A Second Harvest (Men of Lancaster County Book 1) Page 4

  David was in good shape too. His hips were narrow and his thighs toned in his baggier jeans. And when he took his coat off—mama mia. He had the body of a hard-working man, lots of upper body strength, way broad shoulders, and a trim waist. There was something to be said for working on the land, Christie decided.

  He sighed. Then he frowned with worry. David’s belt was cinched to within an inch of its life too. He’d obviously lost weight recently. When did he say his wife died? Two years ago? Sad. Really sad. David lived alone and he was eating TV dinners. It was surprising some lucky woman hadn’t snatched him up already.

  The tractor had by now driven back toward the other end of the field. Christie went back to his sketch. After trying to work on the cow and not feeling it, he created a new layer and added the small figure of a farmer walking through the field in the distance. He had very broad shoulders.

  Christie’s boss adored the sketches. They had a conference call about an approach for the dairy company’s logo and website. Christie was going to move forward with a white, black, and red design with a modernized woodcut feel and his original farm sketches. He had a week to put together clean mock-ups for the client, and he was excited about the direction.

  It felt good. No, it felt fantastic. It was several years since he’d been this engaged with his work. This was just what he’d hoped for—that getting out of the city and moving to the quiet countryside would be inspirational. That and help him back off the partying. So far it was working.

  He didn’t miss the booze, thank God. His episode of “scared straight” had definitely worked. He didn’t miss the clubs or even the city so much, but he did miss Kyle. He missed company. It was awfully quiet here, and the house was so empty. He’d been reading in the evenings or watching Netflix and drinking lots of coffee. He joined a local gym so he could work out. But it wasn’t enough.

  On Saturday morning he decided to tackle some of the house. Aunt Ruth’s house—now his house—was a modest single-story ranch with three small bedrooms and one bathroom. One of the bedrooms was his aunt’s hobby room, full of plastic flowers and baskets and drawers of cloth and thread and all sorts of things Christie would have no use for in his entire life. It would make a nicer office than the little table he was using in her bedroom, but first he had to clean it out.

  He enjoyed seeing the evidence of his aunt’s creativity. She was religious, just like his parents, but she had a sweet and generous nature. He remembered the way she “loved up” Christie when he was little—her words for it. She would tickle and hug and kiss him until he could hardly breathe for laughing. The two weeks he spent at her house every summer were some of the best memories of his childhood. She continued to write to him regularly over the years—actual letters with actual stamps—even after he came out, and his relationship with his parents was strained.

  She was an artist too, apparently. He hadn’t realized. Her quilts and needlework were gorgeous. And he found a photo album of the fancy cakes she baked, which she probably showed to prospective clients. There were trains and ladybugs, tall wedding cakes, and tiers of cupcakes. Her attention to detail was epic, and she’d had an irreverent sense of color. It was nice to feel that connection to her, that some part of her lived on in him through his art. It also made him feel sad he hadn’t tried harder to come see her in the last five years.

  After hours of packing up bags of craft stuff for donation—and putting aside the best finished pieces for himself—Christie finally got to the closet. On the top shelf were neat stacks of magazines. One stack was a craft magazine. The pile next to it was Bon Appétit.

  “Huh.” Christie carefully pulled the entire stack of magazines off the shelf and took it over to the rocking chair by the window. The magazines weren’t old. The top one was dated only a year ago. It looked like Aunt Ruth subscribed for several years and kept every issue. They’d been used too. They were in good condition but definitely read, and there were dustings of flour or dried drops of liquid here and there. She must have tried at least some of the recipes.

  The issue on top was a Thanksgiving issue. Christie opened it to a page with the corner folded back. “Oh wow,” he muttered. The photo was of an amazing-looking bright-orange soup with a dollop of white cream and green cilantro leaves in the center. It was in an elegant white serving bowl on a perfect table. “Curried carrot ginger soup” read the caption.

