“It would certainly explain the bees.”
He lifted his head. “Are you aware that the second you said the word bees, your entire body froze?”
I sighed. “I truly believe ‘so goes the colony, so goes the planet’—but bees are assholes.”
He dropped his head to my back to my shoulder. “You’re twisted.”
I smiled. “But you still want to lick my honey, don’t you?”
He groaned.
Approximately six and a half minutes later, after running his hands through his hair to smooth out the furrows my hands had made in it, and straightening my bunchy shirt, Leo backed out of the walk-in, saying, “Okay—so I’ll bring you beets as long as I have them in season.”
I knew he was making sure people knew he was just there for business—and not monkey business—but I couldn’t help giggling.
Tonight, I was having Leo. Over for dinner. Yes, that period was intentional. It was rare that I sat down with a guy and shared a meal I had prepared. But with Leo providing so much of the food, and little potential for strings attached, it only seemed fair. And more to the point, I liked the idea of cooking for Leo. I wanted to cook for him.
I waited a few minutes, getting my giggles under control and zipping up my hoodie, wondering if my lips looked used. God damn, the man could kiss.
When I returned to the kitchen, clipboard in hand, everything was normal—the world had continued to turn.
But lunch was approaching, so my curiosity about the basket he’d brought me—I needed to see just how big this zucchini was—would have to wait. As I prepped the stew, I realized I was curious to get to the bottom of the Leo Story, as I’m sure it was a good one. And now I was off on a daydream tangent about his bottom, which was considerably cute.
I pondered this and other ponderables throughout lunch, and during the hour afterward roasting mad beets. I had some ideas of what I wanted to make for dinner tonight with Leo, and beets would be figured prominently. And speaking of prominent, I finally peeked in the basket he left me and saw the zucchini. He should have been arrested for carrying that thing through town. Honestly.
After I closed up the diner and collected my beets, I went shopping for the rest of what I’d need tonight. Being so close to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, this area had always had its share of impeccable palates. But with the farm-to-table explosion, the number of shops selling local and homegrown foods had multiplied significantly.
I’d spent the last few years being spoiled by the riches of living so close to the San Joaquin Valley, one of the greatest agricultural areas in all of the United States. Access to locally grown fruits and vegetables was something I took for granted.
But here, it was homegrown New York style. The Hudson Valley had always had a mix of people making it home. Take some hippies and richies, add a dash of old school, a sprinkle of blue blood and a dollop of millennial, with a generous helping of city professionals who owned weekend homes, and you had an eclectic melting pot.
So it made perfect sense that on Main Street, you’d find a high-end clothing store next to a shop that sold crystals promising you inner light and peace. A Realtor with pictures of multimillion-dollar “farmhouses” in the front window, next door to a dive bar advertising dollar pitchers and quarter wings.
But I was focusing on the return of the small-town butcher. A cheese shop. A bakery. An actual general store selling everything from two-dollar belt buckles to nine-dollar artisanal pickles. Ooh, and a wine shop. Locally grown, sustainably sourced bubbly to make us a little tipsy? Why, thank you, sir, I think I’ll have another.
I spent the afternoon popping in and out of stores, saying hello to people I hadn’t seen in ages, and stocking my summer pantry in a major way. I’d left so many of my things in LA, bringing only the basics: clothing, makeup, knives, chopsticks, a rasp, a bamboo steamer, and a fistful of saffron.
Now I filled the back of the Wagoneer with fresh pumpernickel bread, aged balsamic vinegar, and local maplewood smoked bacon. I snatched up armfuls of spices, bunches of fresh herbs, and a wedge of the stinkiest Stilton I could find, imported by a cheesemaker here in town. The cheese shop featured a wide variety from a nearby creamery, and I was willing to bet Leo would know more about those cows.
