The city had changed. Or maybe Janice and Eric had. The streets that once buzzed with opportunity now echoed like empty promises. Corporate layoffs had hit Janice’s finance firm hard. Eric’s clinic, once beloved, had been replaced with a trendy pet spa that barely accepted walk-ins, let alone folks who couldn’t afford a gold-tier grooming plan.
Janice knew they had two choices: drown in the weight of what they’d lost or leap toward something new.
They chose the leap.
On a warm June morning, they loaded up their navy blue Ford Aerostar van—“Old Reliable,” as Eric lovingly called it—and left behind a city skyline they once fought so hard to be part of. Janice watched it disappear in the rearview mirror. Her grip tightened on the seatbelt.
“You good?” Eric asked, sensing her silence.
She nodded. “Just… nervous.”
He reached across the seat, squeezed her hand. “You trust me?”
She turned to look at him, eyes soft. “Always.”
—
Grace Hill was a whisper of a town tucked between pine-covered hills and sun-dappled roads. The kind of place where the post office closed at 4 p.m. sharp and where folks still waved from their porches. Their house—a two-story fixer-upper with a wraparound porch and faded green shutters—stood at the end of Magnolia Lane, surrounded by five acres of untamed land and an old red barn leaning ever so slightly to the right.
Eric stepped out of the van, hands on his hips, and took a deep breath. “Smell that?”
Janice sniffed. “What? Dirt and cow patties?”
He laughed. “Fresh air, woman. Country air.”
She grinned, but her eyes scanned the house. “It’s got potential,” she admitted.
Eric grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
Inside, the house groaned with age—floorboards creaked, a wasps’ nest occupied a window corner, and something smelled faintly like mildew and old bacon grease. Still, there was charm: arched doorways, tall ceilings, and a clawfoot tub Janice immediately claimed.
They had two weeks before the moving truck arrived, and they intended to use every hour. Eric got to work on the roof with help from a man named Uncle Bo—an elder black neighbor who wore overalls every day and spoke in riddles. Janice scrubbed walls, patched windows, and mapped out where every piece of furniture would go.
“This dining room?” she said, standing in the middle of the floor, arms stretched out. “One day, folks gonna gather here. Talk, laugh, maybe cry a little. But they’ll be fed and welcomed.”
Eric leaned against the doorway, dust in his beard. “We’re building more than a home.”
—
Their first venture into town led them to Lula Mae’s Café.
The screen door squeaked as they walked in, and conversation paused as heads turned. Janice felt a flicker of city instinct—stand tall, be polite, don’t give too much. But then Miss Lula, with her silver curls wrapped in a scarf and her red lipstick matching her earrings, smiled like they were already kin.
“Well look at y’all,” she said, eyeing them from head to toe. “New blood, huh?”
“We’re the Gardners,” Janice said, smoothing her shirt. “Just moved into the Franklin house.”
“Ooh, the haunted one?” Lula teased with a wink.
Eric chuckled. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Old Mr. Franklin claimed he heard voices every night,” Lula said, pouring coffee. “But that man also drank moonshine like it was water. Y’all be fine.”
They ordered the special—catfish, yams, and cornbread—and by the time dessert came, Lula had already given them a rundown of every neighbor, church, and pothole to avoid.
“People ‘round here, we watch out for our own,” she said, setting a slice of peach cobbler between them. “Y’all seem like good folk. You’ll be alright.”
Janice met her eyes. “Thank you.”
—
Back home, they burned through projects like fire: the leaky faucet, the sagging porch rail, the crooked barn door. Eric was determined to turn the barn into his new clinic. Every day, he scraped, sanded, and hammered until dusk.
One afternoon, he called Janice outside. “Come look!”
The old wooden sign he’d painted read GARDNER ANIMAL CARE in bold red lettering, just beneath the hand-drawn outline of a dog, a cat, and a chicken.
Janice laughed. “A chicken?”
“Miss Lula said she has three. You never know.”
She stepped closer, touched the sign gently. “It’s perfect.”
—
The next few days brought introductions—Celeste and Tyrone Bryant dropped by with their two boys, each more curious than the next.
“You gonna help our dog?” the older one, Marcus, asked Eric.
“I sure hope so,” Eric said, kneeling to Marcus’ level. “I work with all kinds of animals.”
“Even snakes?”
Janice raised an eyebrow.
Eric smiled calmly. “Only the friendly ones.”
Celeste laughed. “Don’t worry, Janice. Snakes don’t come ‘round unless invited.”
The two women sat on the porch sipping sweet tea, their conversation easy.
“You miss the city?” Celeste asked.
“Sometimes,” Janice admitted. “But… I think I needed something different. Slower. Realer.”
Celeste nodded. “Grace Hill has a way of getting under your skin. In a good way.”
—
But not every day was easy.
There were moments Janice stood in the backyard, overwhelmed by weeds, staring at the half-built coop and wondering what they’d gotten themselves into.
There were nights Eric lay awake, calculating startup costs, wondering if anyone would trust a city vet in a town where most folks treated animals with home remedies and folk wisdom.