  The picture and even the name of the soup invoked images of the perfect Thanksgiving table with a large, good-looking family in cozy sweaters, a log fire, a big shaggy dog who did not shed, and a hunk of a man smiling at him from the table as Christie entered with the soup tureen.

  Christie was dressed in a white shirt and white pants in this fantasy, and he looked fierce, of course.

  “Hmm,” Christie hummed to himself as he read the ingredient list. It was a fairly healthy dish. He got absorbed looking at other recipes in the magazine. Then he went to rummage around in his aunt’s kitchen.

  He found her cabinet full of spices. They were high-quality ones and not out of date. She had a zester, a whole stack of graters, cheesecloth, a double boiler, and other gadgets he had no idea what they were for. So Aunt Ruth had not only liked to bake, but she liked to cook as well. It made him sad to think she had no one to cook for. She’d never been married, as far as Christie knew, nor had she had any children.

  Maybe she’d had an older gentleman friend Christie knew nothing about? He’d have to ask his mom. Or maybe David Fisher would know.

  It was Saturday and the idea of doing more cleaning held little appeal. What else did he have to do with himself? Nothing. The temptation to go into Lancaster or Harrisburg was there, to seek out a gay bar, or even get on Grindr. Gay men had to exist out here. But… that wasn’t why he moved here. He came here to get away from all that for a little while.

  His mind made up, he went to the grocery store in town with a long list. It was a big-chain grocery store, and he was pleased to find nearly everything he needed. The October day was bright with crisp leaves and a blue sky. When he got back home with his sacks of goodies, it was still early afternoon. He opened the windows in the kitchen—struggling against the one over the sink that stuck—turned up the music on his iPhone, and started dancing around, organizing his supplies and digging out pots and pans.

  He made the curried carrot ginger soup, a lovely dish with fresh peas, green onion, and radishes, some savory cheese-and-herb swirled biscuits, and a basic herb-roasted chicken. He truly did love to cook, though the past few years, it never seemed worth the effort. There were so many great takeout places in the East Village. Plus Kyle was such a picky eater. He basically ate pizza and stripped-down salads, and that was it.

  It occurred to Christie while he was prepping this meal that it was going to be a beautiful repast, and it was a shame he didn’t have anyone to share it with. He could freeze some of it, but it wouldn’t be the same. He thought of David next door, living alone, and of his TV dinner. Would that be weird? That would be weird, right?

  Pushing it from his mind, Christie spent the rest of the afternoon jamming to tunes in the kitchen and working his way through the recipes, having fun and dancing in his stocking feet.

  When everything was ready, Christie decided the meal deserved some pomp and circumstance. His aunt had a drawer of tablecloths, but they were not quite his style. He used a white linen towel for a place mat and put each dish on the table in the best china dishes he could find. He used a red cut glass for his water and lit a candle in an old silver candlestick he found in the cupboard.

  He looked at the table and chewed his lip. Everything looked beautiful. It smelled amazing too. He sucked some chicken juice from his thumb—yum. It almost seemed like a waste to eat it. He wished someone were here to share the meal with him. Anyone, really. The idea he’d avoided thinking about while cooking poked its head out again.

  Well. He’d never been exactly shy. If he was going to do this, he had to do it quickly. The food was getting co
ld.

  With a nervous shake of his head, Christie decided. He cut the roast chicken in half and put it on a large plate with a little bit of everything else, covered it with aluminum foil, and ran out the back door.

  He hadn’t been to the Fisher’s farm before, and it turned out to be a longer trip down the gravel lane than he anticipated, maybe a quarter mile. He kept up a jog, worried about the food getting ruined. Between that and his nerves, he had a fine sheen of sweat when he got there.

  David’s farm was beautiful. The white barn Christie had seen from a distance was huge and picturesque. It made Christie’s fingers itch to draw it. The farmhouse was fieldstone with black shutters. Electric candles in the windows gave it a cozy Colonial air and made Christie realize how dark it was getting outside. Why hadn’t he grabbed his coat? It was fucking freezing. He was an idiot—a shivering idiot at the moment.

  Determined to drop off his gift without further delay, he marched to the back door and firmly knocked.

