A Second Harvest (Men of Lancaster County Book 1) Page 6

  He was home by four fifteen and started pulling out pots and spices. He texted David to let him know dinner would be coming around six. Then he put on some tunes and got to work. Everything came together pretty well, though the filo on the pastilla got too dark in a few spots. It smelled fantastic, though, and a dusting of powdered sugar covered up the black bits.

  He was done just before six, so he shot David a quick text that he was bringing the food over. Feeling suddenly nervous, Christie changed into a fresh sweater, a dark-blue one that brought out his eyes, and brushed his teeth and hair. It only took a few minutes, but when he came out, ready to pack up the food, David was knocking at the door.

  Christie let him in. “Hi. I was going to bring it over to you.”

  David shrugged. “You did all the work. I figured the least I could do was pick it up.” He sniffed the air. “Wow. That smells incredible. How much do I owe you?”

  “I spent thirty-six dollars, so eighteen dollars would be great.”

  David took out his wallet and pulled a twenty.

  “I think I have some ones.”

  “Heck no. I should be paying more for my share anyway since you cook it.”

  Christie stuffed the twenty in a pocket. “Thanks. Um. The recipes made six servings, so you’ll get a couple of meals from this. You can just reheat the leftovers in the microwave.”

  “Great.”

  David was still standing in the doorway in his coat, his cheeks rosy with the cold. As usual he wouldn’t meet Christie’s gaze for long.

  “Would you like to eat it here or take it to go?” Christie suddenly very much wanted David to stay, to sit in his aunt’s small dining room with him and share the meal. He wanted to see David’s reactions, what he liked and didn’t like. And yeah, he would love the company. But that wasn’t exactly the deal they’d negotiated.

  “I’ll take it to go. That would be great, thanks,” David said quickly.

  Christie forced a smile. “Sure. Just give me a second to pack it up.”

  He went into the kitchen and opened the big drawer that held his aunt’s Tupperware. He decided to put half the pastilla in a pie tin covered with foil, but the rest went into various sized containers. He put all of it in a fabric bag and took it out to the living room. “Here you go. I hope you like it.”

  “I’m sure I will. Thank you, Christie.” The words were sincere, and David even met Christie’s gaze when he said them.

  Christie handed him the bag. “You’re welcome. Thanks for helping me pay for it.”

  David started to go and hesitated. “I wanted to tell you—anytime you don’t feel like cooking, just text me and let me know. I can always do for myself with what I’ve got at home. I don’t want you to feel obligated. I know what it’s like to have to do a job you don’t feel like doing.”

  Christie supposed farmers had lots of chores they had to do, rain or shine, sick or well. He’d never had a job that demanding. “Okay. But like I said, it’s fun for me. I enjoyed cooking today.”

  “All right, then.” David gave Christie a grateful smile and left.

  Christie sat down to his own meal. He wasn’t a big eater, so he liked to take his time and taste every bite. The chicken breasts could have been juicier, but the olive and lemon sauce on them was tangy and scrumptious. The soup was perfectly spiced and filling. The pastilla was to die for—flakey and savory and sweet all at once. He couldn’t make that often or he’d get fat. It wasn’t long before he was full and had to pack up the rest for the fridge.

  It was a lovely meal, but eating it wasn’t as much fun as cooking it, or as much fun as eating it with David would have been. But there was no reason David should feel obliged to eat with him.

  As he was cleaning up the kitchen, his text chime went off. He looked at the phone.

  Enjoyed every bite of that. Thank you for taking me to Morocco.

  It was a simple enough “thank-you,” but not what Christie would have expected from his neighboring farmer. He wouldn’t have expected David to be so openly interested in world cuisines, much less so appreciative about it. There was a glimpse of longing in David’s words that touched something inside Christie, the same spot where David putting on his coat planted a seed.

  Then again, maybe Christie was just “touched” altogether and reading too much into it.

  He hesitated for ten minutes before replying. How does Indian sound for Sunday lunch? Maybe 1 pm?

  David responded at once. Sounds perfect. Thank you.

  Feeling suddenly much better and full of an energy he needed to burn off, Christie changed into his running clothes and went for a long run around the neighborhood in the dark and chilly October evening.

  David should have gone to church on Sunday morning, but he decided to skip it once again. He felt guilty when he didn’t go. The importance of church had been drilled into him since before he could walk. And the congregation was so supportive after Susan died. Also Pastor Mitchell called to “check in” if David missed more than a few weeks, and David dreaded that “visitation of shame.” But he just wasn’t up for it today. There were some church teachings he’d been uncomfortable with for years but silently ignored. He wasn’t sure where his faith stood, but right now it seemed to be buried under a dissatisfied and restless part of himself that grew bigger and heavier each and every day.

  At least this Sunday, he had a good excuse not to go. He wanted to neaten up the house.

  It was a beautiful warm fall day. The sky was blue, the sun was bright, and there were lots of orange, russet, and gold leaves around the farm, vibrant against the still-green grass. He cleaned up the kitchen, wiping down the counters and the inside of the microwave in case Christie wanted to heat up anything. He swept up dog hair and opened the windows for fresh air. He found some Pledge and used it to polish the big plank table in the dining room.