One night, after a particularly rough day where the plumbing backed up and the stove short-circuited, Janice found Eric outside, staring at the barn.
She walked over, slid an arm around his waist. “You okay?”
He sighed. “I keep thinking—what if this doesn’t work? What if we gave up everything and end up with nothing?”
She leaned her head on his shoulder. “Then we’ll have each other. And I’ll still think that was worth it.”
He kissed her forehead. “You always know what to say.”
“I’m your wife,” she whispered. “I’m supposed to.”
—
The first Monday in August came hotter than a skillet in a soul food kitchen. Cicadas chirped in chorus as the sun stretched high over Grace Hill. The barn-turned-clinic smelled of fresh pinewood, eucalyptus oil, and possibility.
Eric stood in front of the mirror in the small exam room, adjusting the collar of his white coat.
“You nervous?” Janice asked, leaning against the doorframe in a crisp floral sundress.
He shrugged, smoothing his beard. “Little bit.”
She smiled and walked over, tucking a curl behind his ear. “You got this, Dr. Gardner. Just don’t faint when the first goat walks in.”
Eric laughed. “Only if it bites.”
—
By 9:00 a.m., the waiting area was packed. Word had spread like good gospel—Grace Hill now had its very own Black-owned animal clinic.
Miss Lula arrived first, clutching a wicker cat carrier.
“This fool here’s Prince,” she said. “Meaner than my first husband, but I love him anyway.”
Eric gently opened the carrier, and Prince immediately hissed and swatted.
“Oh, he’s spicy,” Janice whispered.
Eric knelt down, speaking softly to the cat. “Hey now, it’s alright, little man.”
It took a few gentle strokes and a salmon treat from his pocket, but Prince eventually calmed under Eric’s steady hand.
Lula wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “No one ever handled him like that.”
Janice grinned, handing her a folder. “We keep records, give tips, even have a loyalty program if you come back.”
“Y’all fancy,” Lula chuckled. “Look at you. I’m proud already.”
—
The next patients included an old Labrador with a limp, a goat named Billie Jean, and a terrier who had eaten an entire corn cob.
Eric moved between rooms with precision and patience, while Janice handled scheduling, billing, and consoling anxious pet parents. By lunchtime, they were exhausted—but glowing.
They sat on the back steps, sharing sandwiches and peach tea.
“You see that little girl cry when I gave her rabbit a clean bill of health?” Eric asked.
Janice nodded. “That mama slipped me a twenty and said she’s never seen her daughter that happy.”
He leaned back. “I think we’re exactly where we’re supposed to be.”
—
Two weeks later, they stood on the same porch, this time overlooking rows of fresh soil and the outlines of garden beds. The land behind their home, once wild and overgrown, was slowly being transformed.
Janice, with gloves on and her braids tied up in a scarf, knelt in the dirt planting collard greens. Beside her, Tyrone shoveled mulch while Celeste and the boys carried seedlings.
“You ever run a farm before?” Celeste asked, teasing.
“Only in Monopoly,” Janice replied. “But we’re learning. And I like the idea of feeding people. That feels… holy.”
Eric walked over from the chicken coop. “We’re calling it Grace Groceries.”
Tyrone raised an eyebrow. “Like a store?”
Janice shook her head. “Not exactly. We’ll harvest once a month and give groceries to anyone who needs them. No questions asked.”
Celeste blinked. “That’s beautiful.”
Eric smiled. “This land gave us a second chance. We want to share it.”
—
That first giveaway happened on a Saturday morning in September. Word had gotten around through whispers at the café and flyers posted at the church and gas station.
Neighbors showed up with baskets and grocery bags, some embarrassed, some grateful. Janice greeted each one like family.
“Take whatever you need, baby,” she said to an older woman with three grandkids in tow.
“I didn’t come for myself,” the woman whispered. “But my neighbor… she got laid off last week. Can I get a little extra for her?”
Janice filled a second bag without hesitation.
By noon, the baskets were nearly empty, and in their place stood something intangible but strong—trust. Community. Care.
—
That night, the Gardners hosted a small gathering under the stars. The barn was strung with soft lights, mismatched chairs, and the sound of Luther Vandross playing low from an old speaker.
Lula brought her famous potato salad. Celeste baked a peach cobbler that rivaled any in the state. Even Uncle Bo showed up with homemade muscadine wine.
People ate. Laughed. Cried. Danced.
Janice stood in the center of it all, a paper plate in hand, heart full. She caught Eric’s eye from across the yard. He raised his glass.
“To new roots,” he mouthed.
She smiled, mouthing back, “To Grace Hill.”
—
Epilogue:
The Gardners never looked back.
The clinic became a cornerstone of the town. The garden fed more families than they could count. Their porch became a place for stories, healing, and laughter. And every so often, when they sat down under a pink country sunset, Janice would rest her head on Eric’s shoulder and whisper:
“We were meant to be here.”
And every time, without fail, he’d reply, “Yes we were.”
Libra Sol Aura 