Nuts (Hudson Valley, #1)(41)

“Pickles, jelly, stuff in jars.” He filled another shaker. “He watches a lot of Walking Dead.”

“Not sure I get the connection between zombies and jelly.”

“Like, if there was a zombie apocalypse and no one was making food anymore, eventually someone would have to start making that stuff. Except no one knows how to do that kind of thing anymore—except hippies and chefs. And what are the chances they’d make it through without getting eaten?” He said all of this as he went about filling the salt shakers, as if it was perfectly natural.

“But you’re pretty sure you and Logan would make it through? Without getting eaten?”

“Exactly. We both ran track. Plus he learned how to fence in school, so he’d be like that badass woman with the swords. And when he comes home from a hard day at work killing zombies, it’d be nice to have some J on the PBJ.”

“And a pickle on the side?” I asked, my forehead wrinkling as I tried to follow this train wreck of thought.

“Exactly!”

“Huh” was my only answer.

A moment later, he looked up from his pouring. “So will you teach us?”

“Sure,” I said. “Be glad to. For zombies’ sake.” I made a mental note to pick up some vinegar at the market. I wonder if Leo has dill weed?

My phone rang. Hmm, speak of the farmer, and he doth appear. I mean, doth call.

“Do you have any dill weed?” I asked by way of a greeting.

“If I had a nickel . . .” Leo’s deep voice trailed off. Cue shiver.

“I’ll give you a nickel, I’m making pickles.” I laughed, stifling the second round of shiver. I quickly focused. “I require dill weed.”

“Pickles, huh? So would it interest you to know the first baby cucumbers are just about ready to pick?”

“Nothing would interest me more than your cucumber,” I murmured into the phone, keeping my voice low. The Chad Bowman was now holding up the funnel like a low-tech listening device.

Leo snorted. “I’m so glad we’ve moved on to my cucumber, instead of talking about my nuts all the time.”

“Oh, I’m sure your nuts will be fair game again soon enough.”

“What was that loud noise?” Leo asked, sounding a bit concerned.

“Sorry about that, a customer just fell off his stool,” I replied, shaking my head as Chad’s head popped back up over the counter, his eyes still wide from the nuts. I held my finger up to my lips, warning him to keep quiet. “Nuts aside, what’s up?”

“Funny that you mentioned you need dill weed, because I was calling to see if you wanted to join the CSA for the summer. You can come out and either pick up your box, or you can pick your own. I usually don’t let people do that, but, you know . . .” He trailed off.

“But, you know, I know the farmer.” I grinned, swatting at Chad’s hand as he made two salt shakers kiss.

“You could know this farmer,” Leo said, his tone darkening a bit, his voice getting a bit lower, more heated. Speaking of heated . . .

“When should I come?” I asked, mimicking his tone.

Chad bit down on a dish towel. Then spat it out, as I’d been cleaning with bleach.

“Hmm, I feel like I’m supposed to say something like . . . often? Repeatedly?”

“Good man.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I can come right after the lunch shift is over,” I purred, and he laughed.

“Dangerous,” he said, then hung up.

Laughing to myself, I turned around to see that Chad had written OH MY GOD in salt along the counter.

“You’re totally cleaning that up,” I said.





Chapter 12


The next afternoon I headed out to Maxwell Farm again, with even more anticipation this time. I was looking forward to the picking of the vegetables, the signing up for the farmshare, the kissing of the lips. Mostly the kissing of the lips.

I hadn’t seen him since the night I’d made him dinner, since the fire department interrupted something that was already smoldering. I’d been busy with the diner—working double shifts, replacing the back door lock, and getting back into the swing of cooking in a professional kitchen. I had new burns on my forearm from wrestling with a meat loaf, a Band-Aid on my thumb when I mistook it for a carrot . . . and a girlish urge to giggle every single time I went into the walk-in. I fought the giggle right now, just thinking about it.

When I arrived at Maxwell Farm, the fields and parking lot were a flurry of activity. I grabbed the square of ginger spice cake I’d brought Leo from the diner and set off across the gravel. It was the day everyone came to pick up their farmshare box, and I nodded to several people I knew. It was late afternoon, the sun shining down through a cloudless sky, and groups lingered around cars, almost like a farm-to-table tailgate. Kids played with barn cats, parents chatted leisurely with other moms and dads, and the easy community feel was palpable. It was a feeling I was familiar with, but I’d never really felt it . . . on the inside before. Since my family owned the most popular diner around, if anyone should feel like they belonged, you’d think it’d be me, right? But now, as a few familiar faces smiled in my direction, and a few casually friendly waves were sent my way, I felt something suspiciously like hometown pride. Interesting.