He made a face. “Like that’senough.”
The cashier, a Black woman around our age with delicate microbraids and beautiful turquoise eyeliner, agreed. “Oliver has a thing about strawberries.”
He gave her a hurt look. “It’s not athing. That makes it sound perverse.”
“You and your cousin,” she went on, and added to me,“every summer they’d come in here and clean us out of strawberries and watermelon. It was like clockwork.”
“Okay, but Lala refuses to plant seedless watermelon,” Oliver pointed out, “so I had no other choice.” Then he explained, “When we were younger, Rus convinced me that if I ate a watermelon seed, it’d grow in my stomach.”
I snorted a laugh. I could see him doing that completely straight-faced and not regretting it for a second. Trouble-maker, indeed. “And how long did you believe that?”
“I still might, who knows?” Oliver said loftily.
The cashier giggled. “You never change, Ollie.”
He smiled at her. It was like the smile he gave the daycare teacher earlier, though this one felt a little warmer. Familiar. “And you’re always as pretty as ever, Nicole. How’s the husband? The kid—what name did she pick? Delilah?”
“They’re doing great,” she replied happily, finishing at the register and ringing everything up. She gave him the total and he took out his wallet and paid in cash, dropping the change into the trans youth charity jar. She handed him his receipt. “Oh! Could you tell Eula thank you for the invite to the bicen-tennial? I was so surprised when it arrived in the mail. It was so thoughtful that she invited us.”
“I’ll be sure to do that, Nicole. Be seeing you?”
“I’ll be here,” she replied, handing the three paper bags of groceries to us, and we left.
Oliver told me that Nicole’s family owned the grocery store, and so because he lived here every summer he’d gotten to know her fairly well when they were all kids. They’d go to the beach together and hunt for crabs. “She used to have the biggest crush on Rus,” he said, buckling himself into my Jeepagain, and took a glance at the receipt, “so she’d give us an employee discount for the strawberries—ah! See? She still does it.” And he pointed to the discount. “I bet Rus hasn’t seen her in years.”
“It’s nice she still gives you the discount.”
“Of course she does. That’s just how Odette, Maine, is. Even if you leave, you really don’t.” He shrugged, pocketing the receipt. “Unless you’re Rus, I guess.”
“Have you ever tried calling him?”
“The phone works both ways. Besides, I have nothing to say.” He dug into one of the paper bags and took out the container of strawberries. We drove out of town and up the state road toward Lilymoor. It was only a few miles outside of town, but with how overcast the skies looked, I wanted to get back sooner rather than later. Driving these roads at night wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted to do.
“Butenoughabout that boring workaholic,” he went on. “Want a strawberry?”
“While I’m driving?”
“I’ll feed it to you,” he tempted me, taking one out.
I kept both of my hands planted firmly on the wheel. “I’m good.”
He shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, biting into the fruit. He hummed, happy. “The only thing that’d make this better is someone to share it with.”
I eyed him. “You’re slick.”
He laughed. “I’m trying, Miss Head Gardener.”
And oddly, it might have worked on me, but I was already thinking of my next visit to the garden, and the strawberries I’d take with me.
27
culaccino
“She’s done!” Wykofski cried as he stomped his way into the kitchen, hands thrown into the air. He startled Juliette into a yelp, and all her papers went flying. “And shelives!”
I looked up from pouring a cup of morning coffee. “Who lives?” I asked, as Oliver abandoned his apple on the counter to help Juliette gather up her papers. She had printed out a list of all the RSVPs so far and was going through them, counting the dietary restrictions.
“Willow Grove!” Wykofski replied proudly. “She’s cleared of voles and mowed and lookin’ hot.”
