-reason farms where people can learn about animals and buy all kinds of homegrown goods. Want me to call?”
“No. I can do it. I’ll start by looking up the address.” I pulled out my phone to give myself something to do besides gape at the chickens. And because the last thing I needed was Oz thinking I couldn’t handle a crisis.
Not that chickens were a crisis, precisely, but I did try to project professional competency, even in this new-to-me venture. And I also wouldn’t put it past Oz to hit on this chicken guy, and that too would be less than professional.
A quick search on my phone’s browser revealed that 4569 Old Church Road was Puddlebrook Farms, and luckily there was an available public number. Their website featured lots of pictures of scenic meadows, a quaint farm stand, and many baby animals. Including some chicks. Promising. I pressed the link to make a call.
“Puddlebrook.” A deep, masculine voice answered, and damn Oz for putting the hot farmer idea into my head. Despite the sexy voice, this guy was probably over sixty with an impressive lineage of grandchildren.
“Hello. Are you missing some chickens?” I tried for friendly but direct.
“Is this a prank?” The voice softened, more of a tease. Didn’t sound like a retiree. His warm tones made a tickle race up my spine and had me cursing Oz again. I’d always had a bit more imagination than was healthy.
“I assure you it is not. This is Harrison Fletcher, the owner of Vino and Veritas.” It still felt a bit odd, titling myself that way. But the farmer’s skepticism, and my unfortunate reaction to his voice, had my tone shifting to hyper-formal, the way it sometimes did when I was rattled. “We received some chickens. Live chickens.”
The chickens verified my statement when they started in a fresh round of squawking.
“Oh! My Ayam Cemani shipment.”
I assumed Ayam Cemani was the name of a chicken breed. Either way, he’d spoken the name with the sort of reverence I generally reserved for a genuine Monet or perhaps a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch.
“They were delivered to you? How?”
“We’d like to know that too. However, here they are. How soon can you collect them?” That was all I truly cared about, not this man’s potential hotness, and not how this mix-up had occurred. Staging a good portion of the nonfiction section was my goal for the day, and I’d rather not have some errant chickens derail me.
“Well…” The farmer drew the word out, letting me know I wasn’t going to like what came next. “I’m knee-deep in manure at the moment, but I’ll try to be there as soon as I can. Maybe an hour, maybe sooner.”
Ah. The sort of precise time-telling I was coming to expect from country life. He likely meant “when I get around to it,” and I couldn’t help my sigh. “All right, but they’re blocking my loading dock, and I’m expecting a shipment of picture books any time now.”
“Move the boxes if you need to. Just be gentle with the birds, please. They’ve had a long trip up from Virginia.” He sounded way more concerned about the birds’ welfare than my time and hassle. “And whatever you do, don’t take them out.”
“Oh, no risk of that,” I assured him. “I wouldn’t know the first thing about what to do with a chicken.”
“Somehow, I’m not surprised, Mr. Fletcher.” More of that teasing tone, light and without a bite, but I still wasn’t sure how I felt about being a source of amusement for him.
I gave him directions to the store. “See you soon, Mister…” I paused meaningfully.
“Finn. Finn Barnes. I’ll be there shortly.”
Finn. He sounded like a Finn, friendly and down-to-earth in a rural sort of way.
“Finn Barnes will be here to collect the chickens soon,” I informed Oz after he rejoined me in the loading area. “He suggested we could move them, but that’s probably—”
“Great idea.” Oz hefted both boxes of chickens way too easily.
He was the sort of brawny, young guy who didn’t need hours at the gym to be able to bench press a small car. I kept in shape, but my lean build was never going to compete for a spot in a lumberjack calendar like Oz and half the other young men roaming Burlington. Oz headed for the stockroom with the boxes, and I frowned as I trailed behind him.
“Is this wise?”
Oz shrugged. “It’ll keep them warm and out of the way.”
“There you are!” My mother came bustling into the stockroom right as Oz was setting down the chickens. “I want you to see what I’ve done with the children’s area.”
“In a moment. We’re dealing with a chicken situation.”
“Chickens? In boxes?” Her eyes lit up, and predictably, she sank down in front of the boxes, heedless of both her age and her long skirt and emitting the same sorts of noises one might make at a litter of kittens. Mom has a soft spot the size of Connecticut and had never met a cause she couldn’t support or a troubled being she didn’t want to rescue.
