Chapter Four
Addie
Chewing with deliberation, the woman looks up as I approach her table. She wears a billowing, sleeveless dress, patterned in a crimson-and-gold block print. A half dozen or so strands of sparkling beads drape around her neck, cascading into her significant cleavage. I’d put her in her midforties. After swallowing, she smiles.
“What type of wood did you use to smoke the chicken?” She points her fork at the thigh. “It’s delicious.”
This woman is Karen Bennington, famous in Detroit food circles for her cheeky up-to-the-minute restaurant blog. She’s also known for her outrageous wardrobe and is proud to proclaim she’s growing old disgracefully. Her persona is unapologetic: big, bold, and bright.
“We used birchwood chunks for this batch,” I say, refilling her glass with cold tea. “And we harvested the first of the pattypan squash this morning in our kitchen garden.”
She scribbles in a small spiral notebook and then removes purple-framed glasses that encompass half her face. She snaps a picture of the shredded chicken carcass with her phone. I hope she doesn’t put that on Instagram.
“I wish I had room for two meals,” she says, pointing to a plate at a table nearby. “Those lamb burgers look divine.”
“They have been popular. We’ll put them on special next Wednesday. Stop by if you’re in the neighborhood.” I glance about the room. Most tables, for a change, are occupied. “I must say, Karen, your Detroit’s Cookin’ posts featuring Welcome Home have certainly helped increase business. We appreciate your kind words.”
She wipes her mouth, slick from the reddish-brown barbecue sauce, and takes a lingering sip of tea before speaking.
“It’s my pleasure. I’m loving your food and the overall homespun whimsy of this place.” She points her forefinger at me. “I want to ensure you ladies stay in business. I’ve several thousand subscribers to my blog.”
“You can count me as one of them. Reading your reviews is the highlight of my week.”
It’s a good thing Sam’s in the kitchen. If she heard me brownnosing this woman, she’d want to barf. Still. I’m appreciative of the business her blog’s encouraged, and we must play the game.
“Could you bring me the bill?” Karen gestures to her plate. “This will be gobbled down by the time you return.”
“No worries.” I pick up the tea to replenish her glass yet again and then head to a four-top, refilling their glasses, as well. Our customers are especially thirsty in this heat. Thankfully, most of the orders have been filled, and our patrons appear content.
Returning to Karen, I hand her the bill, alongside a small brown box tied with twine.
“What’s this?”
“It’s our signature cookie. The Heartbreaker. A token of our appreciation.”
“I’ve sampled these gooey clouds from heaven. And that name, Heartbreaker.” She purses her lips, shaking her head. “Thank you. You ladies are simply too much.” She fans herself with a menu.
“We’re planning to install air conditioning. After such a chilly spring, these temperatures caught us off guard.”
“This heat is uncommon for June, but I’m glad the windows are open. That gospel singing from across the street is magnificent.”
I flash her a smile. “I agree. Our prep cook, Quiche, attends the church. I’d like to record their music. Maybe play it here on the Sundays when their windows are closed.”
I turn and retreat to the prep area. In the past few weeks, business has improved over 30 percent. And that jump comes on the heels of an embarrassing Yelp review. Someone wrote they found a clump of long blonde hair in their soup. How disgusting. I worry that Sam removed her bandanna while she was stirring the pot, and some of her hair fell in the soup. At least the comment didn’t hurt business—today’s sales are sure to break the record.
Maybe it’s the weather; more people are out and about. More likely, it’s the attention local food bloggers have been giving the diner. Sam says I should be thrilled with the uptick in business, and I am. But the diner is drowning in a vanilla milkshake: our customers, flocking in from suburbia, are a sea of Caucasians. Over 80 percent of our city is African American, and that stat’s closer to 100 percent around here. Where’s Detroit?
Our closest neighbor’s only ten feet from the diner, yet he sits on his porch, eyeing us with disdain. Why is that? What can we do to have our customer demographics represent our actual community of diversity?
