City Kitty and Country Mouse

by Alyssa Linn Palmer

  “When will that happen?”

  “Soon, I hope.” I don’t really have any idea. It’s at the whim of the other partners, not just my boss, if I can impress them enough.

  “I hope so,” Lucy says. “I miss you when we’re not together.” My heart clenches, and suddenly I want to get up, to leave all this behind, to drive out to the farm and crawl into bed with her and never leave.

  “Me too, Lucy. Me too. Long distance relationships suck.”

  Lucy chuckles, a musical sound I love to hear. “It’s not that long distance. We’re only an hour or so apart.”

  “Too long for my taste,” I quip back. “I want inches, not miles.”

  “Saturday morning, next week,” Lucy says. “Then we can be joined at the hip.”

  “It can’t come soon enough,” I say. The need in me is an ache.

  I hear Lucy yawn again. “Sorry,” she says.

  “I should let you sleep,” I say, though I know I’m reluctant. I’d love to talk to her all night, but I have to think of her, not myself. “I’ll text you tomorrow.”

  “Sleep well, Kitty,” Lucy says. “I want you rested and happy next weekend.”

  “I will. You too.”

  “Miss you,” she says.

  “Miss you back,” I whisper. “Good night.”

  I hate hanging up the phone. But I do.

  An email pings into my inbox, the notification popping up on my phone. It’s from my boss.

  * * *

  I’m in the office at what feels like the crack of dawn. My boss’s email was a list of things needing doing since Jeff, my associate colleague, is down for the count for another day. Even with Cindy’s help, I won’t be getting all of this done today, or even tomorrow. I set my coffee down on my desk and check my calendar. It’s packed, even without Jeff’s action items. I have no idea what I’m going to do, absolutely none. I can’t clone myself and meet with my clients and his at the same time.

  By the time Cindy arrives at seven thirty, I’ve made a list of changes to the calendar, which clients need to be seen, and which ones can be moved to tomorrow. Looking at my sketched-out calendar, I feel exhausted already. I will be in meetings from eight thirty this morning until at least eight this evening.

  “You look wiped,” she says, setting down a tray of coffees. She takes one and hands it to me. “Here, you’ll need this. I got an extra shot of espresso.”

  “You are a lifesaver,” I say and take a sip. It’s hot and goes down smoothly. Today will be a day for caffeine. All day.

  “I know,” Cindy says. She glances down at my calendar sketch. “Who died?”

  I manage a tired chuckle. “No one, but don’t go to get lunch from wherever Jeff got his,” I quip. “That’s today and tomorrow. I still don’t know how I’m going to do it.”

  Cindy comes around to my side of the desk and takes a closer look at the calendar. “This client here”—she puts a finger on one of Jeff’s corporate clients—“will be happy to reschedule. Jeff’s assistant always complains about how they don’t keep appointments. I’ll call them. And this one”—she sets her finger on one of my clients—“would likely be able to move to Friday. That’s what she’d asked for originally, but at the time I had a free spot today.”

  Two short blocks of time. Just enough time to take a bit of a breather. I might even get to eat lunch.

  “Did I mention you’re a lifesaver?”

  Cindy grins. “Only every day. Now, drink your coffee. Did you have breakfast?”

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll grab you a breakfast bar from my stash,” she says. “Let’s get moving.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Saturday morning at the farm could not come soon enough. That was my thought all this week and last, as I struggled with Jeff’s clients and my own, and with too many late nights and early mornings. Right now, driving from the city on the highway, the fields of canola and hay on either side stretching as far as the eye can see, is incredibly peaceful and just what I need. It’ll take about an hour to get to Lucy’s. My eyes are sore from lack of sleep, but I didn’t want to sleep in and miss any time I could get with her. I need her. I need this break from my work.

  In the back of my car is a cooler full of groceries—chicken, beef, sauces—and my notebook full of ideas. Like, Cindy ordered in pizza from Una, and it was four cheese with truffled honey drizzled on top. That place makes the best pizza I’ve ever had, but the truffled honey was something else. So before I went home yesterday, I stopped at one of the specialty grocery stores and bought some truffle oil and I texted Lucy about getting some honey from her friend in town. I’m not sure how I’m going to make it work, but I’ve been pondering soy sauce and honey coated chicken stir-fry for the last few days. Truffle oil might work, or it might not.

