I knew that strut well. I’d trailed behind it in many a club and restaurant when she was on the prowl. Something she mentioned on a call weeks ago bubbled up in my memory, and I realized exactly what was going on.
“You got us up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to go cruise for some cute farmer?” I asked.
She whirled around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, eyes wide and innocent.
“You’ve got the hots for a farmer too? What the hell is going on? When did Old MacDonald become the new Hot Guy archetype?” Clara asked, her face full of amusement.
“To be clear, he’s not a farmer; he’s a dairy guy. He has a bunch of cows upstate and makes the best fucking triple-cream brie I’ve ever had. He melts in my mouth.” Natalie sighed, arching her back. I’d say without knowing it, but she knew how good it made her boobs look. The guy who’d been trailing us since we got there actually gasped.
“You mean his brie melts in your mouth, right?” I asked, arching my eyebrow.
“Well,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “For now.”
“Oh boy,” I replied as she set off in her strut again.
And imagine my surprise when she strutted right over to Bailey Falls Creamery, run by none other than . . .
“Oscar? The hot dairy guy is Oscar?” I exclaimed.
“What are you talking about?” she asked, nonchalantly looking at a display of homemade churned butter. We were at the edge of the stall, surrounded by gorgeous wedges of cheese, beautiful glass-bottled fresh milk, and yes, some pretty delectable-looking butter.
And behind the counter, a head taller than everyone else, was Oscar. Leo’s neighbor, winner of Bailey Falls’s Conversationalist of the Year, and the man making Natalie’s cheeks blush.
And no man made her blush.
“I know him; he grazes his cows on Leo’s land sometimes.”
“I’m going for coffee,” Clara announced.
I went to stand next to Natalie in line, with her mouth-melting brie.
“So his name is Oscar?”
“Mmm-hmm, and that’s all I know about him. He’s very—”
“Intense? Mysterious?”
“Nonverbal.”
“Mmm.” Her throaty groan made several men, and three women, turn around with lust in their eyes. “He’s the strong, silent type—I knew it.”
“So how long has this cheesy flirtation been going on?” I asked as the line moved forward.
“I’ve been coming here for a while. You know how much I love my cheese.”
I did know. It was her love of cheese that made her enroll in culinary school.
Everyone has a secret dream, a secret unfulfilled life that they imagine they’d live if they won the lottery. They’d quit their job and . . .
. . . sail around the world.
. . . open a luxury resort in the Maldives.
. . . sing on Broadway.
And in Natalie’s case . . . become a cheesemaker.
Seriously. The woman who lived for concrete and yellow cabs wanted to run away from it all, simplify everything, wear cardigans, and make cheese.
She threatened to do this at least twice a year, usually when some ad campaign had her tied in knots and ready to scream. But then she’d remember the posh fund-raisers at the Guggenheim, the magic of Central Park in October, Malaysian takeout delivery at anytime o’clock, and she remembered why she would never leave her city.
But the girl still loved her cheese.
“Some coworkers had been going on and on about this new cheese guy at the market on Saturdays, so I had to check it out. First my taste buds fell in love, and then my eyeballs did when I caught a look at him. I mean, he’s gorgeous, right?” she said, slipping her arm inside my elbow as we got closer.
“He totally is,” I agreed as I watched Oscar interact with his customers. Leo was all smiles and hi-how-are-you with his customers, remembering names and kids’ names, and which berry you liked best.
Oscar? Barely grunted, filling orders with efficiency and not much else.
Gorgeous, yes. Friendly? Um . . .
“How well do you know him?” Natalie asked, color coming high in her cheeks as we moved to the front of the line. She was patting my arm in an almost nervous way, moving her weight from one foot to the other.
“Not well at all. The few times I’ve seen him, we’ve barely said— Hi, Oscar! How are you?” I chirped, putting on my game face.
He looked blandly back at me. Natalie’s skin began to burn; I could feel her heating up beside me.