“They’re not ours. There was a postal mix-up. A farmer is coming to get them soon.”
“These poor dears. They must be so scared.” She peered into the boxes. “And they’re such pretty babies too.”
“More like loud and stinky babies.”
“We should move them out of the draft.” Straightening, Mom’s tone shifted back to commanding as she motioned Oz closer. “How about that corner?”
“No problem.” Oz started to heft the boxes again.
“Wait,” I cautioned. “It says lift only from the bottom.”
“Okay.” Oz attempted to shift one carton in midair, causing the squawking inside to intensify. Trying to step around my mother, he lurched the other way and—
Riiiiiip. The side came loose.
And from there, everything happened in rapid-fire succession. A chicken escaping. Me trying to catch said chicken and failing. Mom trying to push the box back together so more didn’t escape, but not before a second chicken joined the first in a frantic bid for freedom, racing right over her arm and skirt to scurry across the floor.
“Quick. Shut the door,” I commanded. This was already bad enough. We didn’t need chickens roaming around the store. Or escaping out the loading dock. But I should have made the command clearer because Oz set the boxes down and lunged for the door. And somehow, someway, we ended up with Oz outside the stockroom while my mother and I were left to contend with the angry escapees.
“Should I come back in?” Oz called through the closed door.
“No, we don’t need them running out. You watch the store. I’ll catch the chickens.” I sounded way more confident than I felt, but seriously, how hard could this be?
“Poor birdies.” Mom made sympathetic noises as she tried again to scoop one up. It was not having any of her compassion and quickly scurried behind a stack of boxes.
Luckily, almost all of the stock in the storeroom was still in boxes, but that meant more places for the wily chickens to hide. I carefully shoved a box away from the source of a squawk, but the bird scurried farther into the corner.
“Harrison. You really should have dressed better for this.” She shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I wasn’t planning on chickens.” I brushed some dust off my pants. Yes, I’d gone more formal than I’d needed for a day of shelving, but we had more employee interviews in the afternoon, and no way was I going to look sloppy when dealing with prospective workers. And I liked looking nice. No shame in that.
Offering her a hand up from the floor, I assessed the situation. “You hold the box ready. I’m going to scoop that one up and drop it in.”
I pointed at the chicken who wasn’t hiding. It looked a little calmer than its frantic twin. Shouldn’t be too hard, especially if I moved slow at first and then scooped quickly. Similar to a lacrosse move I would’ve performed in my high school days. Back then, several coaches had praised my natural grace.
But today? At forty-two? Apparently I’d lost all my grace because my signature slow-and-then-sweep move ended with me in a heap and the chicken scampering away. Rinse and repeat until I was sweaty and one of my favorite custom shirts was dust streaked and clinging to my back.
“They’re so scared. I wonder if a treat would help?” My mother’s boundless sympathy did not seem to extend to my wardrobe.
“They’re chickens. Not puppies.”
“Most living things do better with incentives.” Mom gave me an arch look. “You should try it sometime. I wish you’d find someone to spoil—”
“Mother,” I warned her before she could continue this very old argument.
“Or even just spoil yourself. You need more indulgences.”
“This entire store is an indulgence.” My tone was more frustrated tease than true irritation. It was impossible to rouse anger for the most caring person I knew. We might disagree about what my life needed, but there was no one else I’d have left my city life for. “Okay. Enough playing around. Chickens, I’m coming for you.”
“Don’t scare them!” She moved aside so I could get farther into the stacks of boxes. Ignoring her, I crept up on the closest bird and, miracle of miracles, I managed to snatch it up as it squawked and carried on. However, right as I got a good grip on the bird, the door to the stockroom swung open.
“What’s going on here?”
Breathing hard, I needed a minute to process the newcomer in the doorway. Oz trailed behind the guy, his usual beefiness dwarfed by this burly specimen, who had to be Finn. Tall and clean-shaven, Finn was broad with acres of biceps and muscular forearms poking out of rolled-up, plaid shirtsleeves. Oz hadn’t been wrong at all. This was easily one of the hottest men I’d ever seen. He looked like something out of an antique farming ad, from his build right down to his dusty boots.
“Uh…” I made an inarticulate sound at odds with my years of education. And as I scraped my jaw off the floor, his deep scowl overshadowed his attractiveness. Hot chicken farmer was hot angry chicken farmer, and it was all directed at me.
“What are you doing to my chickens?”