Cream of the Crop

by Alice Clayton

“Oh my,” I breathed out, practically hanging out of the window like an old hound dog. Snap snap snap went my camera, capturing everything I could for later inspiration.

  While I would go to my grave saying there is nothing prettier than a fall sunset in New York City, Bailey Falls might be a close second.

  And right smack-dab in the middle of Main Street was Callahan’s. The diner had been in Roxie’s family for years, and was the reason she’d moved back home. Running the diner for the summer while her mother competed on The Amazing Race had been the last thing she wanted to do, but it ended up being the very best thing she could have done. Now she had a burgeoning business, a hot guy, and this darling town in her life every single day.

  I admired the large picture window, the tidy brick steps, the green-and-white-striped awning. It looked old but well-kept, with exactly the kind of nostalgia that weekenders ate up in droves. A peek of the good old life, the way things used to be—a life that was likely not nearly as interesting while actually in it, but that in hindsight was just peachy perfect. This diner had that in spades. And I hadn’t even made it inside yet.

  “You’re meeting Chad for breakfast tomorrow morning, right?”

  “Nine o’clock, bright and early,” I answered.

  “Perfect. I’ve got to come into town for supplies, so I’ll drop you off.” She turned off the main street and into the town square. “Thought I’d give you the driving tour before we head back to my place.”

  “Oh I’d love it!” I exclaimed as she turned onto the first corner. Drugstore, candy shop, one-screen movie theater, even the Laundromat was cute. Turning the corner, we drove by a few antique shops, a butcher, and oh, there we go, the cheese shop. Another corner, and even more adorableness. Kids’ clothing store, a coffee shop (no competition for the diner, thank you very much), a gourmet food shop next door to a good old-fashioned dive bar. And on the last street we turned onto, what looked to be city hall.

  Four streets, four corners, with a sweet little park in the center with a duck pond, a summery-looking gazebo, and some early Halloween ghosts flying through the fall oak trees. And here and there, on the edge of town, a peek of the Hudson.

  “Honestly, could this town be any cuter?” I marveled, already beginning to frame out shots for the photo shoot I’d be doing to capture the essence of this charming village.

  I could see instantly the magazine ads, the copy I’d write, the perfection of making this place a must-see for weekend tourists. I’d bring New Yorkers here in droves.

  “You think it’s cute now, but wait until wintertime.”

  “Oh, God, I bet it’s darling at Christmas!”

  “Sure, sure. And when there’s snowdrifts packed higher than my head and it’s below zero for days on end, then it’s positively idyllic.”

  Though her tone was teasing, she was clearly enamored with her hometown in a way I hadn’t seen her in years.

  “I’m glad you moved home. It’s nice having you back east,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “I need to get you away from all this Norman Rockwell shit, its making you schmaltzy,” she said.

  “Okay, so take me back to your farmhouse and cook me some of your allegedly fantastic food.”

  “Driving tour over,” she announced, and we left the town square behind.

  “I’ll see the rest of the town tomorrow; I’ll get Chad to show me around,” I teased.

  “Don’t you be flirting with my high school crush! And sweetie, you’ve seen the rest of the town.”

  “That’s it?” I exclaimed, looking behind me to see the town square fading away in the distance.

  Roxie just laughed as she drove me into the wild . . .

  I lay on the iron bed, which squeaked just from the movement of my breathing. I drew in a breath. Creak. I let it out. Squeak. Good lord, how do country people fuck without waking up the entire town?

  I rolled over onto my stomach, smiling at the thoughtful touches here and there. Comfortable-looking extra blankets piled onto the antique chest in the corner. A few bottles of water on the nightstand. A stack of fresh towels. And my very own pumpkin on top of the dresser, facing out into the front yard. It hadn’t been jack-o’-lanterned, but was still a nice touch to an already homey room.