At the moment, however, I’ve more pressing matters. When you don’t turn compost, the stench gets worse. I wave at Lella and Braydon, pointing toward my office. They nod, smiling. Those two can handle the floor from here. Smiling at patrons, I weave around their tables as I head toward the office, locking the door behind me. The backs of my thighs are moist and stick to my sundress as I sit at my desk. The window is open, and an electric fan circulates the warm air, as fans do in every corner of the building. Sadly, the last thing we can afford is air conditioning.
I remove the letter from the drawer and reread the familiar scrawl. Respond to it or burn it. Make a decision.
Bet a note from me’s a shock. It’s been a good ten years, but, at last, life cut me a break. I’m out of prison. Released—ha ha—on good behavior. I’ll be working for my dad. I thought of you every day and have something of yours you’d want. Please call me: 313-841-3020. (BTW: You don’t have to ask, but I’m clean.)
Graham
The only rebellious act, which, in retrospect, could have ruined my life, was falling for Graham Palmer when I was attending the University of Michigan. We met at Rick’s American Café, one of those typical heavy-drinking, heavy-pickup watering holes popular with students.
One of the things I like most about Michigan is its diversity. I was majoring in classical civilizations, and I had hoped to meet a guy from, say, Rome or Athens. Someone who’d inspire philosophical thinking. Someone with a worldly take on life. Typical I’d fall for a Grosse Pointe WASP.
The son of a father who owned a foreign-car franchise, Graham Palmer was a year older than me. I remember him from his brief stint at Cranbrook Upper—how could you not?
He was a straight-A dude with a bad attitude. In his second year at Cranbrook, the prestigious boarding school we both attended, he adopted a sinking-pants, splayed-finger, wassup Detroit gangsta swagger. It was borrowed from Eminem, a rap star who glamorized the music, poetry, and vibe of the streets.
This was the turn of the century, when heroin, ecstasy, and meth became purer and cheaper and took root in predominantly white, middle-class communities. Imagine the horror of parents in their mowed-lawn, Suburban-in-the-driveway cocoons, witnessing their Dylans, Lukes, and Adams getting high and copying the language and attire of the ghetto—the very place they had fled, en masse, after the riots.
Graham had the image down to a science. But it was a look that didn’t translate well in the regent’s office, not the image Cranbrook wanted to set for the rest of its students. Graham Palmer was a memorable addition while he lasted.
What a hoot seeing his face after a couple of cucumber martinis at Michigan. I’d just turned twenty-one, was in the middle of my junior year, and, at last, of legal age to drink. I was partying with a pack of girlfriends when Graham and I caught each other’s eyes across the bar, which was set into the arena like a fishbowl.
I can’t remember much about the next six months except that I was wired, burned out, and my GPA was sinking as fast as I could snort the next round. Sunday afternoons spent with Sam and Babcia were my life raft. One of those Sundays may have saved my life.
In my junior and senior years, Sam attended cooking school in Livonia, which is a thirty-minute drive from Ann Arbor. We made it a priority to spend afternoons with our grandmother after she’d returned from Mass. Our grandfather had died the year before, and it became our tradition to cook a meal together in her kitchen. Splashed with sunlight, the walls and open shelves were decorated with Bolesławiec, a Polish pottery.
After Babcia died, Sam and I divided her collection of ceramics. I selected the cream teapot with matching cups, two candlesticks, and a serving bowl. Sam selected the soup tureen and fermenting crock, which we use at the diner to pickle vegetables. The collection is hand-painted with royal blue, yellow, and pinkish-red peonies. Sapphire-blue butterflies, the uplifted shape and color of Babcia’s eyes, fly above the garden scene into the speckled heavens.
None of Babcia’s recipes were penned, but her eighty-six-year-old hands and taste buds bore the stamp of her own mother’s when she learned to cook in their Włocławek kitchen. This was during the era preceding World War II, the years before the members of her family were forced to leave their home, and the city became occupied by Nazis.
