“Now it’s the Chad Bowman Special.”
“Understood,” I answered, and dug into my own slice.
When I’d baked these the night before, I had no idea they’d be such a hit. I’d made four cakes, and these two slices were all that was left. I’d started thinking about other cakes I could make, wondering how Italian Cream Layer Cake would go over. I was used to constantly testing recipes, changing and adapting them, and now I was stuck making the same spaghetti and meatballs recipe that had been on the menu since before I was born. I’d be bored out of my gourd if I didn’t try something new on the menu soon.
I sighed as I tasted the caramel cake. This was an instance when an old recipe was still just as good as the day it was written down. The only thing I’d changed? I added buttermilk for a little extra tang, and used actual vanilla bean instead of just grocery store extract. Same recipe, slightly elevated. I sighed once more, tasting the sweetness of the caramel, the richness of the brown sugar.
“This is good,” I admitted, and Chad nodded in agreement, his mouth full of cake. It was quiet, just the clinking of our forks as we finished our cake.
“So, how are things going with the farmer?” Chad asked, after literally licking the plate clean. I’d done the same thing to the bowl when I made the frosting.
“What farmer?” I asked innocently, taking our plates back to the kitchen so he didn’t see my blushing cheeks.
“What farmer,” he said with a snort. “Aren’t you cute.”
“Oh, that farmer,” I answered. “I assume he’s doing just fine.”
“I heard a rumor he was seen driving away from your house a few nights ago. Care to comment?”
I snapped my dish towel toward him. “Where are these rumors coming from? First the cake, now this.”
“My husband likes to think of himself as a small-town newspaper reporter—very His Girl Friday.” He laughed, pretending to type furiously. “ ‘I’m gonna break this story wide open, see?’ ”
“I’m the least interesting person to gossip about,” I said, wiping off the crumbs from our snack. Then I grabbed the last few sugar containers from the counter stations and began refilling them from the giant sack.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s true at all. Shy little Roxie Callahan comes home from La-La Land with her ladle in hand to rescue the family diner, and finds something other than a ladle to grab on to at night?” he said, still in his newspaper voice.
“You are so twisted. Were you always this twisted?” I asked, handing him a container of salt and pointing him at the shakers.
“Always. I just hid it under a football helmet back then,” he answered, going to work.
“You sure were cute under that helmet. And without the helmet too.” I sighed, giving him my best eyelash batting.
“True, all true. But enough deflecting—what’s up with the farmer?”
“I’m not deflecting. Hey, look what I found last night!” I said, holding up a canning jar I’d found in the basement. My mom’s canning equipment was sitting around getting dusty since she was away, and I’d brought a few jars in to run through the dishwasher. I was craving early summer green tomato pickles like nobody’s business.
“Deflect all you want—I just need know when you get into his overalls.”
“I seriously doubt Leo wears overalls. Holy crap, do you think Leo wears overalls?”
“Holy crap, are you making moonshine? What’s with all the jars?” he asked as I lined them up all along the counter.
“I’m making pickles, silly.” I laughed.
“You know how to make pickles?”
“Chef, remember?” I said, pointing at myself. “I’ve even got the tall funny hat somewhere.”
“Teach me how to make them. Logan is always going on and on about learning how to do stuff like that.”
“Stuff like pickles?” I asked.
“Pickles, jelly, stuff in jars.” He filled another shaker. “He watches a lot of Walking Dead.”
“Not sure I get the connection between zombies and jelly.”
“Like, if there was a zombie apocalypse and no one was making food anymore, eventually someone would have to start making that stuff. Except no one knows how to do that kind of thing anymore—except hippies and chefs. And what are the chances they’d make it through without getting eaten?” He said all of this as he went about filling the salt shakers, as if it was perfectly natural.
“But you’re pretty sure you and Logan would make it through? Without getting eaten?”
“Exactly. We both ran track. Plus he learned how to fence in school, so he’d be like that badass woman with the swords. And when he comes home from a hard day at work killing zombies, it’d be nice to have some J on the PBJ.”
“And a pickle on the side?” I asked, my forehead wrinkling as I tried to follow this train wreck of thought.
“Exactly!”
“Huh” was my only answer.
A moment later, he looked up from his pouring. “So will you teach us?”
“Sure,” I said. “Be glad to. For zombies’ sake.” I made a mental note to pick up some vinegar at the market. I wonder if Leo has dill weed?
My phone rang. Hmm, speak of the farmer, and he doth appear. I mean, doth call.
“Do you have any dill weed?” I asked by way of a greeting.
“If I had a nickel . . .” Leo’s deep voice trailed off. Cue shiver.
“I’ll give you a nickel, I’m making pickles.” I laughed, stifling the second round of shiver. I quickly focused. “I require dill weed.”
“Pickles, huh? So would it interest you to know the first baby cucumbers are just about ready to pick?”
“Nothing would interest me more than your cucumber,” I murmured into the phone, keeping my voice low. The Chad Bowman was now holding up the funnel like a low-tech listening device.
Leo snorted. “I’m so glad we’ve moved on to my cucumber, instead of talking about my nuts all the time.”
“Oh, I’m sure your nuts will be fair game again soon enough.”
“What was that loud noise?” Leo asked, sounding a bit concerned.
“Sorry about that, a customer just fell off his stool,” I replied, shaking my head as Chad’s head popped back up over the counter, his eyes still wide from the nuts. I held my finger up to my lips, warning him to keep quiet. “Nuts aside, what’s up?”
“Funny that you mentioned you need dill weed, because I was calling to see if you wanted to join the CSA for the summer. You can come out and either pick up your box, or you can pick your own. I usually don’t let people do that, but, you know . . .” He trailed off.
“But, you know, I know the farmer.” I grinned, swatting at Chad’s hand as he made two salt shakers kiss.
“You could know this farmer,” Leo said, his tone darkening a bit, his voice getting a bit lower, more heated. Speaking of heated . . .
“When should I come?” I asked, mimicking his tone.
Chad bit down on a dish towel. Then spat it out, as I’d been cleaning with bleach.
“Hmm, I feel like I’m supposed to say something like . . . often? Repeatedly?”
“Good man.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I can come right after the lunch shift is over,” I purred, and he laughed.
“Dangerous,” he said, then hung up.
Laughing to myself, I turned around to see that Chad had written OH MY GOD in salt along the counter.
“You’re totally cleaning that up,” I said.
Chapter 12
The next afternoon I headed out to Maxwell Farm again, with even more anticipation this time. I was looking forward to the picking of the vegetables, the signing up for the farmshare, the kissing of the lips. Mostly the kissing of the lips.
I hadn’t seen him since the night I’d made him dinner, since the fire department interrupted something that was already smoldering. I’d been busy with the diner—working double shifts, replacing the back door lock, and getting back into the swing of cooking in a professional kitchen. I had new burns on my forearm from wrestling with a meat loaf, a Band-Aid on my thumb when I mistook it for a carrot . . . and a girlish urge to giggle every single time I went into the walk-in. I fought the giggle right now, just thinking about it.