“So, um, you come in each week to the city? I didn’t know the creamery had a stand here. That’s great!”
More with the bland.
“So, this is my friend Natalie—she loves your brie. Right, Nat? Hey—Natalie?”
My friend, who could talk a priest down off the pulpit with one button undone, had absolutely clammed up. Could have been a mannequin, for all the life that was in her.
Oscar turned his eyes from mine and looked at Natalie. He slowly took her in, taking his time as he scanned her from head to toe, then focused on her mouth. Which was pinched into a tight line, her lips almost white with tension. He finally looked into her eyes, and the snap crackle pop of tension between them made me feel a little dizzy.
Under her eyes, he came alive. But he still said nothing. Except . . .
“Brie?” His voice was deeper than I’d heard it before, scratchy and thick.
Natalie just nodded. He wrapped up a wedge, leaned over to set it in front of her, and moved on to the next customer.
Spell broken, Natalie flew over to the cashier, paid for her cheese, and continued her flight away from Oscar, away from the Creamery.
I caught up to her and tugged on her arm. “What the hell was that?”
“What?” she asked, all calm and cool again. She flung her hair over her shoulder and stood straight and tall, beautiful and in control once more. Clara was coming toward us with coffees, and Natalie’s eyes asked me to drop it.
“We’ll revisit this,” I said, and she nodded. The only way anyone would know she had a killer crush on Oscar the Grouch was the bloom of color still on her cheeks, and the tiny secret smile that was toying at her lips.
But I saw Oscar leaning out of his stall to take in the magnificent sight of Natalie’s backside as she strutted away.
Chapter 24
We walked home from the market, Clara taking her usual measured steps, Natalie appearing to glide on air, and me plodding. It was already eighty-five degrees well before noon, and would soar into the midnineties. Which in a city made of steel and concrete was borderline ovenlike.
In spite of the heat however, people were out in droves, walking fast and purposefully. I seemed to go left whenever they did, right when they did, and as a result was bobbing and weaving like a boxer. I caught three purses in the chest before I finally started walking behind Natalie, who at almost six feet in her heels acted as a natural crowd breaker.
The city felt like a physical being, wrapping around me warm and thick like a wool blanket. Not exactly what you want in the dog days of summer.
And the smell! It was garbage day, and thousands and thousands of plastic bags were piled onto the sidewalk’s curb, three to four feet high in some places, since the city had been constructed essentially without alleys. And in the heat of summer, the smell could be unbearable.
How much of this could be composted, I wondered as I held my breath walking by the bigger stacks. How much of this could be donated and worked into a nutrient-rich mulch that could augment summer gardens and winter fields?
Leo could figure this out, he would . . . thunk! Dodging yet another person who was intent on getting somewhere five minutes sooner than everyone else, I got shouldered into the wall of garbage, pinwheeling my arms to keep from going headfirst into a mountain of gross.
“Oh my God, Roxie! Are you okay?” Clara pulled me back just in time.
“Fucking dick!” I ca
lled after the guy with the shoulder, who didn’t even pause, didn’t check to make sure I was okay.
I was hot, I was sticky with humidity, my nose was filled with the stench of garbage, and I could feel my stomach giving a warning rumble. “Fucking dick,” I repeated to myself. “I’m fine—thanks.”
“Want me to smack him? I can catch him,” Clara said, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.
“No no,” I said, pulling at my T-shirt and trying to get some air. Suddenly everything seemed too close: the air, my clothes, the people, even my friends. It was all too loud, too much. My throat tightened, and a curious lump formed in the back of my throat as I realized in a great whoosh that I was . . . homesick. For Bailey Falls.
For the peace and quiet, for the good country air, for nosey gossipmongers, for the swimming holes, and the wind through the trees. For hills covered in funny little chicken coops on wheels, for brown sugar strawberries, and oh my God, I want Leo and every single thing that comes with it. Everything.
“You look like you’re going to be sick.” Natalie swept my hair back from my face.