Seventeen-year-old Krystyna, the delicate girl with the crystal-blue eyes, relocated with her family to an area outside Warsaw. It was there she met my grandfather, Fryderyk, whom we call Dziadek. While sandwiched between the war machines of the Soviet Union and Germany, they survived on whatever their ration cards and the black market could provide.
After the war, Babcia and Dziadek immigrated to America, where, at last, they were married. Dziadek, holding a PhD from the University of Warsaw in archeology, found work as a university professor at the University of Michigan. The couple made their home in Ann Arbor and parented two sons. They never forgot the horrors of war and taught our fathers that they were the lucky ones.
It was Babcia who inspired our love of cooking. With her deep disdain of manufactured foodstuffs, she instilled in her granddaughters a distrust of processed fare.
But we were slow learners. As a child, I remember our humiliation grocery shopping with her. With the intensity of a brain surgeon, she would study the ingredients on the kid-friendly fun-in-a-box packaging lining the shelves. She pronounced each word on the ingredient list carefully, as though she were tasting dirt. Her blonde wisps of brow furrowed as she tsk-tsked, muttering obrzydliwe—disgusting—in earshot of all the shoppers on aisle nine.
How horrifying it would be to run into a friend who could scrutinize our cart. Pizza, mac and cheese, and sugary cereals were the unrivaled preferences of our friends, the staple of birthday party and sleepover fare. No matter how much we begged, how much we cajoled, Rugrats mac and his partner, neon-powdered cheese, were denied. Sam and I’d retreat from the midcenter aisles, tears rolling down our cheeks, as Babcia led us to the periphery of the produce section—no man’s land—where fruits and vegetables rested quietly in their bins.
Of course we came to share her point of view, our teen years in sync with the farm-to-table movement. The grassroots lobby to produce and consume locally harvested foods was no revelation to us; we’d eaten at this table our entire lives. Babcia was the original pioneer, the Alice Waters of Polish grandmothers.
When she died in her sleep, heartbreak blindsided Sam and me. Foundering under the weight of trying to bear such a loss, we broke down, we grieved, we grew up, we grew older. I compulsively checked my calendar, counting the Sundays the three of us met to cook—seventy-eight slashes in my timeline. I would give anything to fall back into one of those Sundays. All of those Sundays still weren’t enough.
One Sunday in particular stands out in my mind. It was during the time I was dating Graham Palmer. I was wrecked—my head pounding, rode hard from the prior evening’s partying. That morning I’d awakened in a room I didn’t recognize surrounded by stoned-out strangers, powder-smeared mirrors, and needles. There were more drugs spread out over the carpet than ground into the floor of a Nirvana tour bus.
Graham was nowhere to be found, so I called a cab and returned to my apartment. In an attempt to mask my shame, I patched myself up with a hot shower, Visine, and lipstick. But when rolling out the pierogi dough, I burst into tears, retreating into my Babcia’s arms.
I broke up with Graham just in time. Two weeks later he was busted for possession of heroin and dealing coke. Michigan has some of the most draconian drug-sentencing laws in the country, and he was sentenced to prison. No amount of his daddy’s money could buy him out of sixty-two grams of powder sold to an undercover agent—a Pakistani-American Ann Arbor detective posing as a party store owner.
Staring at the letter, I pinch my lips between my teeth, trying to make up my mind. Is whatever he has of mine worth my calling him? It’s a coin toss. I record his number in my smartphone, shred the letter, and bury the paper bits in the recycling bin. I’ve never told David about Graham. He’d wonder about my character if he’d known I’d dated such a thug.
Massaging my temples, I sigh. I slide open my desk drawer and pull out last week’s employee time cards to get started on payroll.
