across my forehead. I don’t pack perfume, but this cream has a delightful scent that will be a definite improvement over pond water. I decide to take down my hair, brush it, and put it back up in a neater ponytail. Then I’m racing back up the stairs, my stomach a jitter.
Ridge Road has no sidewalk, and the land alongside is uneven and littered with scrub brush. Jason places himself between me and the cars. Talking over the traffic is difficult, not only because of the noise, but because we both step off the narrow shoulder when a car is coming and dodging the brush requires attention. I manage to get some details about his aunt’s reaction to the plant, and how the pond system is operating with the new kit. His aunt lives in San Moreno about fifteen miles away; Jason lives and works in Bradley Park, two towns west of here.
The sun is warm, and since I’ve half-suffocated myself with skin cream, I’m in danger of again breaking an unattractive sweat. I’m glad for the air conditioning in Peggy’s.
Peggy is long-gone. Her daughter Maggie, not in her infancy either, now rules the place, lording over the counter activity in her trademark leathery tan, her white blond-from-a-bottle long hair, and her too-tight, low-neck knit shells, like she’s channeling Donatella Versace, only there’s twice as much of her. Her eyes nearly bug out of her head when she sees me enter with Jason.
That I’m with someone at all? Or that he looks like he does? I don’t want to find out. I like Maggie, but she’s got no filter.
She beelines toward her prime counter position.
I wave hello, and then steer right toward the seating area where we can get table service.
We sit in the back at a small wooden table painted in an orange-and-turquoise checkerboard pattern.
Moments later, a waitress delivers laminated card menus.
“What do you like?” Jason asks, studying the menu.
“I can’t decide whether to order The Gobbler or The PC Paisano.”
Jason’s forehead wrinkles. “PC Paisano?”
“Yea. Maggie, the current owner, has her own brand of humor. The PC is for Politically Correct. It’s a No-Kill sandwich. Vegetarian. Organic. Eggplant parmigiana on whole wheat bread with organic mozzarella.”
Jason raises his eyebrows, nodding. “Okay. Do you, ah, want to order both, and we can split them?”
I blink, my mouth dropping open. He’s a splitter? Men hate to split meals. And if I was thick enough not to pick this up from my own limited experience, Sara has informed me of this fact on numerous occasions. It’s how she rationalizes spending money to go out for lunch at work, because she has someone—me—who will pay for half.
I LOVE to split. “Really?” I ask. “Do you really want to?”
He looks up toward the waitress a few tables away, and then back down at the menu.
A tell if I ever saw one.
“That would be fine.”
“But…” I lean forward. “You would rather have…
He draws in a breath. “My choice is not PC. The Smokin’ Hot Pastrami? Would that bother you? To be at a table with that?”
I burst out laughing. “Not at all. I’ll go with The Gobbler to keep you company.”
“You aren’t vegetarian?”
“No. I don’t eat a lot of meat, but I eat it when I have a craving.”
“I noticed the chicken coop where you work. I didn’t know…”
“If I would eat poultry? Because of Chester, Arthur, Violet, Petunia, and Poppy?”
“Yea, I guess. Are those the chickens’ names?”
“And roosters, yes. Plus Duke and Daisy, the goats. They keep the kids occupied while the parents shop.”
Most of us nursery employees are pretty besotted with the animals. But I push thoughts of Violet and her friends out of my mind since I told him I’d order The Gobbler. Jason is saved from responding to an illogical logic that allows me to be quite fond of our nursery poultry, but eat a turkey sandwich. We order, and I realize, as usual, I’m quite hungry. Working outside does that. “Do you cook,
Ridge Road has no sidewalk, and the land alongside is uneven and littered with scrub brush. Jason places himself between me and the cars. Talking over the traffic is difficult, not only because of the noise, but because we both step off the narrow shoulder when a car is coming and dodging the brush requires attention. I manage to get some details about his aunt’s reaction to the plant, and how the pond system is operating with the new kit. His aunt lives in San Moreno about fifteen miles away; Jason lives and works in Bradley Park, two towns west of here.
The sun is warm, and since I’ve half-suffocated myself with skin cream, I’m in danger of again breaking an unattractive sweat. I’m glad for the air conditioning in Peggy’s.
Peggy is long-gone. Her daughter Maggie, not in her infancy either, now rules the place, lording over the counter activity in her trademark leathery tan, her white blond-from-a-bottle long hair, and her too-tight, low-neck knit shells, like she’s channeling Donatella Versace, only there’s twice as much of her. Her eyes nearly bug out of her head when she sees me enter with Jason.
That I’m with someone at all? Or that he looks like he does? I don’t want to find out. I like Maggie, but she’s got no filter.
She beelines toward her prime counter position.
I wave hello, and then steer right toward the seating area where we can get table service.
We sit in the back at a small wooden table painted in an orange-and-turquoise checkerboard pattern.
Moments later, a waitress delivers laminated card menus.
“What do you like?” Jason asks, studying the menu.
“I can’t decide whether to order The Gobbler or The PC Paisano.”
Jason’s forehead wrinkles. “PC Paisano?”
“Yea. Maggie, the current owner, has her own brand of humor. The PC is for Politically Correct. It’s a No-Kill sandwich. Vegetarian. Organic. Eggplant parmigiana on whole wheat bread with organic mozzarella.”
Jason raises his eyebrows, nodding. “Okay. Do you, ah, want to order both, and we can split them?”
I blink, my mouth dropping open. He’s a splitter? Men hate to split meals. And if I was thick enough not to pick this up from my own limited experience, Sara has informed me of this fact on numerous occasions. It’s how she rationalizes spending money to go out for lunch at work, because she has someone—me—who will pay for half.
I LOVE to split. “Really?” I ask. “Do you really want to?”
He looks up toward the waitress a few tables away, and then back down at the menu.
A tell if I ever saw one.
“That would be fine.”
“But…” I lean forward. “You would rather have…
He draws in a breath. “My choice is not PC. The Smokin’ Hot Pastrami? Would that bother you? To be at a table with that?”
I burst out laughing. “Not at all. I’ll go with The Gobbler to keep you company.”
“You aren’t vegetarian?”
“No. I don’t eat a lot of meat, but I eat it when I have a craving.”
“I noticed the chicken coop where you work. I didn’t know…”
“If I would eat poultry? Because of Chester, Arthur, Violet, Petunia, and Poppy?”
“Yea, I guess. Are those the chickens’ names?”
“And roosters, yes. Plus Duke and Daisy, the goats. They keep the kids occupied while the parents shop.”
Most of us nursery employees are pretty besotted with the animals. But I push thoughts of Violet and her friends out of my mind since I told him I’d order The Gobbler. Jason is saved from responding to an illogical logic that allows me to be quite fond of our nursery poultry, but eat a turkey sandwich. We order, and I realize, as usual, I’m quite hungry. Working outside does that. “Do you cook,
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