And as I shopped, I was reminded several times of things that Leo had told our group on the farm tour. What he was doing wasn’t any different from how family farms had been run a hundred years ago; he was just doing it on a larger scale than most. “What grows together, goes together” was a phrase I’d heard my entire culinary life. Sometimes it applied to wine pairings with specific foods, and often it applied to herbs and the like. Take tomatoes and basil. Everyone knew they tasted great together, but I learned from Leo that they literally grew better when they were planted together—something about the soil and a particular pest. It was hard to pay attention at that point, because he was kneeling down, which pulled his pants tight over his very cute caboose—but the point is that tomatoes and basil planted near each other actually tasted better. Mother Nature had her shit together.
So as I shopped, I was even more aware about what went with what, and who produced it. And why it was nice to find an honest-to-goodness butcher who not only could tell me what was the best cut of the day, but when I mentioned I needed some fresh ground pork, he lopped off a piece of tenderloin and ground it for me personally. His name was Steve. My new butcher’s name was Steve.
I caught myself whistling a happy tune on my way back to my car, and for one tiny moment I found myself a little homesick. For my hometown.
But for now, I sped off in the direction of my mother’s house. I had a boy coming over tonight. Thank goodness I’d cleaned the place up.
Chapter 10
A few hours later I’d opened all the windows to let the late afternoon breeze blow in, and I was back to thinking about Leo. I enjoyed being around him, and was looking forward to enjoying him naked at some point. But beyond that I wanted to get to know him, to find out what made him tick.
What would Leo think of my tiny childhood home? I wasn’t ashamed of where I’d come from, but it was striking to think of how different our backgrounds were.
But I couldn’t marinate on this too long, I had actual marinating to do. Tossing together some Meyer lemon, fresh tarragon, olive oil, and a pinch of salt, I poured this over the beautiful diver scallops I’d picked up at the fish market—something else new in town. I set the scallops and their marinade in the fridge, assembled the Stilton with some early cherries I’d picked out, then set about peeling the beets I’d roasted at the diner.
I was slicing the beets when I heard a car coming down the drive. A glance through the curtains showed Leo’s Jeep pulling to a stop, kicking up dust. Even under his shirt, his muscles were evident as he swung down, his back strong but not rippling in a beefcakey way. Just plain awesome strength, honestly come by. I’d seen how hard he worked on his farm. And speaking of awesome, he’d ditched the T-shirt/flannel workingman’s combo and was rocking the shit out of a white button-down and comfortable-looking jeans.
That beard was still there, gorgeously scruffy yet neatly trimmed, and I wanted to kiss him just to feel the tickle. I felt a thrill run up and down my spine as I imagined what it would be like to be the girl he came home to every night. Whoa. Where did that come from?
Shaking it off, I leaned out the window and called out, “The door’s open, go ahead and let yourself in!”
I had the pleasure of watching his face light up at my voice. Wow, look at that.
“Well, hey there,” he said, coming around the corner with a bottle of wine. “I wasn’t sure what you were making, so I went with a Riesling from—wow, did you murder someone this afternoon?”
“Ha-ha,” I replied, holding up the last beet I was slicing and showing him my pinky-purple hands. “Someone brought me beets, and that same someone knows exactly what they do to your hands when you mess with them.”
“If I
made a joke about catching you red-handed, would you laugh?”
“I think so,” I said, blowing a piece of hair out of my face.
He waited a moment, looking at me expectantly.
“What’d I miss?”
“You’re not laughing,” he said, setting the wine down and moving a little closer.
“I was waiting for your joke,” I said, blowing again at a piece of hair sticking to my face. I didn’t dare touch it; the beet juice would stain almost anything it touched.
His cheeks crinkled as he laughed. “Forget it. Can I help you with that?” He leaned in and plucked the piece of hair from my face, tucking it neatly behind my ear. “Better?”
“Better,” I agreed. “You hungry?”
“Starved,” he replied, stepping even closer. “Famished.” His hand lingered on my neck, fingertips dancing across my skin as he skimmed around to the nape, warm and heavy. “Can I kiss you without you getting my shirt all beety?”
