She rolled her eyes. “I need to get you away from all this Norman Rockwell shit, its making you schmaltzy,” she said.
“Okay, so take me back to your farmhouse and cook me some of your allegedly fantastic food.”
“Driving tour over,” she announced, and we left the town square behind.
“I’ll see the rest of the town tomorrow; I’ll get Chad to show me around,” I teased.
“Don’t you be flirting with my high school crush! And sweetie, you’ve seen the rest of the town.”
“That’s it?” I exclaimed, looking behind me to see the town square fading away in the distance.
Roxie just laughed as she drove me into the wild . . .
I lay on the iron bed, which squeaked just from the movement of my breathing. I drew in a breath. Creak. I let it out. Squeak. Good lord, how do country people fuck without waking up the entire town?
I rolled over onto my stomach, smiling at the thoughtful touches here and there. Comfortable-looking extra blankets piled onto the antique chest in the corner. A few bottles of water on the nightstand. A stack of fresh towels. And my very own pumpkin on top of the dresser, facing out into the front yard. It hadn’t been jack-o’-lanterned, but was still a nice touch to an already homey room.
When Roxie had told me she’d found an old farmhouse, I wasn’t sure what to expect. It was small, but that was okay. It was just her here, and it was nice and cozy. I got the impression that she and Leo had discussed moving in together, into his very nice house over on the Maxwell property, but I also got the sense she was pretty happy where she was, setting up shop on her own in her hometown. The house was clean, simple, and a bit old-fashioned, but in a nice way. It was a very Roxie-style house.
She was downstairs getting started on dinner, and had encouraged me to head up to the guest room and get comfortable. I’d opened up the windows, smelling more of that bracingly clean air. It smelled funny, but I could tell my lungs were appreciating it. Situated at the end of a road, almost hidden in the trees, the house was a world away from my townhouse in the East Village. And quiet! Oh my goodness, so quiet. Other than the creaky squeaks.
I got up off the old bed and started unpacking. I always pack too many clothes, since you never know when a wardrobe change might be necessary. I pulled out a few dresses and hung them in the closet, thinking about what I wanted to wear tonight. It was my first time meeting Leo and his daughter, Polly. Hmm, what does one wear to meet your best friend’s farmer boyfriend and his seven-year-old?
Obviously a coral jumpsuit with three-inch snakeskin peep-toe heels.
When I arrived in the kitchen, Roxie took one look at me and burst out laughing. “This is you in the sticks?”
“The sticks is no excuse not to kill it,” I said, strutting across the plank floor. “And coral is very autumnal.” I leaned over the counter, looking for anything I could pilfer. Aha! Cherry tomatoes. Snagging a few, I headed over to the table.
“Of course, how silly of me. I’d ask you to help with dinner, but—”
“But you remember how culinary school turned out for me,” I finished, popping in a tomato.
She laughed, chopping garlic and throwing it into a pan. Instantly the room smelled incredible.
“Mmm, what are we having? Your famous cioppino? Saffron risotto with peas and asparagus? That’s always been one of my favorites. No no, wait, don’t tell me. You’re making that incredible blue cheese soufflé that smells like feet and tastes like heaven?”
She shrugged. “Nope—spaghetti and meatballs. It’s Polly’s favorite.”
I smiled. “How stinking cute are you, making her favorite dinner.”
“Oh hush.”
I poured myself a glass of wine from the open bottle on the table. “Listen, if you’re making spaghetti and meatballs, it’ll be the best spaghetti and meatballs ever made.”
“You’re so sweet. I know you were expecting something a little fancier.”
I waved her off. “Please, I can have fancy anytime I want it. I’m just excited to meet your fella and this meatball kid who sounds smarter than I am.”
“She’s so fucking smart it’s a bit scary.” Roxie chuckled, stirring onions and garlic together. “Grab me that basil, will you?”
I walked to the windowsill where she had pots of herbs growing and grabbed a handful. “Do you still add sugar to your sauce?”
“Sometimes I do, if I’m using really fresh tomatoes, but not usually. I’m amazed you still remember that trick.”
“Girl. I did retain a few tidbits of information here and there. And I still have my knives.”
She rolled her eyes. “Which you never use.”
“But they look impressive as hell in my kitchen.” I perched on a stool in the window, watching her add a little pinch of this here, a little dollop of that there.
“I will never understand why the hell you were there in the first place. Especially since you love Manhattan so much—there are incredible culinary schools there, too.” She’d turned around, giving me a pointed look.