“We’re going.” She wanted to go to the tulip fields. She needed to go.
He stepped back. “Okay.” He smiled cautiously. “We’ll go.”
“Duh.” She held up the next order in front of him. “Now go over there and grill a steak or something.”
He shook his head, laughing quietly, and did as she asked.
Chapter 14
Tru looked up from her Bachelor show. “Is that Jace person coming to dinner again?”
Georgie turned the page of one of Faye’s magazines. “Why do you ask?”
Tru turned back to her show. “That cake was good. He needs to come back and bring more cake.”
Georgie had just come home from work, and though she longed to go to bed, Tru had asked her to sit down and watch with her. That had never happened before, so Georgie thought she should accept the invitation, at least for a few minutes. “Well, he’s picking me up in the morning to go to the tulip fields. But I don’t think he’s bringing food this time.”
“He must really like you.”
Georgie flushed. “Why do you say that?”
“Because the tulips aren’t even going to be blooming yet, and he’s driving you out there. Why else would he do that?”
“Tru, it’s not like that. It’s for the restaurant. And the daffodils are blooming.” Daffodils were blooming all over the island now. There would be fields of them out at the bulb farms.
“Because he wants to spend time with you.”
“He wants to figure out the next dish for the menu. We’re just friends. Now stop it, or I’m going to bed.”
“Don’t you sass me. It’s just like this show.”
Georgie eyed the TV, where a good-looking guy sat casually with three women obviously vying for his attention with cleavage, makeup, and flipping hair. “What do you mean?”
“I mean the guy never sees. He never sees the girls who are nice and the girls who aren’t. We see because we see all the girls living together. We see them real. And I see Jace likes you.”
Georgie stood and went over to Tru. “You don’t make sense, but I love you.” She kissed her on the forehead.
“Oh, stop,” Tru said as she brushed Georgie away.
“I’m going to bed. You watch too much TV.” She walked toward her room.
“You need to watch more. You could learn something.”
Georgie bit back her retort. What good has it done you? she’d almost asked. What good does it do to learn a lesson if it scares you out of trying? Fatigued, she stopped at the bathroom and brushed her teeth. You never see the ones who are real and the ones who aren’t. She spit. Jace likes you. She mentally wrestled to put that last thought into a box and onto a shelf.
Once she reached her bed, she crawled under the covers and prayed that she could bypass the inevitable insomnia.
* * *
Jace texted Georgie from the front porch, not wanting to wake up everyone in the house if they were still asleep.
You ready? I’m outside.
As he waited for her response, he watched the sky. Clouds hung low and still, but rain hadn’t started yet. Early-morning mist had wet everything; the world was green and dripping. He wished for a breeze to push the clouds on to the east. He looked at his phone, but just then the door opened and Georgie stepped out. Again he was struck by her casual appearance. She wore jeans, and she was zipping up a blue rain parka. He looked down and smiled. “New boots?”
She nodded. “Faye and I went to Bothel last week, and she said I needed to get myself a present. I found these.” She raised her foot and inspected the rain boot. Colors swirled in different patterns and graphics on the shiny black plastic, and printed on the ankle was a large white wing reaching upward. It had a match on the other foot. “They’re for flying,” she said, almost to herself.
“Perfect,” Jace said.
She nodded, still looking down. Sometimes she said the most unexpected things.
“We can grab breakfast in Mt. Vernon before we get started, if you’re hungry. It’ll be a couple of hours before we hit the lunch menus.”
“Great,” she said. She looked up. Her eyes widened. “You shaved.”
He shrugged. “It’d been a while.” He kept his beard cut close but hadn’t shaved clean for over a year. He felt her inspecting his face and suddenly became self-conscious. He rubbed his chin. “I just felt like starting the beard over.”