“You can sure try,” I answered, letting him pull me into him. I kept my hands straight out to my sides, trying to keep from marking him. He kissed me slow and sweet. Little fleeting brushes of his lips, first on one side of my mouth, then the other. By the time he made it to the middle of my mouth, I was rising up on my tiptoes to get closer, still keeping my beet hands out to my sides. He held my face in his hands, thumbs sweeping across my cheekbones, feathering and light. In the walk-in this afternoon, there was surprised passion. Now it was a slow burn.
His kisses swept down along my jawline, and right about the time he got to my earlobe, I had to warn him that my hands were beginning to have a mind of their own.
“If you want to keep that shirt from being ruined, you better quit while you’re ahead.” I groaned, lowering my head and beating it against his chest a few times.
“For the record, I’m not at all concerned about my shirt,” he said as I extricated myself and headed back over to my cutting board.
“Now you tell me.” I finished slicing the beets, washed my hands until the water ran clear, then started assembling the salad. I stacked frisée and endive leaves on two plates, topped them with wedges of the purple beets, added a handful of Leo’s walnuts (for which I got an approving eyebrow), and finished with a few crumbles of good feta. I drizzled syrupy balsamic vinegar over the whole thing, added a little walnut oil, then dusted salt, pepper, and a few sprigs of fresh parsley across the top.
As I assembled, he told me about one of his heritage pigs that had gotten loose from the paddock in the woods, and how he and some of his interns spent the afternoon running through the forest, trying to tackle a hog.
“I really wish I could have seen that,” I said, setting the plates down on the table while Leo opened the wine he’d brought.
“Come back again sometime and I’ll show you the pigs. They’re great.”
“And you raise pigs for . . .”
“Pork. Bacon. Chops. Everything.”
I turned from the stove, where I was getting the cast-iron pan sizzling hot for the scallops. I’d fried some bacon earlier, and it was chopped and ready to go in at the last moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” he replied, pouring wine into the glasses I’d set out.
“Is it ever weird, getting to know the animals you’re going to end up killing? Do you ever get attached?”
I held my hand over the pan, testing the heat. I flicked a drop of water in, watched it sizzle and pop. Good to go. Too hot, and the scallops would burn. Not hot enough, they would just steam.
“Hmm. Not sure attached is the right word. How can I explain without sounding callous?” He came to stand next to me while I started the scallops. “On the tour, I talked about how everything at the farm has a purpose, right? The animals live the most stress-free life I can give them. Not just for humane reasons, which I feel very strongly about. But it’s also better for me, and the rest of my farm, to let the chickens, the sheep, the pigs, even the cows that graze on some of my land live as normally as possible. When I move sheep onto a field, I get the benefit of their hooves aerating the soil. I get the benefit of the naturally occurring compost that happens when animals do their business. They get the benefit of eating clover all day under a gorgeous sky and moving around as freely as they want to. They’re incredibly happy animals.”
“They did seem happy,” I said, watching the scallops. I resisted the urge to move them, knowing the longer I let them sit still, the more caramelized and sticky good they’d be.
“It’s amazing how much better a pork chop is from a pig that’s been rooting through the forest, rolling in the mud, sleeping in the shade, and living a full life. We try to produce as much as we can on the farm, try to be as diverse as we can and still maintain the quality. It’s a balancing act, one I’m still learning.”
He was so full of passion for what he did, his entire body perked up when he talked about it.
I checked one of my scallops—charred and gorgeous on the underside. Using tongs, I flipped each one over.
“I wonder if this was happy bacon,” I said, taking the plate I’d cooked up earlier.
“Where’d you get it?”
“In town. Steve, my new favorite butcher, recommended it.”
“That’s very happy bacon,” he said proudly. “That’s from Maxwell Farms.”
“Well, look at you.” I grinned, watching him puff up a little bit. And why shouldn’t he? It seemed like he was doing exactly what he was supposed to do.