  When Roxie had told me she’d found an old farmhouse, I wasn’t sure what to expect. It was small, but that was okay. It was just her here, and it was nice and cozy. I got the impression that she and Leo had discussed moving in together, into his very nice house over on the Maxwell property, but I also got the sense she was pretty happy where she was, setting up shop on her own in her hometown. The house was clean, simple, and a bit old-fashioned, but in a nice way. It was a very Roxie-style house.

  She was downstairs getting started on dinner, and had encouraged me to head up to the guest room and get comfortable. I’d opened up the windows, smelling more of that bracingly clean air. It smelled funny, but I could tell my lungs were appreciating it. Situated at the end of a road, almost hidden in the trees, the house was a world away from my townhouse in the East Village. And quiet! Oh my goodness, so quiet. Other than the creaky squeaks.

  I got up off the old bed and started unpacking. I always pack too many clothes, since you never know when a wardrobe change might be necessary. I pulled out a few dresses and hung them in the closet, thinking about what I wanted to wear tonight. It was my first time meeting Leo and his daughter, Polly. Hmm, what does one wear to meet your best friend’s farmer boyfriend and his seven-year-old?

  Obviously a coral jumpsuit with three-inch snakeskin peep-toe heels.

  When I arrived in the kitchen, Roxie took one look at me and burst out laughing. “This is you in the sticks?”

  “The sticks is no excuse not to kill it,” I said, strutting across the plank floor. “And coral is very autumnal.” I leaned over the counter, looking for anything I could pilfer. Aha! Cherry tomatoes. Snagging a few, I headed over to the table.

  “Of course, how silly of me. I’d ask you to help with dinner, but—”

  “But you remember how culinary school turned out for me,” I finished, popping in a tomato.

  She laughed, chopping garlic and throwing it into a pan. Instantly the room smelled incredible.

  “Mmm, what are we having? Your famous cioppino? Saffron risotto with peas and asparagus? That’s always been one of my favorites. No no, wait, don’t tell me. You’re making that incredible blue cheese soufflé that smells like feet and tastes like heaven?”

  She shrugged. “Nope—spaghetti and meatballs. It’s Polly’s favorite.”

  I smiled. “How stinking cute are you, making her favorite dinner.”

  “Oh hush.”

  I poured myself a glass of wine from the open bottle on the table. “Listen, if you’re making spaghetti and meatballs, it’ll be the best spaghetti and meatballs ever made.”

  “You’re so sweet. I know you were expecting something a little fancier.”

  I waved her off. “Please, I can have fancy anytime I want it. I’m just excited to meet your fella and this meatball kid who sounds smarter than I am.”

  “She’s so fucking smart it’s a bit scary.” Roxie chuckled, stirring onions and garlic together. “Grab me that basil, will you?”

  I walked to the windowsill where she had pots of herbs growing and grabbed a handful. “Do you still add sugar to your sauce?”

  “Sometimes I do, if I’m using really fresh tomatoes, but not usually. I’m amazed you still remember that trick.”

  “Girl. I did retain a few tidbits of information here and there. And I still have my knives.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Which you never use.”

  “But they look impressive as hell in my kitchen.” I perched on a stool in the window, watching her add a little pinch of this here, a little dollop of that there.

  “I will never understand w
hy the hell you were there in the first place. Especially since you love Manhattan so much—there are incredible culinary schools there, too.” She’d turned around, giving me a pointed look.

  I gave her a little smile. “This is good wine.”

  “Natalie Grayson, what are you not telling me?”

  I felt color rise up into my cheeks, wondering how this conversation had arisen when I’d successfully avoided it for all these years. “I just wanted something different from what I knew.”

  “Different how?”

  “Different from Thomas,” I said, my voice unexpectedly hollow. I took a breath, took a sip of wine, and saw the reflection of headlights coming up the drive to her farmhouse.

  A dusty Jeep came around a bend in the driveway and pulled up beside the house, an enthusiastic ponytail wearer already bounding out of the backseat, calling Roxie’s name.

  “Hey, I think your farmer’s here,” I said, feeling my heart rate begin to return to normal.

