“Girl, if Roy ever had a cucumber that big, you think I’d have left him?”
“Hell no! You’re better off though, you know that.”
“I do. I also know that I’ve never seen Leo around town with anyone. Maybe he’s just waiting for the right gal.”
“And you think the right gal for him is a fifty-seven-year-old waitress from Bailey Falls?”
“Point taken. But if I were thirty years younger, I’d be throwing myself at him.”
Maxine snorted. “You’d have to be thirty years younger. A cucumber that size would kill you now.”
“But what a way to go!”
No girlfriend in the picture. Hmmm . . . I definitely needed to be on the lookout every time a delivery dude came through the back door. Strictly for redemption’s sake.
And that might also be why I found myself at the farmers’ market on Saturday morning.
I mean, maybe not. I was looking to see what was in season, who had the freshest produce. After all, excellence is my area.
Okay, and perhaps I was looking to see if a certain someone with a certain pair of eyes and a certain pair of strong and capable hands was there. So I could speak to him as an adult this time.
He was indeed there, and he had the biggest, longest line of all the vendors. Of course.
I also noticed how different the farmers’ market was from while I was growing up. Back then my mother and some other granola heads kept it alive, doing the local-food thing way back before it was hip. It was literally a few tables with giant tomatoes and the Jam Lady (best jam ever), and occasionally someone would bring in some eggs. It was held in the parking lot behind the Methodist church; there were never more than ten people at a time, including the farmers; and it usually ended with everyone sitting in the back of a truck, eating all the leftover caramel corn.
But this place was booming! The market had been relocated to the edge of town, in an old barn that was older than the town itself, from back when everything in the Hudson Valley had been farmland. Soaring high with white oak beams and rafters, it still held honest-to-goodness barn dances. And it was now home to the Bailey Falls farmers’ market, with permanent vendor booths set up inside the old stalls.
Each booth had the farm’s name proudly displayed over its table, which displayed whatever they were producing. Late spring greens were everywhere, turnip and mustard greens the most prominent. Lettuce of all varieties. Carrots in a riot of colors, not just orange—ruby red, purple, and vibrant yellow carrots spilled over their baskets and into customer’s waiting hands. One farmer had plates of sliced fresh radish set out, with piles of coarse salt and soft butter ready for dipping. Root vegetables, spring onion, garlic, and garlic scapes, that wonderful delectable that was only available in the late spring. Asparagus stalks, thin and tender, begged to be barely blanched and then tossed with the greenest olive oil. Early strawberries, still with their vines attached. And rhubarb for days.
But farmers’ markets were no longer just the territory of produce. A good farmers’ market could offer almost everything you needed for a week’s worth of great meals. Eggs, chicken, pork, sausage, beef—you name it, someone local was producing it. I circled the stalls, taking note of everything I wanted to try while I was in town. And as I circled, I found myself right back where I started. The big and the long—yeah yeah yeah.
Since Leo delivered to us, it would only be polite to say hi. Using the anonymity of the crowd, I give him a proper checkout. He was at least six feet two, long and lean, like someone who swam and ran track, rather than played football. He had an easy smile, and he was quick with it. I watched as he interacted with people he knew, people he didn’t as he stopped to shake hands, and when he came around the table to help a little old lady carry a basket out to her car, I couldn’t help but smile. Country Hipster was not only hot, but he was sweet. Lethal.
As I was getting in line to say hello I heard my name being called, and I turned to see a very good-looking man approaching.
Chad Bowman?
Oh boy. Captain of the swim team Chad Bowman. Senior class president Chad Bowman. Voted Best Looking, Best Body, and Most Likely to Succeed Chad Bowman.
And he’s walking toward me. The last time I saw him was at graduation, after he signed my yearbook. Then he walked away with Amy Schaefer, the prettiest girl in my school, probably to have the sex. The last time I saw him, I may have been drooling.
“Roxie? Holy shit, Roxie Callahan!” He caught me in a giant bear hug, pulling me off my feet. “I haven’t seen you since, oh man, was it graduation?”