The scallops only needed a moment on the second side, so I lifted them out of the pan. “Might want to lean back a little bit,” I warned, then splashed a tablespoon or so of brandy into the pan, which I tilted slightly. The fire caught the alcohol, flames dancing furiously before dying down just as quickly. Was I showing off a little? Maybe a touch. It was nice, cooking for someone I was . . . getting to know.
I let the brandy deglaze the pan a bit, added a pat of butter for shine, then tumbled the bacon back in. Swirling for just a moment, I finished the sauce and poured it over the line of scallops on the plate, sprinkling fresh-cut chives over the whole thing. “Well, I’m ready to eat this happy bacon, and these totally blissed-out scallops, and those supremely thrilled-to-be-here beets.”
“This looks amazing—thanks so much for cooking tonight. I’d say I’d return the favor, but saying I suck in the kitchen would be the understatement of the century.”
“You help me with my mother’s kitchen garden out there, and I’ll teach you some basic recipes. How would that be?” I offered before I thought about it. I didn’t teach guys to cook. That wasn’t how I operated. But what could it hurt—right?
He set the plates on the table, then looked back at me, eyes dancing. “I’d say it’s going to be a busy summer.”
The beets were good. The scallops were lovely. The wine was fantastic. The farmer was lickable. We chatted as we ate, and he praised everything lucky enough to be brought to his exquisite mouth. Never in my life have I been more jealous of an endive leaf. But in between my fantasies of being devoured, I actually learned a little more about Leo. I say little because he didn’t share all that much.
Ask him about crop rotation, and you’ll hear more than you ever thought you could. Ask him about the phrase slow foods movement and you’d think you were in church, listening to a testimony. But ask him about his parents, how this all happened for him, or how often he saw anyone with his same last name, and the guy clammed up like a littleneck. Thank God for Chad and Logan—and Maxine the gossipy waitress.
“But you didn’t grow up here, I would remember that,” I said, leaning back in my chair and allowing Leo to pour me another glass of wine. I wasn’t tipsy yet, but the edges of the room were becoming juuust the tiniest bit fuzzy.
“Why would you remember that?” he asked, finishing off the bottle with his own pour.
“Are you kidding? When the big house got opened up again, people knew. It’s like the queen: when the flag is there, she’s in the ho
use.”
“The Maxwells. That’s really how people see us, don’t they? The name?” he sighed, his eyes looking tired as he swallowed his wine.
“Well, it’s a bit of an institution, you have to admit.” I traced the lace in the tablecloth. “I always wondered if you guys were the coffee people too.”
“Very distantly related. We’re just the bankers. Well, they’re the bankers. I’m not involved in the family business anymore,” he said, watching my fingertips on the table. “You were born and raised here, right? Why’d you leave?” he asked, the change of topic coming so swiftly I had to shake my head. “Other than wanting brighter lights and a bigger city.”
“Uh, yeah. Born here, raised here, Bailey Falls through and through. I left right after I graduated because I wanted to add something else to the Bailey Falls. I knew what would happen if I stayed here.”
“What were you so sure was going to happen?”
“It was pretty much written into the town law books that I’d inherit the diner and run it for the rest of my life. I’d like to actually have a life first.”
“You didn’t want the diner?”
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to try on a new hat, when everyone in your family assumes you want to wear the same one they’re all wearing?” I asked, feeling some of the old weight I used to carry around, taking care of everything including my mother, beginning to pile back on.
He grimaced. “Yeah. There’s a bank in Manhattan the size of a city block with my last name on it.”
It was quiet except for the plink plunk of the faucet dripping. Of course he knew what I was talking about. There was more to that story, but he seemed content to sit in the quiet, and I wasn’t about to push him.
I sipped my wine, then drained it. “So yeah, away I went to culinary school in California.”
He seemed glad to turn the conversation back to me. “Even with the CIA right up the road?”
“The Culinary Institute of America is an amazing school—one of the best. But it was here, and I wanted to be there.”