“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.
Gorgeous, yes. Friendly? Um . . .
“How well do you know him?” Natalie asked, color coming high in her cheeks as we moved to the front of the line. She was patting my arm in an almost nervous way, moving her weight from one foot to the other.
“Not well at all. The few times I’ve seen him, we’ve barely said— Hi, Oscar! How are you?” I chirped, putting on my game face.
He looked blandly back at me. Natalie’s skin began to burn; I could feel her heating up beside me.
“So, um, you come in each week to the city? I didn’t know the creamery had a stand here. That’s great!”
More with the bland.
“So, this is my friend Natalie—she loves your brie. Right, Nat? Hey—Natalie?”
My friend, who could talk a priest down off the pulpit with one button undone, had absolutely clammed up. Could have been a mannequin, for all the life that was in her.
Oscar turned his eyes from mine and looked at Natalie. He slowly took her in, taking his time as he scanned her from head to toe, then focused on her mouth. Which was pinched into a tight line, her lips almost white with tension. He finally looked into her eyes, and the snap crackle pop of tension between them made me feel a little dizzy.
Under her eyes, he came alive. But he still said nothing. Except . . .
“Brie?” His voice was deeper than I’d heard it before, scratchy and thick.
Natalie just nodded. He wrapped up a wedge, leaned over to set it in front of her, and moved on to the next customer.
Spell broken, Natalie flew over to the cashier, paid for her cheese, and continued her flight away from Oscar, away from the Creamery.
I caught up to her and tugged on her arm. “What the hell was that?”
“What?” she asked, all calm and cool again. She flung her hair over her shoulder and stood straight and tall, beautiful and in control once more. Clara was coming toward us with coffees, and Natalie’s eyes asked me to drop it.
“We’ll revisit this,” I said, and she nodded. The only way anyone would know she had a killer crush on Oscar the Grouch was the bloom of color still on her cheeks, and the tiny secret smile that was toying at her lips.
But I saw Oscar leaning out of his stall to take in the magnificent sight of Natalie’s backside as she strutted away.
Chapter 24
We walked home from the market, Clara taking her usual measured steps, Natalie appearing to glide on air, and me plodding. It was already eighty-five degrees well before noon, and would soar into the midnineties. Which in a city made of steel and concrete was borderline ovenlike.
In spite of the heat however, people were out in droves, walking fast and purposefully. I seemed to go left whenever they did, right when they did, and as a result was bobbing and weaving like a boxer. I caught three purses in the chest before I finally started walking behind Natalie, who at almost six feet in her heels acted as a natural crowd breaker.
The city felt like a physical being, wrapping around me warm and thick like a wool blanket. Not exactly what you want in the dog days of summer.
And the smell! It was garbage day, and thousands and thousands of plastic bags were piled onto the sidewalk’s curb, three to four feet high in some places, since the city had been constructed essentially without alleys. And in the heat of summer, the smell could be unbearable.
How much of this could be composted, I wondered as I held my breath walking by the bigger stacks. How much of this could be donated and worked into a nutrient-rich mulch that could augment summer gardens and winter fields?
Leo could figure this out, he would . . . thunk! Dodging yet another person who was intent on getting somewhere five minutes sooner than everyone else, I got shouldered into the wall of garbage, pinwheeling my arms to keep from going headfirst into a mountain of gross.
“Oh my God, Roxie! Are you okay?” Clara pulled me back just in time.
“Fucking dick!” I called after the guy with the shoulder, who didn’t even pause, didn’t check to make sure I was okay.
I was hot, I was sticky with humidity, my nose was filled with the stench of garbage, and I could feel my stomach giving a warning rumble. “Fucking dick,” I repeated to myself. “I’m fine—thanks.”
“Want me to smack him? I can catch him,” Clara said, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet.
“No no,” I said, pulling at my T-shirt and trying to get some air. Suddenly everything seemed too close: the air, my clothes, the people, even my friends. It was all too loud, too much. My throat tightened, and a curious lump formed in the back of my throat as I realized in a great whoosh that I was . . . homesick. For Bailey Falls.
For the peace and quiet, for the good country air, for nosey gossipmongers, for the swimming holes, and the wind through the trees. For hills covered in funny little chicken coops on wheels, for brown sugar strawberries, and oh my God, I want Leo and every single thing that comes with it. Everything.
“You look like you’re going to be sick.” Natalie swept my hair back from my face.
“What’s the fastest way to Grand Central?” I asked, digging in my purse to find my phone. Dead. Dammit. That’s what happens when you run off to the city without packing a bag. I was wearing Clara’s clothes today, for goodness’ sake.
“Wait, what?” Natalie asked.
“I’m going home. Metro North runs all day, right?” I asked frantically.
“Mmm-hmm.” She raised a hand and grabbed a cab instantly. “Grand Central,” she told the driver.
“Thanks, I gotta go. I’ll send you your clothes,” I said to Clara, getting into the cab, already feeling better. Lighter.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
Natalie patted her hand. “I’ll fill you in.”