My True Love Gave to Me: Twelve Holiday Stories(43)

He was changing the subject instead of playing along. Interesting. Until now, he hadn’t seemed like someone who could resist a comeback.

“Or are solstice trees bare?” he continued drily. “The way nature made them?”

There was the North she knew. But … she didn’t know him, did she? Marigold was suddenly struck by how badly she wanted to know him.

She moved toward him. “We decorate ours.”

North turned around, not realizing how close she was standing behind him. He didn’t step backward, and his confidence didn’t waver. “So you’re saying there’s a box.”

His voice was so deep that it rattled through her. “Yeah. There are two.”

North smiled. “Care to describe these boxes?”

“One is for an old Fisher-Price castle. The other is for a Fisher-Price Tudor house.”

“I don’t think I’ve seen those yet.” His voice had gotten even deeper, somehow. Even—okay, she could admit it—sexier. Deep and sexy … about Fisher-Price boxes.

She turned away from him, smiling to herself. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee? Tea?”

He seemed amused by her amusement. Even if he didn’t understand it. “Yeah. Coffee, thanks.”

The kitchen was a wreck, but—unlike how the rest of the apartment had been—it contained more room to maneuver around in. As Marigold brewed the coffee, North grabbed a round patio table and two dining room chairs, and he made a cozy new dining area in one corner of the living room. Marigold usually ate standing up or at her desk. She couldn’t remember the last time she and her mother had eaten together.

North appeared behind her, pointing at her coffeemaking device. “What’s that?”

“A French press.”

“Fancy.”

She shrugged. “My mom doesn’t believe in electric coffeemakers.”

“At least she believes in coffee.”

Marigold laughed as she removed two mugs (handmade, her mother also believed in supporting local artists) from the cabinet. “How do you take yours?”

“Black,” he said.

“Figures. A hearty lumberjack like yourself.”

North snorted.

Marigold grinned. “I take mine black, too.”

He leaned over the island in the kitchen, leaned his tall body toward hers. “And here I had you figured for an herbal-tea kind of girl.”

“Right.” Marigold rolled her eyes. She handed him his coffee. “Because of the restaurant.”

“Because of the solstice. And your name. And this pottery.” He held up the mug. “What’s the restaurant?”

She’d forgotten that she hadn’t told him. It seemed like he should already know. Marigold sat down at the patio table, and North sat across from her. “My mom owns a late-night vegan comfort-food restaurant downtown,” she said in one breath. “Yes, I know. It’s very Asheville.”

“Henrietta’s? Is your mom Henrietta?”

Marigold’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

North shrugged. “There aren’t many late-night restaurants—and there aren’t any in Sugar Cove—so I’ve wound up there after a ton of movies and shows. Everyone knows your mom,” he added. “Or, at least, her reputation. Helping out the homeless and all. It’s pretty cool.”

Marigold had expected him to tease her. Instead, she felt a lump in her throat. It had been awhile since she’d heard anyone speak well of Henrietta. Her mother’s employees were as sick of the sadness and anger as Marigold was. But her mother had built her reputation on feeding everyone well, regardless of how much money they had in their pockets. Included on her menu was a simple beans-and-rice dish that customers paid for on a sliding scale. Those who paid more than the dish was worth, their money went toward those who had little or none. People were surprisingly good at paying it forward.

“Thank you.” Marigold could barely speak the words.

“Are you a vegan?”

“Not even a vegetarian. But,” she admitted, “I eat mainly vegan by default. I’m not allowed to have meat in the house, so I used to eat it in the school cafeteria.”

“School-lunch meat. That’s desperation.”

Marigold smiled. “You have no idea.”

“So … you aren’t a student anymore?”

“Not since I graduated high school. You?”

“Same,” North said. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen. You?”

“Same.”

They smiled at each other, shyly. Pleased. The moment grew bigger and bigger, until it was too big. North shifted in his seat. “I was a vegetarian for a few months. I had to go back to eating meat, because I needed that level of protein and energy for the farm work. But the moment I’m out of here, I’m gonna try it again.”

“You aren’t interested in the family business?”

“No way. You?”

Marigold shook her head. “The restaurant gene did not pass on to me. My grandparents also own a restaurant,” she explained. “Down in Atlanta.”

“That’s cool. My grandparents started our tree farm.”

“Family owned and operated since 1964,” she said, quoting their sign.