  He hadn’t missed the disappointment on Christie’s face when he opted to take his meal to go last time. And it was Sunday today. David didn’t have to do any work except for the chores that could never be skipped—feeding and watering the animals, and the twice-a-day milking. He might as well invite Christie to eat over here. He might appreciate escaping his aunt’s small house for a few hours, and the view from the big windows in the dining room was real pretty. Golden-leafed trees marched down to the farm’s pond, which sparkled in the bright sunlight. It was foolish for both of them to eat alone on a Sunday, and the same darn meal yet. It didn’t mean they had to eat together all the time. It was just a nice thing to do for once.

  He texted Christie midmorning. It’s a nice day. If you want I can pick you and the food up in the truck, and we can eat over here. He sent it, then had second thoughts. He quickly added, Unless you have other plans. Maybe Christie was going to the gym today. Or maybe he’d met some locals his own age. He probably wouldn’t want to hang out with an old man.

  But Christie’s reply came quickly. That would be great. See you at 1. Food looks good so far.

  David read the text with a smile and then went about his mission. He set the table with some old plain navy placemats—he preferred them to the frilly ones Susan favored. He made sure the silverware, plates, and glasses were nice and clean. Then he pulled some Nat Geo magazines. There were lots of articles on India, but he grabbed the ones that were mostly food related—one on traditional Indian weddings and their feasts, and another on temple food offerings. There were photographs of exotic-looking plates of food. What would Christie bring over? A curry? Some kind of eggplant dish? Tandoori?

  David had been to an Indian food restaurant in Lancaster several times. But Susan didn’t cared for it, so he didn’t go often. He liked it at the time. But Christie cooking it himself made it a more authentic experience somehow. Or maybe David was just less busy and better able to appreciate it today.

  He decided apple cider might go okay with the food, so he grabbed a jug from the basement and put it in the freezer to chill. After he’d done everything he could think of and t
aken a long shower too, it still was only just past noon, so he settled down to reread the magazines.

  * * *

  Christie made chicken tikka masala, paneer naan, aloo gobi, and basmati rice. He bought mango sorbet for dessert and got sprigs of mint to spruce it up.

  It made him stupidly happy David invited him to eat at the farm. God, he was cracking up living out here all by himself, and it had only been three weeks.

  The spices suffused Aunt Ruth’s little house with aroma and left him in an extra-good mood. Everything tasted amazing when he sampled it. He put on a cream turtleneck cashmere sweater and a blue down vest the color of his eyes. Then he packed up his precious cargo and sent David a text.

  A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and Christie opened it.

  “Smells fantastic.” David’s expression was one of pure anticipation when he stepped inside. He put his hand unconsciously on his stomach.

  “Wait ’til you taste it.”

  David’s gaze fell to the bag in Christie’s hand, and he reached out to take it. “All ready to go, then?”

  “All set.” Christie handed over the bag. He wasn’t going to complain if David wanted to schlep it, though he wasn’t used to people being quite so courteous.

  They both commented on the fine weather as David drove them over to his place down the farm lane. At the house River and Tonga were excited to see him—or more likely to smell the bag of food David had.

  “Hey, guys!” Christie gave each dog attention. They were nice dogs, super friendly. The black mix, Tonga, was a little hyper, but the yellow lab, River, was placid as could be.

  “I’ve already set the table. This way.” They moved into the dining room, and David set the bag on the table.

  Christie looked around. “Wow! I love this room.”

  The original stone farmhouse had been added onto at some point. One whole wall of the dining room was made of fieldstone and was clearly once an exterior wall. Tall windows made up the opposing wall. There was an expansive view of gold-leafed trees, a sloping lawn, and what looked like a small lake at the bottom.

  “It’s the best room in the house,” David admitted with a trace of pride, unloading containers from the bag.

  “I guess! Did you build this addition?”

  “Me? Nah.”

  Christie opened the tikka masala and put a spoon into the container. It was a shame not to have real bowls for the meal, but he didn’t know David well enough to start getting greedy with his hospitality, and the Tupperware would work just fine. The table looked nice with simple placemats, heavy cream-colored plates, and shiny silverware.

  David groaned as he opened the pie saver where Christie had put the naan. “Oh man. This looks incredible.”

  Christie felt a wave of pleasure. “Thanks. Chicken tikka masala, aloo gobi, naan, and rice.”

  David poured them both cold apple cider from a nearby Amish farm. Then they loaded up their plates and settled into their seats for some serious food appreciation..

  Christie picked up his fork but David hesitated. “Do you say grace?”

  Oh. Right. Christie put his fork down. “Please go ahead.”

  David closed his eyes. His blessing was brief, thanking God for good neighbors and the wonderful food, which was actually very sweet. It was still strange. It had been years since Christie was at a table where prayers were said.

  They both dug in. David was enthusiastic. His eyes practically rolled back in his head as he tasted each dish, and Christie tried very hard not to think about his little moans of appreciation in another context.

  “You should open a restaurant. You have a gift. I can’t imagine even attempting complicated dishes like this.”