  My stomach growls. I stopped for a coffee on my way out but didn’t bother to grab anything to eat. Usually a latte does the job, but I’m needing more today. I take a deep drink of my latte, hoping it’ll quell some of the hunger.

  My phone rings just as I make the turn onto the secondary highway. I push the button on my steering wheel. “Hello?”

  “Hi, honey,” my mom chirps. We’ve texted a bit, but it’s been a month or more since I’ve seen them.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say. “You’re up early.”

  “Just off for a run,” she says, sounding far more energetic than anyone should be at this time of morning. “What are you up to? It sounds like you’re driving.”

  “Going out to see Lucy at her farm this weekend.” I mentioned Lucy to Mom and Dad but didn’t really give them too much detail. Too much information and it gives them the opportunity to criticize or at least speculate why one of my ventures might not work. I noticed the pattern a long time ago, and honestly, these days, eighteen or so years after my realization, I’ve put my parents on a bit of an information diet. Dad gets updates from my boss, of course, given they’ve been friends for a million years, but my nonwork life has always been just for me. It’s enough that Dad wants to discuss law when we see each other. We don’t usually get onto much that’s personal.

  “All weekend?” Mom says. “That’s quite intense.”

  Intense. Mom’s code word for moving too fast. She’s always been super cautious. Absolute certainty is required at all times before making a decision. It works for her job, being a physician, but in real life, intimate life, not so much.

  “Just how I like it.” My reply is as upbeat and chirpy as she is.

  “All right,” she says. “Dad and I were thinking we should get together for dinner on Sunday.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be home,” I say. “It’s going to be a busy weekend, and I’ll need my sleep. One of the other associates was sick and I’ve had to take over his clients. Once I get home, I’ll be working.”

  “Oh, dear, poor man,” Mom says. “But he’s lucky to have you to help. How about we aim for next weekend instead then?”

  “Sounds good.” I slow down to turn onto the township road. “Mom, I’m going to have to go—I’m starting to lose my signal.”

  “All right, honey. We’ll text later. Have a fun time.”

  She hangs up, and I take a deep breath as I turn onto the gravel road. It’s a bit more rutted than I’d like, and my car’s suspension was not made for so many ruts. By the time I turn in to Lucy’s driveway, I feel like I’ve been rattled out of my bones.

  I pull in to a spot behind Lucy’s Country Mouse van and kill the engine. When I step out, Alice’s dog Goldie has dashed down from the porch and comes over, her tongue lolling. I scratch her behind the ears, and her eyes close as she leans against me happily. I’d love to have a dog. Or a cat. Someone to be home when I get home. But I know that right now it wouldn’t be good for them, having to wait for hours and hours alone. Once I’m partner, I’ll get a pet.

  “Goldie!” Alice calls from the porch. “Don’t you jump on her.”

  I chuckle. “She’s fine, Alice. No jumping at all.�
��

  “Oh, good,” Alice calls back. “Come on up to the house. Lucy’s just in the shower.”

  I give Goldie one last scratch and then grab my bags and head up to the house. I come up onto the porch and see Alice and Lucy’s mother sitting in chairs with cups of coffee or tea. Goldie bounds up behind me and goes to lie at Alice’s feet, panting.

  “You’ll love the space Lucy found,” Alice says. “It’s lovely. And they have plenty of tables and chairs to accommodate everyone.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Go inside,” Michelle says. “There’s space in the fridge and in the pantry if you need it.” She smiles. “And help yourself to some tea. It’s on the stove.”

  My stomach growls again, and Michelle looks knowingly at me. “And there’s congee there too.”

  “Thank you.”