He smelled like sunscreen and honey and something intangible. Was it the scent of success? The scent of perfection? Of the good life, the incredible lightness of being handsome? The scent of knowing who you are and what you want and how to get it? Because a guy like this doesn’t take no for an answer. Doesn’t know the meaning of shy or nervous. He just knows awesome.
I inhaled another hit of high school royalty before he could put me down and his stunningly gorgeous wife would no doubt appear and ask why he was hugging some town girl wearing a T-shirt that said That’s Not Cream Filling.
“Chad, it’s great to see you, how’ve you been?” I managed as he finally set me down. I wasn’t stammering; California Roxie had returned!
“I’m good, really good actually,” he said with a wide grin. God, he even had perfect teeth. “How about you—what’re you doing back home?”
“Oh, just helping out my mom. She’s heading out of town for a while to do—”
“The Amazing Race, I heard about that!” he exclaimed, looking over his shoulder, doubtless for his wife.
“She’s told half the town, I bet.” I sighed, enjoying this moment in the sun with Chad Freaking Bowman. I peeked over his other shoulder. Would she be petite and brunette? Tall and blond?
“She told half the town, and that half told the other half,” he chuckled, waving at someone over my shoulder. “Roxie, I’d love for you to meet—”
I turned to finally see—
“—my husband.”
Tall and blond it is.
I ended up having coffee in a small café in the barn with The Chad Bowman and his husband, the equally charming and handsome Logan O’Reilly. Actually, I bet he was someone’s The Logan O’Reilly. And while my high school self would have been incredibly nervous about sitting at the cool kids’ table, I found myself surprisingly at ease. Perhaps I could remember who I was this summer after all.
“I can’t believe how easy it is to talk to you,” I admitted, taking a big bite. Bagels on the West Coast had nothing on these. Nothing.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Chad asked, looking confused.
“You’re Chad Bowman,” I replied simply, licking a glob of cream cheese from my thumb.
“And?” he asked after a pause.
“You’re, like, the guy. And I’m sitting and talking with you like I’m a cool kid from way back! If we were still in high school, I’d assume you wanted me to help you with homework —which doesn’t actually make sense, since you were in honor society. I mean really, how blessed can one guy be?”
“Oh, very. Blessed,” Logan added, which made me giggle.
“I remember you were a little shy back then,” Chad said, ignoring Logan’s comment despite the color creeping into his cheeks.
“That’s like saying you were a little gorgeous. Fortunately I’ve moved past most of that, though I admit I had a little nervous pang when I drove into town yesterday, wondering if it would all come screaming back.” Not at all, scrambling for nuts and peas on the floor. Changing the subject smoothly, I asked, “So, how are you? What have you been up to since high school?”
“Things are really good. We moved back into town about a year ago from the city.”
“And where are you from, Logan?” I asked.
“Iowa, then Manhattan.”
“Wow, that’s a big difference.”
“Totally. Which is why, after Chad brought me up h
ere to meet his folks and I got a look at life along the Hudson, I knew this is where I wanted to live.”
Chad picked up the conversation. “We’re renovating a house on Maple. Remember the old pink house on the corner?”
“The one with the lace curtains fluttering out of those broken windows?” I made a face. That house was hideous.
“That’s the one, though you should see it now. It’s come a long way. We’re having a painting party next week—you should come!”
“A painting party?”
“Yeah, all the new Sheetrock just went in, and the floors are being sanded this week. Now it’s time for paint,” Logan explained. “Please come.”
I smiled and raised my bagel in solidarity. “I’m in.”
And just like that, I had a date with Chad Bowman. And his husband. I had a sudden mental snapshot of what an actual date with these two gorgeous men might entail, and I filed it away for a lonely night with a deliciously naughty shiver.
I visited with the two of them for another half hour or so, catching up on all the high school gossip, town gossip, and gossip in general. Chad had gone from our small town to Syracuse, then on to grad school in the city, getting his MBA. He was working for a financial firm on Wall Street when he met Logan at a competing house. They’d dated, fell in love, and decided to move upstate. Investing everything they had, they opened a financial advisory company and now The Chad Bowman helped little old blue hairs with their retirement plans.