She nodded, stepping off the porch and walking to the bike. She glanced at him again. She didn’t say anything, and he wondered what she was thinking. Did she like the shave? Did she prefer the whiskers? He had no idea. He had no idea why it mattered. Except he recalled the point at the bathroom sink where he’d wondered, just briefly, if Georgie would prefer a clean-shaven look, and then he’d slathered on the shaving cream. He winced at that. He joined her at the bike and climbed on. She was already buckling her helmet. He put his on and started the bike.
Her light touch at his waist made him pause. Geez, heart, calm down. This is nothing. Just friends. She’s a basket case. You’re a bachelor. You’re not getting into this again. Focus. Recipes. The quick starts or sudden accelerations he’d used when he was younger, when girls had ridden on the back of his bike, just so they’d pull their arms around him tighter crossed his mind. He rolled his eyes at himself.
He eased the bike out of the drive, onto the road, then onto the main drive off the island. Towering pines lined both sides, and the air smelled wet. Georgie’s hands stayed just above his hips. Where they should be. Where he wanted them to be because he’d sworn off girls and dating and complications.
He navigated traffic north toward Mt. Vernon for about twenty miles and took Exit 226. He slowed at a stoplight and placed his feet on the ground. Glancing behind him, he asked, “You okay?” She hadn’t said a word during the trip.
She nodded and gave him a thumbs-up. “It’s beautiful.”
“The freeway?”
“All of it. It’s saturated.”
He laughed. “That’s a good word for it.” The mist had mixed with fog the farther north they’d come. You couldn’t even see the mountains, which was a shame. Maybe it would burn off later. “The Farmhouse is just up here a bit. Nothing fancy, but breakfast is good.”
“As long as they have pancakes,” she said.
He smiled, revving the engine out of habit as it idled.
“I never thought I’d like the weather here so much,” she said. “It’s kind of poetic.”
He turned and looked at her.
“Like Prufrock,” she said.
“Prufrock.”
“Yeah. T. S. Eliot. Which is, of course, perfectly normal to bring up on the back of a motorcycle.” She rolled her eyes at herself beneath her visor.
He shrugged. “Why not?” He turned back, vaguely remembering having to pick apart the poem in English lit in high school. Maybe he’d have to take a look again. After all, he liked the weather here too, and he was curious about how it related to a forgotten poem. But more importantly, whatever had caused her so much trouble yesterday didn’t seem to be bothering her this morning. And that made him glad. He looked down at her boots. She’d tucked her jeans into them, and he thought that they were the sexiest pair of rain boots he’d ever seen.
“You like my boots, huh?” she asked.
He nodded. “Yup.” He revved the engine again, and the light turned green.
* * *
Georgie pushed the last bite of pancake through the syrup on her plate and stuck it in her mouth. Pancakes were comfort food, and she was spending the entire day alone with Jace Lowe, talking about food she didn’t know how to make. They had miraculously worked. For now.
“So,” Jace said, looking over a piece of paper he’d unfolded. His omelet was long gone. “I made a list of foods usually associated with spring. Maybe as we explore we can keep these in mind. If you can think of any others, say something.”
She put down her fork and nodded. “Springtime foods. Right.”
>
He raised his brow at her and smiled. She returned the same look, and he read. “Asparagus, because that’s a given.”
“Of course.”
“Lemon or citrus—”
“Like in the shrimp.”
“Like in the shrimp,” he agreed. “Let’s see . . . crab.”
“Crab?”
He nodded. “It has seasons. Spring is one of them.”
“I had no idea. I just thought they were always kicking around under there at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Well, they are. But there are crabbing seasons, and they’re the right size at the peak of those seasons.”
She lifted her mug. “Learn something new every day.”
He watched her.
“Go on,” she told him and sipped the creamy cocoa, wondering how in the world he expected her to be any help.
He looked back down at the list. “Uh, parsley, cilantro . . . tarragon . . . fennel. Any fresh herb, really. Spinach, lettuce, cabbage . . . rhubarb.” He set the list down. “That’s all I’ve got.” He didn’t look inspired.
