City Kitty and Country Mouse

by Alyssa Linn Palmer

  Kitty Kerr is a high-flying lawyer when her career plans are derailed by the luscious blackberries from Lucy Shen’s Country Mouse Farms. Kitty can’t get enough of the fruit, or of Lucy. Suddenly, she’s wanting things she never dared to want—Lucy, and the life on the farm. But how will being an artisan cook/farmer fit with her legal ambitions and city habits?

  Between her beautiful farm and her sculpture, Lucy’s life is set. Falling for a big city lawyer is not part of the plan. Even as Kitty helps make her dreams of spotlighting her farm’s produce in restaurants a reality, Lucy’s terrified that she and the farm aren’t enough to keep Kitty interested in love and the simpler things in life.

  Pulled in two different directions, will the city kitty and country mouse be able to make it work?

  City Kitty and Country Mouse

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  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

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  City Kitty and Country Mouse

  © 2020 By Alyssa Linn Palmer. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-63555-554-7

  This Electronic Original Is Published By

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, NY 12185

  First Edition: February 2020

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Ruth Sternglantz

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design by Tammy Seidick

  By the Author

  Betting on Love

  Midnight at the Orpheus

  City Kitty and Country Mouse

  Acknowledgments

  So many people made this book possible. Many thanks to my partner, Anthony, who is the most supportive person ever. To my good friend Marzena, who helped tease this book from idea through to fruition, you are amazing. To Cathy, my fabulous critique partner, thank you for taking this journey with Kitty & Lucy. To my editor, Ruth, thanks for making this book better. And to my family and friends, your support means the world.

  To Anthony, Cathy & Marzena

  Chapter One

  The scent of fresh blackberries makes my mouth water.

  I won’t eat one. It wouldn’t look good if the farmer was eating all her own produce while the customers waited. Blackberries are one of our best sellers when they’re in season. The farmers’ market will open in a few minutes, and I still need to get everything set up. Alice, my partner in crime at Country Mouse Farms, is sick with the flu, so it’s just me for the day. I know I’ll be run off my feet, but I can’t let the market go by. It’s mid-spring and people are craving fresh fruit and vegetables. If they don’t have or want their own gardens, they come to us. To me.

  I lay out the punnets of strawberries, and next to them, the raspberries. The other side is all vegetables: spinach, lettuce, and—a new one this year—dandelion greens. And before I forget, I put out the new postcards Alice had made. The front is a photo of the interior of the greenhouse, with Alice and me standing there, holding baskets of produce, and the back has our website and contact information. They’re sharp and professional, and I’m as proud of them as I was of my original business card when I first established the farm as a commercial entity.

  Lucy Shen, business owner.

  “Five minutes until opening!” The announcement blares over the public-address system. I take a quick look at my stall, circling around the front to carefully align each cardboard box, each price sign, each punnet. Alice always teases me for being so fussy, but I like it looking perfect. Even if it’ll be organized chaos by the afternoon.

  My first customer arrives within minutes of the market opening. I sell her a punnet each of strawberries and raspberries, and a bag of spinach. Then another pair arrive, one pushing a stroller with a smiley, giggly baby. Two bags of lettuce later, they move on. The morning is brisk business with very few lags. My stomach growls, but I don’t have time to eat anything. When it hits one o’clock, there’s a lull, and I dig out my sandwich and a bottle of water. I don’t like to eat quickly, but not much else for me to do. For a weekday, it’s surprisingly busy.

  I straighten the punnets once more and spot one of my regular clients, Cindy, making her way through the market. Beside her is another woman, one I haven’t seen before. She has her nose in her phone, not paying attention to any of the stalls. She’s wearing a blazer with a nice camisole underneath, her hair dark and smooth. Professional. Cindy turns to her, and she looks up briefly before turning her attention back to her phone.

  Cindy hurries up to my stall. “I hope you still have a lot left.”

  “I brought extra today. The raspberries were perfect this morning.”

  Cindy leans over the table and plucks a punnet from the tray, brings it to her nose, sniffing deeply. “Oh yes, they sure are. I’ll take two.”

  I glance at her friend, who still hasn’t looked up from her phone, standing a few steps away.

  “What about…?”

  Cindy shakes her head. “She’s really nice, honestly, but she works too hard.”

  “Does she like fruit?”

  “I think so. It might get her to look up now and again.” Cindy leans forward, her voice a whisper. “I’m trying to make sure she does something that isn’t work.”

  I flick my gaze back to her friend. She’s frowning, causing a wrinkle in her brow that is somehow charming. She’s nibbling on her lip as she does, swiping at her phone. Cindy sighs and reaches out to pull her closer, out of the way of a pair of shoppers bearing down on her with their strollers.

  * * *

  My phone vibrates in my blazer pocket again, insistent, demanding. I pull it out, checking the messages. Fortunately, they’re easy to answer. I had two billable hours left this afternoon, yet I’m here with Cindy, my friend and paralegal, following her through a crush of people at the farmers’ market. She swears it’s the most popular one in the city, and being here now, I can believe it. My phone vibrates again, this time several short buzzes. Emails, or texts. They never really stop. But if I want to make partner, that’s how it’ll be. And I want that. So much.

