Harvest Moon (Virgin River #15)(31)

“She’s lucky, that’s what,” Muriel said.

“I don’t know about that, poor kid…” Lief replied.

I told the man everything in the world about me, knowing so little about him. I was hoping we’d have a meaningful relationship because I’ve been hungry for that without remembering that this is a real man with a deep and complicated life.

She’d asked a few questions, but accepted his superficial answers happily. Because I was more concerned about protecting myself without even considering how vulnerable he might be.

While they talked and laughed, while Muriel and Walt raved about her bisques and asked where they could get more, Kelly kept stowed inside that there was so much she wanted Lief to tell her. No one noticed that she was quieter than usual because Lief and Muriel were having a reunion. And then when lunch was finished and it was time to carry on with their plans, they all hugged and promised to get together very soon, at the pumpkin patch open house for sure.

The next stop was Connie and Ron’s Corner Store right across the street, where she found Connie thrilled to be able to stock some of Kelly’s offerings. “Since it’s not on my inventory, I’m sure I can’t afford it,” Connie said.

“No problem. It’s all yours if you’ll just display some of this stuff and ask for some feedback. That would be so helpful. I know the women around here are fantastic cooks—I’d love to know how I measure up.”

“I have to give you something if it sells,” Connie insisted.

“A donation to finance new jars would be helpful,” Kelly said. “And when the soups get close to their expiration date, either enjoy them or give them to Preacher. They’re all natural, no preservatives, and won’t last long. Maybe you have hunters or fishermen looking for something to warm up.”

“Maybe,” Connie agreed. “We’ll see how it goes!”

When they were back in Lief’s truck, he took her hand. “I want to show you where I live,” he said. “Can you take a detour by my house on the way home?”

She turned to him and said, “Oh, Lief, we have so much to talk about.”

He lifted his eyebrows and looked a little surprised. “Like?”

“Like this life of yours that I haven’t really known about.”

“I kind of liked that you didn’t know the public part,” he said. “You know—that exploited part—the conjecture on who’s seeing who, who’s divorcing, who’s the next Oscar bet. But of my real life? I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

“Then let’s go see where you live. And have the conversation we should have had a couple of weeks ago.”

Lief’s house was utterly beautiful. Now that Kelly knew a little more about his background, this came as no surprise; he must certainly have a good income. It was new, spacious with high, open-beam ceilings, was tastefully decorated and, the real selling point for her, had a wonderful, big kitchen.

After a brief tour, they sat at the kitchen table with coffee. She asked him how he grew up.

“A fairly poor farm kid who read James Fenimore Cooper?”

“We were pretty well-educated farm kids,” he said with a smile. “The schools were good. And my folks were strict. That little Amber who Courtney is hanging with these days? Her folks remind me of mine in some ways. They’re pretty simple people, who know the value of an A.”

“Why did you want to be a writer?”

“I don’t know. I liked to do a lot of things, but when I had my nose in a book or when I was scribbling out a completely made-up story, I’d get a little lost. If no one could find me, I’d be up in the hayloft with a book or a notebook. I’d go to a different place in my mind. Maybe my real life just wasn’t interesting enough for me. My older brothers thought I was a complete geek and never shut up about it. I also played football, did farm chores, rode my horse, hunted, fished… But I wrote when I was alone because it felt good. I thought I was going to write novels, but eventually movies got my attention and I decided I liked film. I think it’s all the dialogue. I like to listen to the way people talk to each other. What made you want to be a chef?”

“Nana,” she said. “Jillian was five and I was six when our family was in a bad car accident. My dad was killed and my mother was disabled and confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life. My great-grandmother took us in. Now, we were poor—sometimes desperately poor. Nana knew how to make it—she gardened, canned, could turn beef rough as old shoe leather into something you could cut with a spoon, she cooked like a genius… She also ironed and did laundry for neighbors, anything that would keep the wolf from the door. She was our mother’s caregiver, but we all helped with everything—we were a team. All that, along with Social Security, not only got us by, she managed to save a little for emergencies. Jill loved the garden, hated the kitchen. I loved the kitchen.”

“Hate the garden?” he asked.

“I like the selection of food. At La Touche we had vendors we ordered from, but I liked to go to the dock to select the fish, go to specialty markets for some of our produce, go straight to the butcher for meat. I don’t have much interest in growing it, just using it. I can alter the outcome of everything with the pinch of one spice, the addition of one herb.”