She set down her mug. “Well, it sounds to me like you could just create some sort of asparagus, lemon, parsley-rhubarb-tarragon-stuffed crab, and you’re set.” She watched him expectantly.
He wrinkled his nose.
She smiled and sipped her cocoa. The waiter brought the check and cleared their plates. As Jace placed his credit card with the bill, Georgie felt a twinge of nerves.
“Are you sure I can’t just pay for my breakfast?”
“Oh, I’m sure you can. However,” he flipped the card around so she could see it. “This is the restaurant card, and today is work. So as long as you don’t order every pancake in the house, this is covered.”
“I’ll try to control myself.”
He nodded and pushed the bill to the edge of the table. “Very wise. We’ve got a lot of tasting to do later. Now, about the list of spring foods, did anything else come to mind?”
“Umm, chocolate bunnies?”
He leaned back and stretched. “It’s going to be a long day.”
“I blame the cocoa.” She grinned.
He stood and offered her a hand up.
She hesitated half a second, and she could immediately see his realization that he may have done something he shouldn’t have. At the moment he started to pull his hand away, she reached for it. He gripped her hand firmly and pulled her up, and once they stood facing each other, she let go at the same time he did. The waiter brought back the check, and Jace signed it, but as he did, Georgie clenched her fist and turned, watching out the windows at nothing, because his hand had been warm and a little rough and nice.
“You ready?” Jace asked.
She nodded and forced a smile. No, she thought, I’m not.
* * *
They left town and traffic behind. Georgie drew in her breath and patted Jace’s arm. “What are those?”
An entire pasture was filled with large, white, resting birds. Had their necks been longer, she would have thought they were swans.
Jace looked where she pointed and turned onto the road that would take them just past the field. He slowed to a stop but didn’t turn off the bike. “Snow geese,” he called.
“Snow geese,” she repeated. “There are a ton of them.”
He nodded. “They migrate through here every year. Thousands.” He reached for the bike’s horn and beeped.
Like a down blanket being settled over a bed, the geese lifted as one, flapping their wings and settling once more.
Jace and Georgie watched for another minute, and then Jace turned the bike. In another mile, down another rural road, another field came into view, only this field was a blanket of vivid yellow.
“Daffodils,” Georgie whispered. The surrounding emerald fields would be filled with tulips in a few weeks, but right now, under a canopy of gray mist, the daffodils had the floor.
Jace pulled off the road and parked. He cut the engine, and silence settled—that silence of a field or a lake in the morning: a few birds, whatever sound fog made; it made a sound, like snow makes a sound.
Georgie stood at the edge of the damp field, her motorcycle helmet in her hand, and gazed over row upon row of the yellow heads. Occasionally a flower would bob. Duck. Sway.
“Are we allowed to walk in there?” she asked Jace as he joined her.
“Sure. If we don’t disturb anything.”
Georgie walked carefully along the edge of the furrows, her boots sinking a bit in the soft, wet earth. She crouched down and touched a few of the thick, waxy petals. “Do I dare disturb the universe?” she asked quietly.
“What was that?” Jace asked behind her.
She glanced at him. “Prufrock: ‘Do I dare disturb the universe? In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse . . .’” She trailed off at the end, looking back down at the flower cradled in her hand. She hadn’t thought of that poem in a long time, and now she’d been reminded of it twice in one morning. Strange how something from so long ago could come back and suddenly mean everything.
“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” Jace suggested.
She smiled. “Yes. A crazy old man aging and loving and questioning a whole lot of stuff.”
“So you can relate.”
Georgie shrugged. “You mean being crazy?”
“I meant the old-man part, but whatever.” She laughed and stood. She took a picture of the field with her phone. “I’m surprised I could remember even that much of the poem. My brain hasn’t been working right for a long time. Maybe it’s getting better.”
She bit her lip and took another picture. Should she have said that? Did that sound crazy? Holy cow, would she always be second-guessing herself? Even while declaring herself improved?