  I put my phone back in my pocket, trying not to let my anxiety play up. But it’s hard. I’m so used to answering immediately. Shoving my hands into the pockets of my suit, I duck through the throng to catch up with Cindy, who has finally slowed at a fruit and vegetable stand. She’s talking to the vendor, a woman who looks about my age, or maybe a touch older, with jet-black hair and warm dark brown eyes. I check my phone one more time. Nothing new. All right. There’s a little flutter in my stomach, and I take a deep breath. Back, anxiety. I can deal with the emails after I leave here. It won’t be the first time I’ve worked late.

  “Kitty, come on,” Cindy says, tugging at my arm and pulling me up next to her. “Lucy here has the best fruit in the whole market. Luce, I’ll take one of each.”

  I take in the array of fruits—strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, and blackberries, my favorite—and vegetables, all lush and gorgeous in their baskets and punnets. “How can you possibly eat all that?” I ask as Lucy methodically begins placing punnets of fruit into a larger cardboard tray.

  “Breakfast on m
y cereal, lunch in my smoothies, and on my postdinner ice cream,” Cindy says, her tone quite serious, though she’s smiling. “There’s never a bad time.”

  “What’s your favorite?” Lucy asks, and I realize the question is being directed at me. Her gaze is friendly, and something a bit more, something… My stomach flutters again, but there’s heat there too. Lucy seems familiar somehow, like I knew her somewhere before. A silly thought, because obviously I didn’t, but still, the idea lingers.

  I look over her stall, and my gaze continues to be drawn to the small selection of blackberries. Lucy smiles, a gentle, almost delicate smile as her work-roughened hands lift a small blue punnet.

  “Try one,” she encourages. “Trust me, it’s worth it.”

  I won’t ever say no to a blackberry, though it’s been quite a while since I’ve had one. Too long. I pick a large one from the top—it looks almost ready to burst. I pop it into my mouth and bite down, and that’s it.

  I’m lost. The flavor is luscious, intense, yet it almost melts in my mouth. I close my eyes, savoring that taste. It’s summers out at the lake, at camp, the one place my parents let me be in the outdoors, picking the wild berries from along the paths, my fingers and tongue turning dark purple. I can almost hear the buzz of the mosquitos and the bees.

  I almost hate to open my eyes, but I do.

  Cindy is looking at me almost as if I’ve grown a second head. We’ve known each other for years, since school, but I’m pretty sure that even though she’s my friend as well as my assistant, she’s never seen me outside of my usual work mode. That is me. This, this is something different, something older.

  And Lucy, she’s as fixed on me as Cindy is, maybe more. I have no idea why. My mind is still on that blackberry.

  “I think you need all of these,” Lucy says, pressing the small punnet into my hands. Her fingers brush mine, and she has an energy that entices me, a zing I can’t deny.

  “How much?” I manage to ask.

  “Free, this time, since Cindy here bought so many. But if you like one blackberry that much, I know you’ll be back.” She laughs, and it’s as if her face lights up, her eyes glimmering with good cheer. Her smile is wide, open and friendly. Her warmth seems to spread, to envelop me. It makes me want to be around her, to see that smile, feel that warmth.

  “Do you deliver?” Fruit to the office, or fruit to the home—it doesn’t matter because I can’t spare the time to come to the market every week.

  Lucy takes a postcard from a rack of them perched in the midst of the strawberries, and our fingers brush again as I take it. “Call me and we can sort something out.” On the front of it, she’s standing with another woman in a greenhouse. Her girlfriend? Her mom? I don’t know. I flip it over, see her contact information and a website. Lucy Shen, Country Mouse Farms.

  I tuck the card into my blazer’s inner pocket, knowing I won’t lose it there. My phone vibrates again and I can’t help myself; I pull it out and glance at it.

  Ten emails. My stomach drops. All happy feelings drain away.

  “Are you all right?” Lucy asks. Her voice seems distant, but maybe it’s the blood rushing in my ears.

  “Kitty?” Cindy nudges me. “What’s up?”

  My thumbs flick over the screen and I skim the list. Urgent, urgent, even more urgent. This won’t be the way to make partner. I won’t impress my boss if I don’t get this taken care of ASAP.

  “I need to get back to work,” I say, showing Cindy my phone. “None of this can wait.” Cindy looks it over, reads the senders and subjects.

  “Give us a bit more time here,” she says. “I can be ready to go in half an hour. Trust me, you won’t be in trouble. Together, we can tackle it in an hour.”

  I give her a look, Are you sure? unspoken. Cindy nods, her hand on my arm. I force myself to take a deep breath. In, then out. And again. And again. After about five or six breaths, some of that worry fades. I put my phone away, though it kills me to do it. And I pick up the punnet of blackberries, taking another from the top. I pop it into my mouth, willing it to put me back into those happy memories.