Sam
Sweat trickles down the sides of my face and dribbles in between my breasts, sliding down my stomach. I loosen the back ties of my apron strings, which are chafing my waistline.
The six burners of the stove are working overtime as the blue flames lap the bottom of pans. Paul, our new hire, is beside me, placing a pot filled with water, vegetable scraps, herbs, and bones on the back burner. With his athletic build and clean-shaven, conventional demeanor, he looks like a professional soccer player. The fan’s not doing much good—eighty-six degrees outside must equate to ninety-six in this kitchen. We shouldn’t have spent all available funds on a walk-in cooler when what we really need is air conditioning.
I untie the bandanna around my head and mop my face. Every window is open in the diner, fans are whirring, and gospel singing filters through the screens. When the weather cooperates, the windows and doors of Detroit Tabernacle are flung open, and music fills the air. Church is a powerful force in this community, and the hymns infuse me with yearning. It’s as if within the stanzas lie answers to questions I’ve long forgotten to ask.
But there’s no time for contemplation now. Today’s special is Lamb Burgers with Tzatziki and Beetroot Relish, and their popularity has not shown signs of abating. In the prep area, Quiche is flipping the burgers on the grill while Braydon stands beside her, spreading the tangy yogurt-dill sauce and relish on potato buns. They’re running low on buns, but we’ve enough lamb patties and accoutrements to feed an army.
“Paul, I’ve got a bag of potato rolls in the freezer. We’ll switch the special from burgers to sliders. I can’t leave these eggs. Can you take the rolls to Quiche? In this humidity, they’ll be thawed in no time.”
“Pas de problemo,” he replies. After reducing the flame under the burner of his now-bubbling brew, he strides toward the freezer. The smell of his stock perfumes the air and comes alive in the back of my throat as I imagine the sauce it will soon become.
A familiar twinge of irritation tugs on my emotions. Addie. Our division of labor isn’t fair. I sweat it out in the back of the house while she works the front. All she does is clear tables when business demands, be charming to our customers, organize schedules and bills, and promote the diner on social media.
I stick my head over the swinging doors to see if the rush is dying down. Thankfully, it looks like most of the customers have been served. There’s no need to make sliders after all. There’s Addie, chatting it up with a blogger whose articles about the diner have created a buzz. I’ve got it wrong. Success begins at the front door. Gracious hostess skills and networking are essential to Welcome Home.
I return to the kitchen to garnish plates with pickled carrots and lightly dressed microgreens. A cacophony of bells rings out from the church’s steeple. What a crazy day. Thank God Mom and Dad were forced to cancel their plans to have lunch here today. One of the sheep has bloat and needed treatment and observation. It’s hard for them to leave the farm.
My dad, Andrew, is one year younger than Addie’s father, my uncle Michael. As a teenager, Uncle Michael brought home the exemplary grades and was elected president of the student council. Dad enjoyed championing environmental causes and playing guitar in a local band. You’d never guess the two of them were brothers. The academic environment of a college town suited my uncle. The eccentricities of growing up in a town such as Ann Arbor, complete with alternative schooling, were the perfect fit for Dad.
He met my mother, Becca, in Lansing, where they both attended Michigan State. Their dream was to escape Michigan winters, move out West, and live off the land. Juniors in college, they married and then focused their studies at the Sheep Teaching and Research Center at State.
After graduating, they moved to an Oregon commune to practice animal husbandry, but they were miserable. They didn’t agree with the way communal funds were managed, and the division of chores turned ugly. A vegan couple were in charge of the labor charts, and they demonstrated their hostility to Mom and Dad’s practice of harvesting sheep with passive aggressiveness. Mom and Dad were assigned to bathroom janitorial duty their entire stay.
My parents also missed Babcia and Dziadek. Dad and Dziadek enjoyed woodworking and restoring old tools. Mom appreciated Babcia’s frugality, her hand-stitched linens, her traditional ways of gardening and putting up the harvest.