  Enthusiastic barking commenced. More than one dog—two or three. Christie felt a little nervous. He liked dogs, but these farm dogs might be territorial. And he was holding a plate of chicken. He might as well have bathed in bacon grease.

  A deep voice silenced the dogs and the door opened. David’s face looked stern and worn for a moment, but when he recognized Christie, a smile softened it. “Oh, hi.”

  “Hi. Sorry to bother you, but I spent the day cooking, and I made all this food. No way can I eat it all, so I thought I’d bring you a plate. You know, to make up for causing you to burn your dinner the other day, fixing my smoke detector and all.” God, he was overdoing it! Shut up, Christie.

  “Oh.” David looked surprised. He glanced at the foil-covered plate in Christie’s hand. “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I was bored.” Christie’s shrug turned into a shiver. He held out the plate. His mouth was dry. He was starting to wish he hadn’t done this.

  There was a reserve about David, a way he kept himself at arm’s length. Christie sensed that when David stopped by his house, but he put it down to the fact they were strangers. The vibe was stronger here, on David’s turf. Christie felt like an intruder standing at the back door. David was looking at the plate with an unreadable expression. Please just take it.

  Then the wind shifted and a delicious aroma billowed up. David’s face grew curious. “Roast chicken?”

  “Yeah. It was from a Thanksgiving magazine. I made some sides too.”

  Suddenly David moved. “Heck, you must be freezing. Come inside.”

  “Thanks. I can’t stay. I just wanted to drop this off.” But Christie was stepping inside as he spoke, welcoming any relief from the cold air.

  “River. Tonga. Sit.” David shut the door. The dogs sat obediently. One was a golden retriever and the other a large furry black mix of some kind.

  “Tonga?” Christie asked.

  “It’s an island,” David said with an adorably bashful duck of his head. He took the plate from Christie and raised the foil, looked at it, and smelled. “This looks really good. You made this?”

  “Sure. I just followed the recipes.” But David’s words made Christie feel infinitely better about bringing it by. “Well. I’ll leave you to eat it before it gets cold. I have mine back at the house.”

  “Thanks. It beats the heck out of frozen food.” David sounded sincere. He put the plate on the counter. “Hang on.” He opened up an accordion door in the hall, revealing an overstuffed closet with a collection of coats, hats, and shoes. He selected a black woolen pea coat with large buttons and pulled it out. “You’re going to freeze to death.”

  “It was stupid not to wear my coat. I didn’t realize it was so far over here.”

  David got an amused smile, but he wasn’t looking directly into Christie’s eyes, so he still seemed uncomfortable. Instead of handing Christie the coat, though, he held it open and moved behind Christie.

  Christie blinked. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had helped him into a coat. He held back his arms and let David slip the coat onto him. It fit in the shoulders okay, but it was big around the waist and hips. David turned Christie in a matter-of-fact way and started doing up the buttons.

  Christie’s eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. What the hell? Did David think he was a child? But there was something titillating about being taken care of, or maybe it was David’s proximity, his handsome face focused on his task, his rough hands so close to Christie’s body.

  Yes, it was definitely the proximity. Wow, David was a good-looking man. Who knew rugged could be so hot? And to think of all the money Christie had spent on grooming!

  There were only five buttons, and when David finished the last of them, just below Christie’s chin, he looked up and saw Christie’s face. He suddenly blushed, his nose and cheeks going red. He dropped his hands and took a step back. “Sorry. That was… sorry.”

  “I didn’t mind.” Oh God, Christie’s voice had dropped in register and sounded rumbly to his own ears. That was a smexy voice! What the hell was he doing? “Um… thanks for the jacket, David. I’ll bring it back later.”

  “No hurry.” David was avoiding his gaze again.

  Christie yanked the door open, escaped the house with a silly little wave, and walked fast back to his aunt’s place.

  Once inside he found his own food was only tepidly warm, but still flavorful and delicious. The herb glaze on the chicken was to die for, and it went beautifully with the floury-cheesy biscuits and the curried soup. He hoped David liked it too.