  My best friend stared me down. “We’ll come back to this later,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron and throwing open the back door. I let out a sigh, downed the rest of my wine, and watched as she hopped down the back stairs and right into the arms of her Leo.

  She caught Polly into a close hug, too, then the three of them headed for the house. I smiled broadly, happy to meet them—and wondering, not for the first time, if there would ever be someone that glad to see me at the end of the day.

  I’d seen Leo out and about in the city in the past, before he’d beat feet upstate for the simple life. But I’d never met him, and I could see why this guy was such a player. Tall, broad shouldered, and strong, but with an easy look about him. There was a warmth in his smile that I hadn’t seen before. Most of the city had been worn off, revealing a kindness, a quick laugh. It was easy to see that these two females hung the moon for him, and this guy loved his life.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, grinning as he shook my hand.

  “Likewise.” I grinned back, tugging on his hand until I got close enough to hug him. “You’ve been putting it to my best friend for months now, so you’re required to hug me.” Surprised but willing, he hugged me back, wrapping his strong arms around me.

  “Watch it, that’s my guy,” Roxie warned from the corner.

  “Nice,” I replied, slipping out of the hug but still keeping hands-on. I squeezed his biceps a bit. “Very nice.” Leo’s eyes twinkled down at me, and I just shook my head. “You’re lucky I didn’t meet you first.”

  “Seriously, still in the room,” Roxie repeated, and I finally released Leo. “And this munchkin is Polly.”

  I stuck out my hand for Polly to shake. “As in Pollyanna?”

  “Well, I wasn’t named after a polynomial,” the kid said, her eyes as green as Leo’s but much more appraising.

  I laughed. “It’s nice to meet you, Not a Polynomial.”

  Polly grinned up at me. “Smells good in here, what’s for dinner?”

  “Polly, we just got here. Maybe ask Roxie if she needs any help?” Leo said, ruffling up her hair. “It does smell really good.”

  “Do you need any help, and what’s for dinner?” Polly asked, and I retreated to my kitchen stool, hands raised, knowing full well that the person who was actually in charge had just arrived. I was just hoping she’d let me have some of her spaghetti and meatballs . . .

  “So you’re here to figure out how to get more people to Bailey Falls, right?” Leo asked, buttering a piece of bread for Polly and putting it on the side of her plate. She was trying to twirl her pasta on a spoon, just like Roxie. Her little tongue poked out of the side of her mouth while she concentrated.

  “Kind of. I’m here to get the lay of the land, so to speak. My firm got an email from Chad Bowman—you know him?” I forked up my own bite of pasta, and my goodness was it good. My girl could cook.

  “I do. He and his husband are members of the farmshare program we offer to locals; they’re great guys.” Leo smothered a laugh when Polly’s spoonful nearly went flying. “Want me to cut it up for you, make it easier to get on the fork?”

  “Roxie says to never cut pasta,” Polly said with a serious look on her face. “It disrupts the integrity of the noodle.”

  “That seems like exactly something she would say,” I agreed. Roxie was coughing into her napkin in a very timely fashion. “So tell me about the farmshare program.”

  As Leo talked, I began to get a better sense of what he’d created over at Maxwell Farms. The more I heard about it, the more eager I was to see it. “This seems exactly the kind of thing that could make this town even more inviting. Norman Rockwell charm meets local sustainable agriculture, which everyone is interested in now. You give tours at the farm, right?”

  “Every day,” Leo said, “Two on Saturdays.”

  “Perfect. Can I come by tomorrow?”

  “You got it. We’re moving some of the animals tomorrow for rotational pasture grazing, so it’s a good day to come by. Lots of activity,” he answered.

  Roxie turned from helping Polly with twirling her pasta. “Moving any dairy cows tomorrow?” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant but failing. I looked hard at her, but she seemed very interested suddenly in a loose string on the end of Leo’s T-shirt.

  “Yep, we’re moving them up onto the east pasture. Why, what’s up?” Leo asked, tucking into another meatball. “Watch what you’re doing there, Sugar Snap, don’t unravel one of my favorite tees. I only saw the Pixies play live once.”