Mom’s pregnancy with me, six months after Addie’s parents announced their pregnancy, was the final impetus. They repacked their bags and returned to Michigan. The winters, after all, weren’t so bad. Mom could make sheepskin coats and gloves to keep her children warm.
Of course, Babcia and Dziadek were overjoyed and spent much of their time, particularly during the busy summers, at our Manchester farm. Mom turned the dated parlor into a cozy guest room. Addie, lost in the shuffle between her hostile parents, spent weeks at a time working at the farm when she was out of school.
Babcia, Addie, and I planted, harvested, and put up vegetables through the summer. Dziadek helped Dad and my brother with the sheep and the myriad chores involved in day-to-day farm life. I wish we had more family to help run the diner. My brother works in a microbrewery in Denver.
Living off the land reminded my grandparents of their life in Poland before the war, and softened the blow felt by the absence of their other son and daughter-in-law. Uncle Michael and Aunt Teresa’s visits were rare when they were fighting. And, after their divorce, they ceased altogether.
Braydon enters the kitchen, interrupting my thoughts. “The rush is over. All the customers are praising the food.”
I wipe my hands across my apron. “Speaking of praise, we should be praising the heavens. If that music isn’t proof there’s a God, then nothing is. It’s a pity they’ve stopped, now that I’ve the time to listen.”
“They outdid themselves today. A double whammy. Aunt Suella says they brought in a sister choir from Birmingham.”
“Who knew? A gospel choir in Birmingham?” I’m taken aback. The suburb’s only 10 percent black. I don’t, however, voice that statistic to justify my surprise.
Braydon snorts, reading my thoughts. “I’m talking Birmingham, Alabama. One of the couples is staying with us. The Birmingham choir hosts Detroit Tabernacle in March, when their weather’s headed into spring.”
I glance at the clock. “It’s almost two. I’ll lock the doors and put up the Closed sign.”
Walking to the floor, I segue toward the grill and remove my apron. Quiche kneads the knots in her neck with her fingers. She gazes at me as if she’s been through a storm.
“I’ve seen more white people today than I’ve seen my entire life in this neighborhood. And who’d ever guess lamb burgers would be such a hit? Hamburgers I get. But lamb burgers? Yuck.”
“Broaden your horizons, Quiche. But then again, maybe not. We’ve enough trouble keeping the lamb in stock.” The lamb we use is harvested at our family farm. Mom told me Welcome Home is their best customer. We refused their offer for a discount—profits for everyone are marginal enough.
“You told me to remind you the teacher is stopping by around three. Remember? He was Sun Beam’s math teacher last year.” She grabs the grill brush and begins scraping burned bits off the flattop.
“Oh, right. He wants to bring a class to the diner for a field trip.” Sun Beam attends Detroit’s Boggs School, a reimagined education model that focuses on academic as well as practical life skills. A charter school, it’s an oasis in the midst of other schools operating in third-world conditions. “I’ll give them some vegetable seeds to plant.” One day we plan to expand the plot. We envision inner-city kids learning how to grow, harvest, and utilize fresh produce in cooking classes geared to children.
“Growing vegetables is not what interests him—the garden is going to be an example for a math project when his class resumes in September.”
“Math? Really? I won’t be much help in that department.” I shrug. “But, whatever. Of course, I’m delighted to have the class pay us a visit.”
Quiche puts down the brush and appraises me, head to toe. “You may want to rinse your face and pull a comb through your hair. His name is Uriah. And I’ll wager there’s a long line of women waiting in line to buy a ticket on that ride.”
I stop, surprised. Unless she’s praising Sun Beam’s grades, Quiche rarely doles out compliments. Especially in reference to men. With her wide, full lips and svelte waist, no doubt she’s had her share of suitors. But try engaging her in conversation about one of our favorite topics, the male species, and the woman shuts down. Heaven forbid we ask about Sun Beam’s father. For all we know, it was an immaculate conception. Who knows the sort of man she’d find attractive?
