“Don’t forget your lunch,” Mom calls out as I turn the knob. I pivot to face her. “Thanks. You didn’t have to do that.
She reaches out and gently caresses my cheek. “But I like taking care of you, honey. You’ve been distracted all morning.”
“Yeah.” I shrug. “I guess I have been a little preoccupied, sorry.” I’m not about to confess it’s been over a week since the parade, and I’m still thinking about Dr. Jordain. What is there to tell her? We barely spoke, but wedidtouch each other. His strong arms cradled me against his broad chest when that lady bumped into me. And there were sparks skipping through my veins when he helped me up on the flatbed.For whatever reason, I can’t stop thinking about him.
She hands me a brown paper bag, just the way she did when I was in elementary school. “Peanut butter and jelly, with an apple. You might be hungry later.”
“Thanks mom.”
“You’re welcome sweetheart, she says bending and scooping up her constant companion, the stray kitty she adopted a fewyears ago. “Now why does Riley call you Count Scratchula, when she knows you’re really, simply, the Count?” She asks softly, obviously in love. I don’t dare tell her I call him by that name because he scratches the hell out of me whenever he has a chance. “Are you waiting for the door to open so you can make your escape, my sweet little boy?” she coos.
Sweet? I’m not falling for that old trick again. Sure, he looks cute, all fluffy with his black and white tuxedo markings, he has a nice purr too, but Count Scratchula and I are on shaky ground. I’m tempted to pet him, but he nailed me the other night. Attacked my ankles in the hallway when I was half asleep, so he’s not to be trusted.
“You’re the best, Mom. Thanks for lunch.” I raise my brows at the cat. “Now you be a good boy. Don’t get into any trouble today.”
“My little Count Monte Frisky, trouble?” She coos, petting his head. “Never.” Mom giggles, and I give her another kiss goodbye and say, “I love you,” before leaving the house with a twinge of nostalgia.
I never imagined I’d be living in our family home at 33, but hadn’t considered the thought mom might need me. She’s still healthy, and gets around by herself well. We’ve made a deal that she won’t use the stove or oven if she’s by herself. She doesn’t drive, never really has because we live so close to the center of town, our home is within walking distance to practically everything. Her social calendar is busy, so she’s with her friends most of the time—
I remind myself there’s no need to worry and bask in the sunshine and fresh air, giving friendly waves to shopkeepers as I pass by. My friend from high school, whose family owns the Slice of Life bakery, sees me. She sets her coffee pot down on a table and gestures, beckoning me to come inside.
“Did you think you could just walk by without saying hi?” Cherry asks, pulling me in for a bear hug. “Mocha?”
“Love one, as long as you allow me to pay for it this time.” I slide onto a stool and scoot closer to the counter.
“Deal.” Cherry gives me a wink and fills the metal filter with coffee grinds. As much as I’m surprised to be back in West Palomino, it’s a cozy, charming town and there’s something comforting about being here. Many of my friends from high school never left.
Cherry parks the to-go cup in front of me. Her playful grin widens as she winks. “Here you go.” She leans one hip against the edge of the counter, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. “I saw you on the float the other day.”
Okay, I see where this is going.Raising an eyebrow, I set my phone down and wrap both hands around the warm cup, feigning nonchalance as I take a slow sip, keeping a straight face. “Did not.”
She throws her head back with a dramatic scoff, and plants both hands on her hips, making her bracelets jangle. “Are you joking? I’d recognize your red hair anywhere.”
I lean back on the stool, cross my arms for good measure and shake my head slowly. “Not possible. My hair was tucked under that giant hat.” I can’t keep a straight face any longer and start to giggle.
Cherry claps her hands together, bouncing on her toes with her eyes sparkling. “Ah ha! I knew the leprechaun was you. Sooo…” She draws out the word with a sing-song lilt, slides onto the stool next to me, and rests her elbows on the counter. She props her chin on her hands and leans closer, like any small-town matchmaker tends to do. “Did you meet Dr. Jordain?”
I knew she would ask me about him.Cherry was a matchmaker all the way back in high school, so I’m familiar withher M.O. I trace the rim of my cup with a fingertip, avoiding her gaze. “I couldn’t see much in those shamrock glasses.”
“But you’d like to see him, wouldn’t you?” She stares at me and raises an eyebrow, her lips pursed in a knowing smirk. “He’s single, you know.”
Holding back a smile, I lift my cup to my lips, taking a deliberately slow sip, locking my eyes on hers over the rim, knowing my lack of reaction is driving her crazy. Thankfully I catch a lucky break when customers start piling into her shop kicking off the morning rush. Cherry excuses herself and hurries to help before she can press me for an answer.
I settle up for my coffee and we promise to meet over drinks for happy hour at Boondocks soon. From there it’s a quick, two-block walk to work.
Antonia, my assistant, is waiting in the smaller, attached greenhouse we use to start our seeds. I see through the glass walls she has all the essentials for our project already laid out on the high table. I quickly slip into my trusty apron, surrounded by the earthy smell of loam and join her.
She eyes my apron approvingly, “A little dirt, never hurt,” she grins. “I like it.”
“Thanks, I’ve had it so long I don’t remember where I got it. Are you ready to get started?” She nods happily. “I’m impressed you remembered we’d be working in this room today.”
“And the temperature needs to stay between seventy and eighty degrees or we might lose the seeds.”
“You’re exactly right,” I explain, “and we don’t want that to happen. We have the whole town counting on us for herbs and vegetables for the Farmers Market this summer.”
I show Antonia how to form a small indentation about a quarter inch deep in the damp potting soil. Then we drop a few tomato seeds into the crevice before covering them with our special mix of dirt and repeat the process. The seeds will needsix to eight weeks before they’ll be ready to transplant. We make excellent progress.
When five o’clock rolls around, we’d planted all the tomato, eggplant and broccoli seeds. They’re all carefully labeled and covered in plastic wrap to retain their moisture. And before I know it, the work day is over.