  “I was just thinking it might be fun for Natalie to see that, to watch you moving the cows,” Roxie answered, still picking at his T-shirt. Leo absently put a hand over hers, stopping her from unraveling the whole thing. I couldn’t blame her; what a grand sight that’d be.

  “Sure thing, you want to come tomorrow around noon?”

  “And get the opportunity to say I literally saw the cows come home? I wouldn’t miss it.” I turned toward Polly. “I’m going to meet a moo cow tomorrow, want to come along?”

  “They’re not moo cows, they’re Guernseys and Brown Swiss.” She blinked. “And I have school tomorrow.”

  “Ah. Of course,” I replied. Speaking of schooled . . . “Okay, so tomorrow I’ll swing by the farm after my meeting with Chad. Sounds like a plan.”

  “Sounds great,” Roxie said, grinning broadly.

  Chapter 6

  Anyone who tells you a good night’s sleep in the country is a cure for all ills has never actually slept in the country.

  Between the crickets, the owls, the wind howling, the trees scraping against the windows, and the creakiest, squeakiest bed in America, I barely slept a wink.

  And just when I’d gotten the tiniest bit used to the cacophony of sound going on outside in the Wild Kingdom, everything stopped. The wind died down, the trees stopped scraping, the crickets and owls agreed with each other that it was time to take five, and it was like the world outside went on permanent mute.

  The world inside dwindled down to the occasional creak from my bed, the ticktock of a grandfather clock downstairs, and my breathing, which sounded loud in the silent room.

  Where was the hustle? Where was the bustle? Where were the sirens and the horns honking and the people, for Christ’s sake, that you could always count on for background noise at all hours of the day and night?

  Silence pressed in on me from every direction, convincing me that Roxie had faded away and it was just me left alone to battle the shadows from a thousand nearly empty trees outside, silhouetted by an angry pumpkin moon gazing down on this land that time forgot.

  When it’s quiet in the country, it’s all too easy to imagine a man in a plaid shirt striding out of the woods. Peering at your farmhouse from across the field, wondering if there was a buxom city girl curled up in a squeaky bed upstairs, too pretty to be killed off at the beginning of
a horror movie, but kept alive for something truly terrible somewhere near the end of the third act.

  Yeah, sleeping in the country isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  “How’d you sleep?” Roxie asked brightly as I staggered downstairs the next morning, following the smell of coffee that beckoned like an olfactory pied piper.

  “I hate you,” I muttered, pushing my hair back from my bleary face. She rolled her eyes and handed me a cup of coffee, which I grasped like a talisman. “I love you.”

  “You’re so dramatic.”

  “I agree.” I sighed, sinking into a chair at her table. “How long did it take you to get used to sleeping with all that racket?”

  “What racket? I didn’t hear a peep.”

  “Yeah, that’s the other thing. It’s either as loud as Mardi Gras out there, or the sound of silence. What’s up with that?”

  “I grew up with it so I barely notice it anymore. Of course, I don’t sleep much anyway.”

  Roxie had had insomnia since she was a kid. “That getting any better?”

  A content look crossed her face. “It’s funny, but ever since Leo and I, you know . . .”

  “Started fucking?”

  “Started seeing each other is what I was going to say,” she said, her cheeks pinking. “I’ve been sleeping better. I mean, I’m never going to get eight hours, but I’m definitely getting more sleep than I ever used to.”

  I sipped at my coffee, nodding. “It’s all that fucking.”

  “It’s more than the fucking,” she insisted, hooking a chair over with her foot and sinking down next to me. “It’s the before and the after, you know?”

  “Ah yes, the sweet nothings and the afterglow.” I picked a stray yarn on my sweater. “I’m usually wondering when the fucking will be starting back up again.”

  “Oh, the fucking starts back up again,” she said, her blush deepening. “But there’s just something about sleeping next to him. It’s . . .” She paused, searching for a word.

  “Amazing? Incredible? Out of this world?”