I put up the CLOSED sign, go to the restroom, rinse my face, and remove my bandanna. I linger at the mirror a moment longer than usual. On impulse, I unknot my braid and run my fingers through my hair, flecking out bits of flour.
Returning to the prep area, I fish today’s sales from the register and take the wads of cash and receipts to the office. Placing the bag into the safe, I hear a ruckus on the floor—Sun Beam’s high-pitched squeal and a man’s deep voice. The teacher must have arrived. Returning to the floor, I see a large man kneeling down with Sun Beam in his arms, the muscles of his broad back shifting beneath his shirt.
Quiche’s forearms rest on the counter, and she chuckles. “You’re gonna smother him, honey.”
“But what a great way to go.” His vowels are relaxed and rolling, a snatch of Southern accent in his words.
He unwraps himself from Sun Beam, stands, and removes his backpack, placing it on a chair. Hands on hips, he swivels, regarding the panorama. He removes his baseball cap, revealing dark hair cropped close to his head. When he sees me in the doorway, he stops. Smiles.
My pulse flares, and my legs soften beneath me. Just looking at this man—who is a good four inches taller than me and built like an ox—makes my teeth rattle. I’m tumbling into a lake with stones tied around my ankles. Sinking. Drowning. Inescapable and inevitable.
He saunters toward me, takes my hand, and shakes it, pulling me back onto the shore.
“I’m Uriah. And you must be Sam. I’ve heard so much about you from Sandra.”
Who’s he referring to? At a loss for words and clearly confused, I glance at Quiche, hoping she’ll rescue me. “Sun Beam, Sam. He’s talking about our Sun Beam.”
My face grows hot. One minute with this man and my mind is mush. Hormones have me in a vise, and it’s impossible to escape. I push my hair behind my ears. Braydon glances my way, a quiet smile playing about his lips. He and Lella roll the mop and bucket to the center of the room, I’m sure to get a better view of this performance.
“Of course.” I turn to Sun Beam. “Sandra.” My face must be radiating heat, and my smile’s so wide my cheeks ache. Swallowing hard, I try collecting myself.
“Well, I see—”
“I’ve just gotten used to calling her Sun Beam,” I stammer, interrupting him, talking in distracted spurts. Then my eyes travel back to his face, his clean-shaven jawline with the whisper of an afternoon stubble. I feel like an animal shaking off the effects of a long hibernation.
“Of course, we’re the only ones who call her Sun Beam,” I continue. “I guess we’ve made our own little family here.”
He looks around the room. “This place is unique. Like it’s trapped in another era.” He picks up a vintage teacup, painted with pale-pink roses. “A gentler time.”
His eyes meet mine. I swallow hard. “You must be thirsty. Can I pour you a glass of iced tea?”
“That would be wonderful. It’s blazing out there. I’m parched.”
Walking to the fridge, I can feel his eyes sliding down my body. I try imagining how Addie would act at this moment. I stop, turn sideways, catch his eyes, and smile. I’m glad I wore my blue T-shirt, as the shade matches my eyes. Placing my hand on my hip, I cross my right foot over my left. Addie instructed me on this pose, which improves posture and is the best way of giving full attention to curves. “Instead of tea, perhaps you’d prefer our Lavender-Lime Soda.”
He gives a little smile, a nod.
“Maybe I’ll join you,” I add, lifting my brows.
Alerted to the play in my voice, he walks to the counter, his eyes on my face. The air feels electrified. Am I emitting sparks? I walk around the counter, a sway in my hips, and fill two tall glasses with ice.
I’ve now become an actress behind a bar in an Old West movie. The cowboy was just cued to stride up and take a drink from the little lady. Quiche, Sun Beam, Braydon, and Lella are quiet, pretending to be occupied with their tasks, but not missing one beat of this show.
