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.”
Riverdale.
Ludlow.
Yonkers.
As the train sped up the Hudson, it was as though everything was suddenly clicking into place, like a giant game of Tetris tilting on end and every piece found its home.
The moment I decided I didn’t want to be in that big city anymore, my heart cracked open and began to long for a small town—my small town. For mosquitos and sweet tea, for bare feet and gentle hills that led to craggy peaks. For spring-fed pools and glacial lakes. For nosy neighbors and cranky waitresses and sweet former quarterbacks. For flaky hippie mothers who made falling in love seem easy and wonderful, even when it wasn’t, and always made sure their daughters had adequate fiber content.
For a farmer who groaned when he came, and grinned when I did.
For a farmer who wanted me desperately, but came as an already matched set, a set I’d never try to come between, but would be honored to someday join.
Irvington.
Tarrytown.
Philipse Manor.