“What’s the fastest way to Grand Central?” I asked, digging in my purse to find my phone. Dead. Dammit. That’s what happens when you run off to the city without packing a bag. I was wearing Clara’s clothes today, for goodness’ sake.
“Wait, what?” Natalie asked.
“I’m going home. Metro North runs all day, right?” I asked frantically.
“Mmm-hmm.” She raised a hand and grabbed a cab instantly. “Grand Central,” she told the driver.
“Thanks, I gotta go. I’ll send you your clothes,” I said to Clara, getting into the cab, already feeling better. Lighter.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Natalie patted her hand. “I’ll fill you in.”
Riverdale.
Ludlow.
Yonkers.
As the train sped up the Hudson, it was as though everything was suddenly clicking into place, like a giant game of Tetris tilting on end and every piece found its home.
The moment I decided I didn’t want to be in that big city anymore, my heart cracked open and began to long for a small town—my small town. For mosquitos and sweet tea, for bare feet and gentle hills that led to craggy peaks. For spring-fed pools and glacial lakes. For nosy neighbors and cranky waitresses and sweet former quarterbacks. For flaky hippie mothers who made falling in love seem easy and wonderful, even when it wasn’t, and always made sure their daughters had adequate fiber content.
For a farmer who groaned when he came, and grinned when I did.
For a farmer who wanted me desperately, but came as an already matched set, a set I’d never try to come between, but would be honored to someday join.
Irvington.
Tarrytown.
Philipse Manor.
I began to list all the reasons I had for never wanting to move back home and live a small-town life like my mother.
1. You don’t want to run the family diner. I’ve run the family diner. I don’t want to continue doing it forever, but it wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d always thought it’d be.
2. You think small towns are small for a reason, in scope and in size. The size was small, but I’d found this summer that small didn’t mean limited.
3. There are no opportunities in Bailey Falls for a classically trained chef who doesn’t want to work in a traditional restaurant environment. Zombie pickles. Jam Class. Potential opportunity at Bryant Mountain House. And the idea that’d been percolating since the Fourth of July: an Airstream food truck.
4. If you don’t go back to Los Angeles and redeem your whipped cream disaster, that town wins. This one was tougher. Did LA beat me? Worst-case scenario? Yeah, it beat me. And?
The and was the tough part. I’d never shied away from a fight. But it couldn’t be a fight if one corner wasn’t willing to participate, right? I’d likely always wonder what if, and what would have happened . . . But who didn’t look back, revisit, and wonder about past decisions? The question was, could I live with knowing that Mitzi St. Renee and her Mean Girls had won?
Cortlandt.
Peekskill.
Manitou.
Somewhere between Manitou and Garrison, I had a sudden realization: someone like Mitzi St. Renee always wins. And you can’t live your life fighting against everyone else’s expectations. And sometimes the deck is stacked, and people with power over your career are assholes, and there’s nothing you can do about that.
Excited for the first time in a very long time, I sat forward in my seat, pushing my right foot against the floor as if that would speed the train along faster. The Hudson sparkled blue on my left, sailboats and kayaks dotting its surface. Huge homes high on the ridge and smaller, simpler homes shared the gorgeous view.
Picturesque towns with tiny train stations, within easy distance of the grandest city on the planet, filled with people who chose to live a world away just an hour up the Hudson. The bright lights and the fast pace were close enough if you wanted it, but far enough away that you could never miss it.
My thoughts danced on, seeing endless opportunities that I’d never bothered to see, to an opportunity with a certain farmer and his daughter. I only hoped that opportunity was still available to me.
The train pulled into the Poughkeepsie station.
I got off. And drove straight to the farm.
When I got to Maxwell Farm I parked, raced inside the main barn, and started looking for Leo’s long and lean frame everywhere. I thought I spotted him when a Screaming Trees T-shirt came around the corner, but it turned out to be one of his interns.