  Michelle nods and I continue inside. I put all the perishables in the fridge and leave the rest on the counter. I take a cup from the cupboard, find a bowl, and scoop myself out a portion of congee. There’s a bowl with green onions and mushrooms and a few other things, and I take some and put it on top. I set the bowl on the kitchen table and pour myself a cup of tea, then sit down. The savory smell of the congee is making my mouth water. I take a bite, and then another. I’m just scraping up the last bit as Lucy comes downstairs, her hair damp, her white T-shirt showing a few wet spots on the shoulders. I might have just eaten, but now I’m hungry, this time for her. It feels like ages since we’ve been together.

  “You’re early,” Lucy says, and I rise as she comes to my side. There are no more words as she slips into my arms, tilting her face up, her lips inviting me to kiss them. And I do. It’s perfect, a deep embrace, and I feel like I’ve come home.

  We’re in the midst of that kiss when I hear voices and the slam of the screen door to the porch. We break apart, and when I look over, Lucy’s mom is standing there, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

  “Not much work getting done here,” she observes, her tone teasing. I glance at Lucy. She’s blushing, her entire face going a deep shade of pink. I touch my own cheek and find it hot too. We really should have been working.

  “We have all weekend to work,” Lucy chides, resting her arm at my waist, holding me close.

  “I know, Ming Nhon,” Michelle says, waving a hand. “You two are lovely together. I just wish your papa could see you so happy.” She comes over to us, and suddenly I’m in the middle of a hug with her and Lucy. Michelle’s eyes look damp with unshed tears, and I find myself hugging her back. And I hug Lucy too, and we’re all hugging, and then laughing, pulling apart. Lucy wipes at her eyes, and I see Michelle doing the same. I blink hard, twice. I won’t cry, but it’s so sweet, nothing like my relationship with my own mom. Sure, we hug sometimes, but it’s not really the same, not like this. I want this. The feeling is intense, and I know it’s too soon to want that, to want that casual intimacy, that family. Lucy and I are just a sexy fling. We haven’t talked long-term, and with the restaurant, well, what if something goes wrong? My stomach twinges with anxiety.

  And I’m reminded of dinner next Sunday night. Mom and Dad. My stomach twinges again. Lucy’s mom heads over to the teapot that’s always on the stove and pours herself a cup of tea. She makes her way back to the screen door. “You two cook dinner tonight,” she says. “I want to know about this honey dish.” Then she’s gone, back to her seat on the porch with Alice.

  “Soy sauce and honey will be a good glaze,” Lucy says, following her mother’s suggestion.

  “And I think we can add a little bit extra to it. I had a pizza with truffled honey on it, and it was amazing.” Food is much better to think about than my parents.

  “Truffles?” Lucy asks, sounding skeptical.

  “We should try, at least once,” I say. “If it works out, it’ll be a fancier dish to add to the menu. It’ll bring in the people who really want a standout, unique meal.”

  “I can’t picture it,” Lucy says, “but we can try. What should we do as a side?”

  I consult my list. I hadn’t put much there besides the truffle oil note. “Something quite healthy and green, I think. But not standard. Something that will be crisp and not overtake the truffle flavor.” I tap my fingers on the page, trying to think of what might suit. “Butter lettuce?”

  “Perhaps,” Lucy says, “but we might have something a bit more unusual. Have you ever had frisée lettuce?”

  I can’t even picture it, though I might have had it once or twice before. I must look puzzled. Lucy takes my hand. “Come with me to the greenhouse. I think I have a lesson to teach.” We head outside, and it isn’t until we’re at the greenhouse door that I start.

  “I didn’t wash my bowl.”

  Lucy chuckles and opens the greenhouse door. “Don’t worry about it. It’ll still be there when we get back. Or Mama might wash it if she feels like it.”

  “But I don’t want her to do any extra work.”

  “If she wants to, she will, and if she doesn’t, she won’t,” Lucy says with a shrug. “It’s only one bowl, Kitty.”

  I know it is, but I still feel bad. But I follow Lucy into the greenhouse. She takes me to one side, where long tables sit with rows of different lettuces.