“So now you’re back from LA to run the diner while your mom’s out of town. Are you here just for the summer, or . . .” Chad asked as we were finishing up our snack.
“Is there a town crier?” I asked, making a show of looking around.
Chad rolled up his menu and held it to his mouth like a megaphone. “Oh please, like you don’t remember how fast news travels in this town. For instance, how in the world did you manage to catch Farmer Leo between your thighs?”
I choked on my chai. “Keep your voice down!” I whisper-yelled, horrified.
“Oh please, you’ve got all the single ladies in this town pissed, not to mention half the married ones. Everyone wants to know how you made that happen, on your first day back in town, no less!” Chad exclaimed, and Logan nodded agreement.
“Okay, seriously, stop. I slipped and fell, and took him out as well. I don’t know anything about him, except that I heard that he works over at Maxwell Farm—”
“Works over at Maxwell Farm?” Logan interrupted.
I nodded, continuing, “—which I think is great. I can’t believe those blue bloods let that land just sit around for so many years. What a waste! And if he works there and is helping that family do something good for a change, instead of just sitting back and counting their money, then good for him.”
They grew silent.
“Owning a farm, ha! It’s not like a Maxwell is ever going to get his hands dirty—that’ll be the day.”
As I paused to sip my chai, two hands suddenly appeared in my field of vision. Rough. Ready. And . . . dirty? These hands set a small basket on the table, filled with . . . sugar snap peas. Oh man. I looked at Chad and Logan, both of whom looked positively delighted at the turn this morning was taking. Dammit.
I sighed, then turned slowly in my seat to find Leo standing behind me, wearing an equally delighted look.
“Your last name is Maxwell, isn’t it?” I asked, looking up into his eyes.
“Oh yeah,” he replied, making sure to wave his “dirty” farmer hands. “Brought you some sugar snaps. I picked those with my very own blue-blood hands.” His eyes danced.
I picked up the peas, prepared to eat crow. Standing up, I turned toward him to apologize for the other day and the snarky comments I’d just made. But as I turned, I tripped on the leg of the chair, my forehead hitting his chest as I pitched forward into him, taking us both to the floor once more, sugar snap peas flying everywhere again. Only this time I landed on top of him.
Facedown. Between his thighs. As you do.
The Chad Bowman and The Logan O’Reilly applauded and took pictures.
The next moments unfolded in slow motion: those rough hands on my shoulders, lifting me off and brushing my hair from my face, one corner of his mouth raising again as he surveyed me from this reverse vantage point. He groaned as he sat up, no doubt because my frozen body was still draped across his. His chuckle as he brushed off the peas that clung to his farmery chest muscles. And then the flash of mischief in his eyes as he watched me look around wildly, trying to figure out how to get any shred of dignity I may still have left.
I could see people watching, faces I recognized, that knew me. I knew the story would be all around town within the hour, with nothing better to do in Bailey Falls on a Saturday morning than to tattle on Trudy’s daughter, back in town one day and as klutzy as ever. The Hippie and the Trippie. Still on the floor, tangled with this gorgeous man, I could feel my old self telling me to run, to hide, and pretend this never happened.
Fuck all that noise.
“So, was this your idea of a peace offering?” I asked, plucking a pea pod from his sandy blond hair and twirling it between my fingertips. For the record, I was still draped across his lower half.
“I suppose so,” he chuckled. “Although technically, you’ve now literally thrown yourself at me twice. Shouldn’t you be offering me something?” His eyes were warm, and a little challenging. He seemed to be asking me to play.
Okay Farmer Boy, let’s play.
I propped myself up, hand under one chin, like I was sitting at a desk instead of hovering over his plowshare. “I’ve got half a bagel on that table up there. You’re welcome to it.”
“Before I eat your bagel, we should be formally introduced, don’t you think?”
He licked his lower lip. I very nearly did the same. I’d lick his lower lip till the cows came home.