  He kept the coat on while he ate, snuggling into the fabric and holding the collar close under his chin. It smelled of earth and hay, a slight trace of motor oil, and the smell of a working man—piney, sweaty, and altogether appealing.

  He remained in the coat all through dinner. But only because he was cold.

  * * *

  “Yoo-hoo! David?”

  David was in the free stall, trying to pry a stone out of the hoof of one of his milking cows, when he heard the call. It was a woman’s voice. Dang it.

  He smoothed out his scowl as Evelyn Robeson opened the latch door and walked into the feed aisle next to the stall. She looked much like she always did. Her red-blond hair was pulled back into a long braid that wound around like a bun on the back of her head. Her black wool coat was long but not as long as her skirt, which was a dark-green color and down to midcalf. She had on thick hose and churchgoing dress shoes, which were not going to do her any favors in the barn. Like the other women in his congregation, she wore no makeup. She was plainer than Susan had been, quite thin, and about David’s age.

  “Hi, Evelyn,” he nodded. “Sorry, I’m a bit tied up here at the moment.”

  The cow tried to get away from the post it was tied to, even though its leg was cinched up tight in a rope. It hopped and shuddered, pulled taut.

  “Whoa, whoa,” David murmured, petting its flank. He did not need a stranger in the barn right now. He didn’t need this cow to get riled up and break its fool neck.

  “I was just over at Roots market, so I thought I’d stop by already. It’s warm for October. Isn’t it warm?”

  “Yup, it is.”

  “You still getting tomatoes?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m still getting tomatoes too! Small ones, mind. But I made a big batch of tomato sauce, and I brought you some jars. I left them by the back door. All you have to do is heat up some pasta—”

  Evelyn described exactly how to make the dish, as if David couldn’t have figured out that much. He worked with a flat-head screwdriver to pry the stone from between the cow’s split hoof.

  “My, we really missed you at church on Sunday. I hope you weren’t ill?”

  “No.” David didn’t offer any justification. He felt like relaxing with the paper after chores this past Sunday, so he did. Without Susan there to get them both out the door, he missed church more often than not these days.

  “Well… we feel the loss wh
en you’re not there, David. I hope you know that. It’s important for us all to commune together, especially those who live alone. I even got Jessie to go this past Sunday, thank the good Lord. He’s got a job now over in New Hope—”

  Jessie was Evelyn’s grown son. He was Joe’s age, around nineteen, and he was a mean-spirited boy, from what David knew of him. Rumor was he took after his father. Evelyn’s late husband, Luther, wasn’t the churchy type. In fact, he was an alcoholic. He died just before Susan did, crashed a car while driving drunk. Susan said it was probably a blessing for Evelyn, though a shame for the poor man’s soul.

  “I wish you’d’ve heard Pastor Mitchell’s sermon. He talked about seeing God’s plan for your life, and following God’s will, and doing things that are good for others and for building up the community.”

  “That so?”

  The stone came out of the hoof with a pop. The cow tried to jerk away again, probably in pain. David steadied her, clicking his tongue. If he’d been alone, he would have said something to the cow like “I had to get it out of there, girl. You’ll feel better now.” But with Evelyn standing there, he refrained. He needed to put some unguent up in the hoof, make sure it didn’t get infected.

  “David?”

  “Yes, ma’am?” David looked at Evelyn.

  She blinked at him, then gave him a shy smile. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting your work. I can wait ’til you’re done?”

  God no. If Evelyn hung around, she’d expect them to chat over coffee or something. “No, ma’am, I can hear you fine. Hang on a minute.” He went to the shelf in the corner and got the unguent, went back to the cow, and started treating the wound.

  “Anyway, about seeing God’s will,” Evelyn continued. “You know I… well, I’ve been praying a lot. About things. Jessie, of course. He’s my baby. He’s had a wild streak, but I’m hopeful that God’s been softening his heart. But also for poor Luther and Susan. And… and for us.”