As we made it to the end of the first row, Natalie suddenly slowed down, pulled out her linen drawstring bag, and started to . . . strut.
I knew that strut well. I’d trailed behind it in many a club and restaurant when she was on the prowl. Something she mentioned on a call weeks ago bubbled up in my memory, and I realized exactly what was going on.
“You got us up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday to go cruise for some cute farmer?” I asked.
She whirled around. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, eyes wide and innocent.
“You’ve got the hots for a farmer too? What the hell is going on? When did Old MacDonald become the new Hot Guy archetype?” Clara asked, her face full of amusement.
“To be clear, he’s not a farmer; he’s a dairy guy. He has a bunch of cows upstate and makes the best fucking triple-cream brie I’ve ever had. He melts in my mouth.” Natalie sighed, arching her back. I’d say without knowing it, but she knew how good it made her boobs look. The guy who’d been trailing us since we got there actually gasped.
“You mean his brie melts in your mouth, right?” I asked, arching my eyebrow.
“Well,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. “For now.”
“Oh boy,” I replied as she set off in her strut again.
And imagine my surprise when she strutted right over to Bailey Falls Creamery, run by none other than . . .
“Oscar? The hot dairy guy is Oscar?” I exclaimed.
“What are you talking about?” she asked, nonchalantly looking at a display of homemade churned butter. We were at the edge of the stall, surrounded by gorgeous wedges of cheese, beautiful glass-bottled fresh milk, and yes, some pretty delectable-looking butter.
And behind the counter, a head taller than everyone else, was Oscar. Leo’s neighbor, winner of Bailey Falls’s Conversationalist of the Year, and the man making Natalie’s cheeks blush.
And no man made her blush.
“I know him; he grazes his cows on Leo’s land sometimes.”
“I’m going for coffee,” Clara announced.
I went to stand next to Natalie in line, with her mouth-melting brie.
“So his name is Oscar?”
“Mmm-hmm, and that’s all I know about him. He’s very—”
“Intense? Mysterious?”
“Nonverbal.”
“Mmm.” Her throaty groan made several men, and three women, turn around with lust in their eyes. “He’s the strong, silent type—I knew it.”
“So how long has this cheesy flirtation been going on?” I asked as the line moved forward.
“I’ve been coming here for a while. You know how much I love my cheese.”
I did know. It was her love of cheese that made her enroll in culinary school.
Everyone has a secret dream, a secret unfulfilled life that they imagine they’d live if they won the lottery. They’d quit their job and . . .
. . . sail around the world.
. . . open a luxury resort in the Maldives.
. . . sing on Broadway.
And in Natalie’s case . . . become a cheesemaker.
Seriously. The woman who lived for concrete and yellow cabs wanted to run away from it all, simplify everything, wear cardigans, and make cheese.
She threatened to do this at least twice a year, usually when some ad campaign had her tied in knots and ready to scream. But then she’d remember the posh fund-raisers at the Guggenheim, the magic of Central Park in October, Malaysian takeout delivery at anytime o’clock, and she remembered why she would never leave her city.
But the girl still loved her cheese.
“Some coworkers had been going on and on about this new cheese guy at the market on Saturdays, so I had to check it out. First my taste buds fell in love, and then my eyeballs did when I caught a look at him. I mean, he’s gorgeous, right?” she said, slipping her arm inside my elbow as we got closer.
“He totally is,” I agreed as I watched Oscar interact with his customers. Leo was all smiles and hi-how-are-you with his customers, remembering names and kids’ names, and which berry you liked best.
Oscar? Barely grunted, filling orders with efficiency and not much else.