“Look at your nose just grow and grow,” said Chad, eyes dancing.
“I may have noticed his line was a wee bit longer than most,” I conceded.
“God willing,” Logan mumbled.
“Stop it.” I suppressed a giggle.
“For the record, when I said he doesn’t date, that doesn’t necessarily mean he doesn’t . . . you know . . .” Chad said meaningfully.
“He may you know all the time, but keeps it very quiet,” Logan chimed in.
I managed to remain silent, but under the table, I dug my nails into my palm. All three of us now looked across the barn at the stall where Leo was charming the hot pants off Mrs. Sherman, an eighty-year-old retired Rockette and the local Elizabeth Taylor. Did I neglect to mention her full name was Mrs. Kitty Chase Bocci Billings Cole Billings Hobbs Sherman? She liked Mr. Billings so much she married him twice. And now she was flap-ball-changing herself right around Leo.
Who at that moment looked up with a sheepish grin and locked gazes with me.
“Hmm,” I said, chewing on this and my bite of bagel. Had I found my summer company? I’d always had a farmer fantasy, a holdover from watching reruns of Little House. And holy Almanzo Wilder, this farmer was a looker.
I said good-bye to The Chad and The Logan and headed for the diner, where I was due to work the lunch shift. Doesn’t date, huh? As I drove, I hummed a little song.
Summer lovin’, had me a blast . . .
But all thoughts of summer lovin’ went bye-bye as I pulled into the parking lot behind the diner, because there was my mother standing at the back door, dish towel in hand and a shit-eating grin on her face. “How was the farmers’ market?” she asked, her voice full of mirth.
“Full of vegetables,” I replied, feeling my cheeks burn as I wondered how in the world she knew already.
Small towns. For the love . . .
Chapter 6
Over the next few days, every knowing glance and furtive look reminded me how much small towns loved to gossip. My mother delighted me each day by telling me what she’d heard. I’d pushed Leo behind a snap pea display at the farmers’ market and wrestled him to the ground. I’d offered him my bagel repeatedly, refusing to take no for an answer. I’d been seen out behind the market, helping him load up his vegetables and been caught holding his cucumber. That was my favorite.
But while my mother wanted to focus on whether I’d be able to remain upright this summer wherever Leo may be concerned, I was trying to get things ready at the diner so it’d be a smooth transition when my mother left. I was also fielding all sorts of questions from the intrigued public about what it had been like to be a private chef in LA. “Do they eat more than just bean sprouts?” “Have you ever met Jennifer Aniston?” “Is it true you see movie stars everywhere, even at the gas station?” Apparently retirees watched a lot of Access Hollywood. But no problem. Because here I was, determined to make the best of it.
As I mixed up meat loaf and shredded Velveeta to make cheesy cauliflower bake, I said, “Mom. Seriously. All the incredible cheese you could be using, some even from literally right down the road, and you’re still using Velveeta?”
“People like what they like, Rox,” she said, shredding cabbage for a coleslaw that she’d drown in a thick mayonnaise dressing. “You can’t be such a food snob.”
“Using real cheese makes me a food snob?”
“That, and the fact that your eyeballs are about to come out of your face because of the way I’m making my coleslaw,” she said, not even having to turn around to see my face.
I put my eyeballs back into my face. “I have a great recipe for coleslaw. Maybe I could try it sometime?” I offered.
“You do realize my coleslaw is my mother’s recipe, and her mother’s before her, right?”
“I do know this, and I know people love it, Mom. I just thought that maybe we could try something new for a change and—”