  “It’s really not that difficult,” Christie replied modestly, though he soaked up the praise like a sponge. “I just followed the recipes.”

  “That’s like a builder saying it’s not that hard to build a house if you have a blueprint.”

  “Maybe it’s not hard,” Christie smiled wryly.

  David wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Speaking of houses, you asked earlier about this addition. My father put it on when he discovered my mother was expecting me.”

  “Oh really? That sounds like a sweet family story.”

  “I guess. They didn’t think they could have children. My mom got pregnant with me when she was forty. And yes,” he said, smiling at Christie shyly, “the family story goes that my dad was so excited about it he expanded the house. Not that it was necessary, mind. I was one boy, not a new herd of cattle. Farmers tend to think big.”

  “Maybe it was his way of preparing for you emotionally. He must have doted on you.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” David’s face grew carefully shuttered. “He was a tough man, my dad. Very strict.”

  “Mine too.” Christie decided neither one of them needed to talk about their childhood traumas, though it sounded like they had more in common than he’d thought. “So… you have children?”

  His eyes went to a framed photo on the wall. It was a professional family portrait, taken near the barn. The family of four wore lots of denim and red, like a matched set. Besides David there was a woman with dark hair pulled back severely and a pretty, chubby face. She wore a long denim dress over a red turtleneck There were two kids—a girl and a boy in their early and midteens. It was a good-looking family but very conservative Midwest.

  It was also a strong reminder, in case Christie needed it, that David Fisher was not on his team or, indeed, even in his universe.

  “Yes, Amy and Joe. Amy’s the oldest. She’s twenty-one. And Joe’s three years younger.”

  “They’re both away at college?”

  David nodded. “Amy’s up in State College studying nursing at PSU, and Joe’s just over in Lancaster at Franklin and Marshall. But he lives in the dorms and he’s pretty busy, so I rarely see him. He wants to become a minister.”

  Christie’s eyes flickered back to the photo. Both Amy and her mother wore long dresses and had their long hair back in buns. They clearly weren’t Amish, but they weren’t exactly modern either. “A minister in what denomination?”

  “Mennonite. Our church is fairly progressive—for Mennonite.”

  Christie couldn’t hold back his snark. “Is that like saying a dog is gentle for an attack dog?”

  David studied Christie’s face for a moment, a frown between his brows. Yeah, way not to show bitterness with that analogy, Christie! But then David shrugged, and the corners of his mouth turned up a little. “I suppose it’s all relative.”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Actually I was raised Southern Baptist. I bet it’s not all that different.”

  “You were?” David looked surprised.

  Christie nodded and took a bite of rice—the tikka masala sauce was so yummy over rice; he could eat just that for days. He gave himself a moment to think about how honest he wanted to be. “I haven’t been to church since I moved away from home when I was eighteen. You could say I have some issues with religion.”

  David looked thoughtful rather than shocked or disapproving. “How old are you now, if that’s okay to ask?”

  “Thirty. My youth is behind me, alas.”

  “You’re thirty? I thought you were closer to Joe’s age. I would have guessed twenty-four or five at the most.”

  “Thank you?”

  “Even so you’re still just a pup.”

  “I guess it’s all relative.” Christie smiled wryly. “How old are you, David?”

  “Forty-one.” He ducked his head down when he said it like he was… what? Embarrassed? Lying? Christie didn’t think he was lying; he had no reason to. Maybe he didn’t feel his age.

  “That’s pretty young to have two grown children.”

  “It’s not that young. I was twenty when my oldest, Amy, was born.”

  “Most twenty-year-olds are still trying to decide on a major.”

  David looked out the window. “By the time I was ninete
en, I was married and running this farm full-time.” It was a statement that might have been said with a prideful tone, but it wasn’t. There was a weariness to it that made Christie’s stomach clench.

  “Why? What about your dad?”

  “He died when I was a senior in high school.” David tore off a piece of naan and dredged up some sauce with it. “He was only fifty-eight. Had a massive heart attack while driving the tractor. Died almost instantly, they said. I had to drop out of school to run the farm full-time.”

  “That’s terrible! Fifty-eight is so young.”

  “It is. He worked too hard, and he was… not a happy man.”

  “That must have been so hard, having that much responsibility so young and dealing with your dad’s death too.”

  David shrugged, but his neck got bright red, as if he were feeling much more than he showed. “It wasn’t such a bad deal for me. The teachers at my school helped me finish my high school degree from home, plus I got the farm. Most young adults have to work and save a long time to buy a house. When I got the farm, it was already paid off, plus I had job security to boot.”

  “It is a beautiful place,” Christie agreed, looking out the window. David was right. Christie knew a lot of people his age who were still searching for their path in life. Maybe being born with a path all laid out wasn’t such a bad thing. But his host didn’t have the vibe of a contented man.

  “Are you happy, David?” The minute Christie said it, he wished he hadn’t. He had a tendency to be too pushy, and that was a very personal question for virtual strangers.

  David blinked at him in surprise. “I’m… I guess I don’t think about it like that.” He looked down at his plate. “What about your family?”

  “My dad was a dentist, and my mom a teacher. I grew up in a small town too, in Illinois.”