Page 64 of Bountiful
Hethinks. We were the blind leading the blind. Or the stupid leading thestupider…
“Then you take the fresh diaper…” Castro grabbed a paper napkin and set it on the counter. He took the banana peel out of my hand and laid it on the napkin. “Just fit the front part between the baby’s legs, and tug it upward…” While I watched, he began to bring the napkin’s front and back corners together between halves of thebananapeel.
“Whoa,” a voice said behind us. “What the fuck are you two doing?” Our sleepy teammate—Silas, the backup goalie—shuffled into the kitchen, staring at Castro’s bananadiaper.
“You don’t even want to know,” I warned. “You just stay in your happyplace.”
“My happy place needscoffee.”
“Tape ’er up, and boom!” Castro said, as if I was still listening. “Fresh kid. Easypeasy.”
There was nothing easy about any of this. “Pour me a cup, too, Silas. This could be aroughday.”
Iwasn’tdumb enough to show up for my beating at the Rossi farm emptyhanded.
With a little help from Silas—who had arrived after Leo and O’Doul went back to New York—I was well armed with a bouquet of flowers forZara’smom.
And earlier in the week, Castro and I had waited in line for two hours outside a Montpelier food co-op to buy our allotment of the most decorated beer ever made. So I also had a case of coveted Heady Topper beer for Zara’suncles.
With my bribes in the back seat, I drove with the windows down along several winding dirt roads, following the instructions Zara had texted. I knew I was in the right place when row upon row of pear trees appeared out the window. The fruits were green and shorter than my thumb. But there were hundreds of them oneverytree.
I found the sign for Rossi Farm and turned onto a gravel driveway. The rental car bumped along until a big house came into view. It was a white clapboard farmhouse with a gently sagging porch and a porchswing.
As soon as I parked the car, Zara came outside. My progress was halted momentarily while I took her in. She was wearing a sundress in orange and white that made her look…Softerwas the word that came to mind. She looked more approachable than the bartender I’d met twoyearsago.
“Hi,” she said shyly. Then she smiled like I’d done somethingfunny.
“Hi,” I echoed, walking toward her. I opened my arms to greet her, then hesitated. After our ugly moment earlier in the week, I needed to take care not to overstep boundaries. But then she came closer, allowing me to wrap her in the world’s most awkward we’re-just-friendshug.
I kissed her cheek quickly. She smelled like sunshine and perfume, and my libido shook itselfawake.
No time for that, I reminded myself, stepping back. “Have your brothers loaded theshotgun,yet?”
“Oh.” She waved a hand dismissively. “There’s more than one shotgun. But lunch is almost ready, and they’re more interested in my mother’s cooking than in firearms. After lunch, though, youneverknow.”
“Noted.” I went to the back door of the rental car and popped it open. “These are for your mother,” I said, pulling out a generous bouquet arranged in abasket.
“Hello, kiss-ass.” Her face lit up with humor, and I found myself smiling backather.
“Can you blame me? And these are for everyone.” I hefted the beer out oftheback.
“Nicely done, champ. You might live through dessert.” She turned and carried the flowers toward the house and I followed her, trying not to notice her long legs in thatdress.
Maybe this whole thing would be easier if I wasn’t attracted to Zara. But there was no chance of that fading. She justdidit for me. I couldn’t even say exactly why. It was some heady combination of her looks and her take-no-prisonersattitude.
She reminded me of a female superhero from the comics I’d read as a boy. Put her in a bodysuit with a bow and arrow in her hands and ink in that dark hair and thosepiercingeyes.
Then lookout,boys.
Ahalf hourlater I was no longer worried about surviving until dessert. I was, however, worried that I might kill someone. Because Zara’s uncle Otto was a realdickface.
We were seated at the dining table in preparation for the meal, and he’d already made disparaging remarks about Zara’s coffee shop, Alec’s bar, and Zara’s mother’s menu choices. “Who puts sesame oil on broccoli?” he grumbled. “What, are weChinesenow?”
“I love sesame oil,” I said immediately. “I put it on everything.Eveneggs.”
Otto snorted. Then he mumbled something about “arrogantcityfolk.”
Whatever.