“Maybe it is getting better,” he said. “Maybe recalling Prufrock has tipped your brain to genius levels.”
He was teasing her. “I don’t hear you recalling any poems.”
He grinned. “Well, that’s because my brain is subgenius.”
“That explains why you asked me to help you cook.”
He nodded, studying her.
She looked away, focusing on the fields. “This is gorgeous. I can’t wait to be here when the tulips are out.”
Jace looked out too. “It’s pretty amazing. Acres of them.”
“I’ve seen photos online. I looked up the Roozengaarde website.” The bulb farm was the biggest and most popular farm in the area.
“Have you seen paintings?” he asked as though he had a secret to share.
“No.”
He motioned toward the motorcycle. “C’mon, Alfred.”
They stood in the open doorway of an old barn where some light construction was taking place.
“Hey, Jace. Good to see you.” A man in a cowboy hat and canvas jacket approached with his hand out.
“Hey, Dean,” Jace said as he shook the man’s hand. “How are you?”
“I’m great. You’re a little early, aren’t you?”
Jace shrugged. “Just a couple of weeks. Took a chance on you being out here getting ready for the art show. This is Georgie. She’s a friend of mine. Works at the restaurant.”
Dean removed his hat. “Nice to meet you, Georgie. Dean Stroud.”
She smiled and shook his hand. “Hello.”
Jace surveyed the work being done. “We’re looking for inspiration for some new menu items.”
“And you came here?”
Jace shrugged. “The new dishes are to celebrate the festival. Spring. New. Fresh.”
“Ah.” Dean nodded in understanding.
“Reuben wants them ready to go ASAP, so we’re up here for the day. Georgie’s never seen the tulip fields in bloom.”
“We’ll have to remedy that,” Dean said. “In the meantime, we can help with a preview.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“Follow me.”
As they followed Dean farth
er into the barn, Georgie gave Jace a questioning look.
He answered it. “I met Dean and his wife on my mission. Every year they invite the elders to a prefestival showing.”
“Of what?” Georgie asked.
Dean opened a door of an office space built onto the inside of the barn. “Delia, we have visitors. Jace brought a girl.”
“Oh!” came the exclamation from inside. A woman with long silver hair appeared at the doorway, smiling and wiping her hands on a cloth. Her large hoop earrings dangled as she moved. She wore a large men’s button-up shirt and jeans, and her sleeves were rolled up to her elbows. The shirt was messy with smears and splotches of paint, and the office had the tangy smell of paint supplies mixed with a hint of patchouli.
“Welcome, welcome! Jace, it’s good to see you. You brought a girl—wonderful!”
“I brought a coworker,” Jace said and glanced at Georgie.
Georgie nodded as if he needed her witness to the statement.
“Is she a girl?”
Jace glanced again at Georgie. “Well, yes. A woman . . . girl.”
Georgie muffled a laugh.
“So I was right,” Delia said.
“I’m leaving you in good hands,” Dean said with a smile. “Delia will answer all of your questions. I’ve got some work needing my attention.” He leaned down and kissed his wife on the cheek. “Be good,” he said, then headed back toward the front of the barn.
She grinned innocently at Georgie. “Would you like to see the collection so far? They’ve started coming in from all over just the last couple of days.”
Georgie nodded like she knew exactly what she was talking about.
“I’m Delia,” the woman said, linking her arm in Georgie’s. “You have an interesting aura. What was your name? Jace, you didn’t tell me her name.”
“Georgie,” Georgie answered before Jace could.
“Now is that one name, like Sting or Madonna? Or do you have another to go with it?”
Georgie bit back another laugh. “Tate. Georgie Tate.”
“I see. And is Georgie short for something?”
They’d left the office and were walking toward several tables and vertical display boards set up against a stack of hay bales. A couple of young men were hammering boards into what looked like more standing displays.
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