“Quiche tells me you want to use our vegetable garden to teach your students math.” I pour us each a soda and slide one his way. Imagining myself as Mae West, I tilt my head to the side, batting my eyes furiously.
“I’ve found the only way of teaching that sticks with students is learning through practical life-skill exercises. Do you have paper and a pen? I’ll show you.”
Without moving my eyes from his, I grab an order pad from under the counter. As he takes it from my hand, his fingers linger on mine a second more than necessary. A thrill shoots up my spine. I pull a pen from my back pocket and give this to him, as well.
He sits at the counter, tapping the pen on the pad. “For example, in a traditional classroom, a student learns a formula—say, area equals length times width—does the practice problems, and then takes a test. After the test, the kid forgets what they’ve learned. But if the formula is made relevant to their life, demonstrating something useful to them, they retain the information.”
At the moment, arousal for this man has trumped all knowledge. I take a sip of soda and try to summon an articulate sentence. Listening to him speak, I feel as if I know only a sliver more than nothing. Thankfully, a fragment of that sliver rises to the top.
“That’s similar to the Montessori approach, right? Where students learn concepts from working with materials, rather than by rote memorization?”
“Exactly.” He gifts me with a beatific smile, and I admire the shape of his full lips, the gleam of his teeth, and the cleft in his chin. “What I’d like to do is have my students take the measurements in your garden and show them how to do the formula, which would demonstrate how much soil they’d need to fill it.”
He draws a rectangle, and I rest my elbows on the counter to observe his calculations, cupping my chin in my hand. He smells of sap and perspiration, like a pine forest after a downpour. Pheromones. Delicious and intoxicating. I wish they could be bottled.
“See,” he says, tapping the pencil on my wrist, and catching my eyes. “I multiplied the width and length of the garden. That gave me the square footage to calculate the amount of soil they’d need to fill the plot.” He scribbles numbers on the pad and slides it under my eyes. “Since the garden is forty-five square yards, and we want to cover it in four inches of soil, we’d need five cubic yards of dirt.”
“Fascinating.” I lean my head toward the pad. I don’t have a clue as to how he came up with his final number. I’ll make sure to assist Sun Beam with her next math assignment. I tip my head to the side, looking up into his eyes. “Consider taking it a step further and having your students plant vegetable seeds.” I straighten, looping my hair, which has fallen into my face, across my shoulder. Mae West blossoms into a honey-blonde Nigella Lawson. I imagine myself fresh from the garden, wearing a sultry smile while admiring my basket of eggplant, tomatoes, and spinach. “You know, I grew up on a farm. I could teach your students how to utilize their harvest. Give them a cooking class.”
“Now that’s a thought.” He considers me, the side of his mouth ticked up, a look of admiration. “I grew up in Nashville, and my favorite memories are when we visited my grandparents on their farm. It was an hour’s drive south from our home. I was named after my granddad.”
“When does your class resume?” I say, smiling ear to ear. I have to admit, I love to show off my dimples.
“After Labor Day. Ten weeks or so.” He finishes his soda in a gulp. “That was refreshing. Lavender. Hmmm. Who knew?”
“We harvested it from a clump out back. Their lilac blossoms are just beginning to appear. Let me show you around.” I wave him toward the back door. “Follow me.”
Addie and I cross paths as she exits the office. I touch her arm. “Addie, this is Sun Beam’s math teacher. He’s going to use our garden for a school project.”
“Nice to meet you,” she says, extending her hand.
“You, as well,” he replies, taking her hand to shake it. He’s a fox, yet she barely registers his presence. Her jaw is clenched, and thin lines crease her forehead. She’s been holed up in that office awhile. I’m glad I don’t have to do payroll.
I open the back door leading to the garden. Uriah places his fingertips in the small of my spine, and my tailbone feels as if it’s being zapped by a cattle prod. Hormones. Pheromones. Will he be another addition to my history of making bad choices about men? Man, oh man, am I in for trouble.