People who knew me and knew of my relationship with Leo said hello to me, and judging by the way they said only hello and kept on walking, they knew I’d left him standing in the middle of the road. They were protective. I got that.
I headed into the farm store, but no Leo. I checked the barn, I checked the silo, and I checked the kitchen garden out back. No Leo.
“Looking for my dad?” I heard from behind me, and I turned to find Polly sitting on a wheelbarrow, sorting seed packets.
“I am, yeah. How are you, Polly?” I asked, kneeling down.
“How are you?” she asked pointedly. I reminded myself that she was only seven years old. But based on my actions lately, likely years ahead of me emotionally. “I heard you went away.”
“You did, huh?” I asked, wincing a bit. “I’m back, though. I just went into the city for a day or so.”
“You mean Manhattan?”
“Exactly. Have you been there?”
Shuffling the seed packets, she finally answered, “I have—it’s nice. Grandma’s apartment is pretty, you can see really far up that high! It’s fun running up and down the hallways and riding the elevator, but she was mad when I pressed every single button.”
“Oh, I bet. I did that too once, when I was a kid.”
“And I like going to the museums, especially the dinosaur exhibits. But . . .”
“But?”
“But I like it here lots better. Daddy grew up in the city, you know.”
“I did know that,” I replied, watching her look carefully at me.
“He loves it here. He says we’ll never leave here and live somewhere else.”
I swallowed hard. “It’s pretty great, isn’t it?”
“I saw you kiss my daddy.” She looked at me, unblinking.
I blinked. A bunch. “Um, yes. You did. Was that weird?”
“Yeah, at first it was. But now, I think . . .”
I held my breath.
She laid out some of the packets face up, arranged like a vegetable full house.
Leo was in for it with this kid. I smiled, hoping that I’d get to watch it happen.
The smile from me was what she needed.
She smiled back, her pensive face turning bright. “I’m going to go see the hogs. Daddy’s in the apple orchard.”
And then she was off, running pell-mell across
the field.
And I was off to the orchard.
Parking next to Leo’s Jeep, I peered through the rows of trees, looking for him. I thought I saw something moving several rows down, so I entered the orchard and made my way toward him.
As I walked, I became aware of two things.
One, my skin tingled. I was excited to see him! I wanted to see his face and kiss his lips and hold him close and hear his voice in my ear and feel his hands on my skin, after I told him, ‘I’m here to stay if I can still be yours.’
Two, my skin crawled. I became aware of the second thing as I wandered through the Macouns and the Empires, the Honeycrisps and the Sansas. And when I moved into the late-summer peaches . . . that’s when I felt it.
First came a low, droning hum, almost like feedback from a very low bass speaker. I called out to Leo, who I could now see moving a few rows away. My call changed the hum to something more recognizable, a familiar sound that bumped into the corner of my brain. Something familiar enough to make my skin pebble.
And then I saw them.
Bees.
Everywhere.
The droning hum was a collective buzz, which announced itself to my brain in a wave of awful, realization crashing across my body in a cold sweat and an absolute sheer terror. I wanted to run. I wanted to freeze. I wanted to—
“Roxie?” a surprised voice asked, and I saw Leo underneath a peach tree, oblivious to the million-bee chorus announcing that I was here and ripe for the picking. To those who are about to die, we salute you.
“Oh!” was all I could manage—and then the internal screaming began. One buzzed my ear, one buzzed by my nose, and several bopped around my head. Their bee noses must be drunk on the fear coming off me in waves. My eyes flashed to his, and he saw I was surrounded.
But . . .
I came to this orchard to get my guy.
Or at least tell him I’d like to be his girl.
I took a step.
I took another step.
The bees went with me, a cloud of nightmares hovering just inches from me, talking among themselves about how best to torture me. I had a sudden vision of the flying monkeys carrying away Dorothy, her legs kicking in the air. I only hoped that when the bees carried me off, someone would make sure my mother got my chef’s knives.