“Roxie.”
“Leo.”
“Dying!” Chad proclaimed from the table above. I looked up and grimaced as Chad and Logan peered down, gleeful. Understandable. We were covered in peas.
Spell broken, we untangled, then retrieved the sugar snaps that were scattered across the barn floor. Leo helped me up, keeping his hand at my waist a half second longer than he needed to. We faced the peanut gallery, who hadn’t helped retrieve a single pea, watching with wide grins.
I looked at my plate. “Whoops, more like a quarter of a bagel. But say the word and it’s all yours.”
“I’ll pass,” he replied, lifting one eyebrow. “For now.”
“Can I at least buy you a cup of coffee, to say sorry for all the falling down?”
He looked over his shoulder toward the Maxwell Farm stand. The line was still long. “I should get back—Saturday mornings are always busy.” He looked genuinely sorry to have to turn down my offer. “Rain check?”
“Sure. I’ll be here all summer,” I said. For the first time, without a hint of grumble.
He grinned, then nodded good-bye to the guys. As he strode off through the crowd, I sank back into my chair with a sigh, poking at my bagel.
“He’s single, you know,” Chad murmured, making me look up from my plate.
“Not a concern, but thank you,” I said primly. “You’re as bad as the waitresses at the diner. I received a similar report from them.” A report they didn’t know they were sharing with me, but still . . .
“He doesn’t date,” Chad added, his face impassive.
“Perfect. Me either,” I purred, watching Leo make his way across the barn.
“Sure.”
Neither of them offered any further information, so I pulled my gaze off Leo’s backside, which was magnificent, and back to my bagel mates.
I sighed. “Okay, I’ll bite. He doesn’t date at all? You know this, how?”
“He hasn’t since we’ve been back in town,” said Logan.
“And that’s why so many of the ladies here are always flocking to his stand at the market. Not just for his veg
gies,” Chad added.
“I hadn’t noticed,” I told them.
“Look at your nose just grow and grow,” said Chad, eyes dancing.
“I may have noticed his line was a wee bit longer than most,” I conceded.
“God willing,” Logan mumbled.
“Stop it.” I suppressed a giggle.
“For the record, when I said he doesn’t date, that doesn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t . . . you know . . .” Chad said meaningfully.
“He may you know all the time, but keeps it very quiet,” Logan chimed in.
I managed to remain silent, but under the table, I dug my nails into my palm. All three of us now looked across the barn at the stall where Leo was charming the hot pants off Mrs. Sherman, an eighty-year-old retired Rockette and the local Elizabeth Taylor. Did I neglect to mention her full name was Mrs. Kitty Chase Bocci Billings Cole Billings Hobbs Sherman? She liked Mr. Billings so much she married him twice. And now she was flap-ball-changing herself right around Leo.
Who at that moment looked up with a sheepish grin and locked gazes with me.
“Hmm,” I said, chewing on this and my bite of bagel. Had I found my summer company? I’d always had a farmer fantasy, a holdover from watching reruns of Little House. And holy Almanzo Wilder, this farmer was a looker.
I said good-bye to The Chad and The Logan and headed for the diner, where I was due to work the lunch shift. Doesn’t date, huh? As I drove, I hummed a little song.
Summer lovin’, had me a blast . . .
But all thoughts of summer lovin’ went bye-bye as I pulled into the parking lot behind the diner, because there was my mother standing at the back door, dish towel in hand and a shit-eating grin on her face. “How was the farmers’ market?” she asked, her voice full of mirth.
“Full of vegetables,” I replied, feeling my cheeks burn as I wondered how in the world she knew already.
Small towns. For the love . . .
Chapter 6
Over the next few days, every knowing glance and furtive look reminded me how much small towns loved to gossip. My mother delighted me each day by telling me what she’d heard. I’d pushed Leo behind a snap pea display at the farmers’ market and wrestled him to the ground. I’d offered him my bagel repeatedly, refusing to take no for an answer. I’d been seen out behind the market, helping him load up his vegetables and been caught holding his cucumber. That was my favorite.