  It doesn’t, but my eyes aren’t closed this time. I’m looking at Lucy, at her concerned expression. I don’t know why she’d worry. We just met.

  “See you next week, Luce,” Cindy says, hefting her cardboard tray. “I’ll need a refill.”

  Lucy chuckles, but her glance comes back to me.

  “Thanks for these,” I say, holding up the blackberries.

  “You’re very welcome. I’ll see you soon.” Lucy smiles, and that warmth rushes over me once more.

  Soon. I’d like that.

  Cindy takes me on a tour of the rest of the market, but I’ll be the first to admit that my attention is elsewhere. I notice a stand that makes crepes, one that has spices of all sorts, and another that sells homemade dog treats, but my thoughts are on Lucy, and on those blackberries. It’s a strain to not eat them all as we walk, a temptation that calls to me. At some point in our half-hour tour, I give in, and when we’re at the doors, just about to leave, my punnet is empty.

  “You’re going to need some more,” Cindy says. “Go on, go back to the Country Mouse. I’ll wait.”

  “We don’t have time,” I say, checking my watch. We’re already fifteen minutes past the half hour Cindy promised. “I’ll have to wait until next time.”

  “Call her then,” Cindy says, “and get her to deliver. It’ll be worth the cost.”

  I follow Cindy to her car, sliding into the passenger seat and putting my seat belt on. She drives with a speedy intensity I find intimidating, but she’ll have us back to the office in no time at all.

  We don’t talk much on the drive back; I start reading my emails and she focuses on the road. She was right, that most of them weren’t quite as urgent as they first seemed, but I get started on replies, carefully double-checking my spelling. Autocorrect is the devil.

  I’ve managed to get two emails replied to by the time we’re back at the parking lot. I step out of the car into the surprisingly oppressive mid-spring heat made worse by the dark asphalt. If it was any hotter, my heels would sink into the parking lot’s surface. Cindy grabs her tray and we head inside. The air is startlingly cold as we enter the lobby, and I notice a scent I hadn’t before, a sort of sterile, disinfectant smell.

  “Does it smell funny in here?” I ask her as we head to the elevators.

  Cindy sniffs. “Just the usual eau d’office,” she says. “Here, smell this instead.” She raises the cardboard tray and a whiff of fresh fruit wafts in my direction. We step into the elevator, and I bend to sniff at the strawberries, the rich scent making my mouth water. I would just about kill for another punnet of blackberries. Instead, though, I head back to my office, ducking quietly around corners so no one notices me. As far as they’ll know, I’ve been working all afternoon.

  It’s research, emails, a few phone calls, and some negotiations with other lawyers in regard to corporate mergers. Usually it’s something I love doing, that precise argument, the satisfaction of a victory, however small. But today, my mind keeps wandering, and I can still taste the blackberries. Finally, once I’ve completed the day’s tasks and the rest of the office is nearly empty, I rise to leave. I check my phone once more, reflexively, before I put it into my blazer pocket. My fingers brush a bit of card paper and I pull out the postcard for Country Mouse Farms.

  There’s no time like the present to get some more blackberries. But when I dial the number, my stomach flutters with butterflies and I find my throat dry. There’s no reason for it to be—it’s not like I don’t talk on the phone for a good portion of my day, and to people far less pleasant than Lucy Shen. This isn’t like me.

  I finish punching in the number and hold the phone to my ear. There’s a ring, and then another, and another, until I wonder if there’s no answering machine or voicemail. But finally, the line clicks, and a message plays in Lucy’s gentle tones.

  “You’ve reached Country Mouse F
arms, and the home of Lucy and Michelle Shen. Please leave us a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.” There’s another stretch of message, but it’s in a language I don’t understand. I’d guess it to be some dialect of Chinese, given Lucy’s looks and her mother’s name. The line beeps and I’m caught off guard.

  “Hi, Lucy, it’s Kitty Kerr. We met this afternoon at the market and my friend recommended your blackberries. Are you able to deliver? Please let me know.” I leave her my number, repeating it for good measure. Then I hang up, my breath coming quickly, like I’ve run a race. My hand is even a bit shaky when I put my phone back in my pocket.

  Get a hold of yourself, Kitty. It’s only blackberries.

  Delicious blackberries.

  Chapter Two

  I notice the answering machine, a throwback from an earlier era yet still clunking along, blinking when I enter the kitchen, but I’m too tired to care. It’s late, and I’ve just unloaded my remaining fruit—not that there was much—into the farm’s walk-in cooler, then done my usual rounds of the greenhouses. I haven’t even eaten, unless you count a few berries here and there, and a sandwich during a couple of quiet minutes at the market. My stomach growls as I finally notice the scent of food; I’m pretty sure Mama made my favorite today, the Shanghai rice cakes and a sort of stir-fry. I’d picked up the cakes for her last week. There’s nothing quite like my mother’s food, especially after a long day.

  But before I can load up a plate from the wok, which sits on the stove, the burner on low, I head out to the back porch, where Mama usually sits in the evening, to watch the sun set over the foothills to the west.