  “We don’t do a lot of the specialty lettuce,” she says, “because it doesn’t always sell that well. But we do have frisée, and mizuna, and a few others.” She walks down the aisle and stops at several rows full of a very light, small-leaf lettuce that seems to curl around itself in tendrils. She takes up one small head of it and grabs a tray from beneath the table. “That’s the frisée,” she says. “And here,” she says as we walk farther down and she grabs a slightly similar-looking lettuce, with darker leaves, “is the mizuna. Try a bit of each.” She sets the mizuna into the tray, and I pinch off a couple of leaves, one from each.

  I try the mizuna first. It has a definite flavor, though it’s not harsh or sharp, a gentle crispness, and I’m already in love with it, but somehow, with soy sauce and honey and truffle oil, I just don’t know if it would fit. Then I try the frisée. There’s not much flavor, just a hint, but it seems fresher somehow, brighter. I could picture it with truffle oil in a light dressing as a side to the soy and honey chicken. I snag another leaf from the head and pop it into my mouth, closing my eyes.

  Yes, it’s perfect.

  * * *

  Kitty with food is like no one I’ve ever seen before. She savors and enjoys like every meal is her first after a long fast. And I love her passion for it. I love that she closes her eyes and chews slowly, her lips pursing, that low hum of contentment. And to find her sitting there in my kitchen this morning, devouring the bowl of congee? My heart went pitter-patter, and my whole body vibrated with need. That kiss we had was not nearly enough.

  “Which do you like best?” I ask as she opens her eyes.

  “Definitely the frisée for the soy sauce and honey chicken,” she says. “And we’re going to need a name for it. Something catchy yet informative. The frisée would be brilliant on the side with a truffle oil dressing. Toss it lightly, and the smokiness of the truffles will be a great foil for the sweet and salty of the chicken. I’m certain.”

  “Done and done,” I say. “By the time our permits are processed, this whole row should be ready to go.”

  “How long does it take to grow lettuce?” Kitty asks, sidling closer. “I have no idea.”

  “Depends on the lettuce. But forty days, give or take a few.” I touch the frisée. “I’ll have to plant more of this if we’re going to keep that dish for every supper.”

  “We could,” Kitty says, “but who knows, maybe we’ll want to shake it up every time, do something completely new.” She hooks her arm through mine. “What other veggies do we have?”

  “So, so many,” I assure her. I hold the tray in one hand and we clasp hands as I lead her down the rows. “We really should use bok choy, or Shanghai choy, in one of the dishes. Have we thought about something vegeta
rian? Maybe tofu?”

  “I’ve never been vegetarian,” Kitty admits. “I don’t really know where to start.”

  “Let’s see what we have here.” I tug at her hand and we head down the aisle. I set down the tray and pick up some bok choy and Shanghai choy, and then I lead Kitty outside, to our other garden. Choosing a row, I take her to the middle, then bend down and pull a few carrots out by their leaves, then walk down the next row to the broccolini. Then we head down another row and I pull out a large daikon radish. Kitty stares at it.

  “Daikon,” I say when she still looks puzzled. “Never had it before?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kitty says. “How do you cook it?”

  “Lots of ways. But let’s keep going. We should grab some peppers too, and a few other things. Have to go back into the greenhouse, though.”

  We gather up some red and green peppers, and some spring onions and a few other things. The tray is groaning with its bounty, and I can’t hold Kitty’s hand anymore since I need both to hold the tray. I don’t mind, though, because she goes ahead of me with the two daikons, and as we walk, I take a moment to admire the view. It’s an even better view as she takes the few stairs to the porch. Mama is sitting there still, doing some needlework, her teacup empty.

  “What will you cook for dinner?” she asks, looking at the tray. “Are we having company?”

  “No company,” I say, “but we should definitely invite Alice.”

  “Alice went out,” Mama says. “Her friend called and took her to the mountains.” She shrugs. “So just us.”

  “We won’t make it all,” Kitty says, holding open the screen door for me. “But there will be a lot.”

  Mama pats her stomach. “I can eat.”

  Kitty grins. “Be prepared to be amazed.”

  I want to kiss her again as I head through the door and into the kitchen. Kitty follows up behind me.

  “Soon,” she says.

  “Soon?”

  “I think I need a nap before we start cooking. I’m too tired now.” Her eyes twinkle.