The Light of Paris by Eleanor Brown

He was perfectly nice-looking, but in general I wanted to take a pair of clippers to him, trim back the wildness of his curls, the scruffiness of his beard. He wasn’t especially tall, but he was broad-shouldered and big of hand, andat the moment, covered in dirt. My mother would have been horrified by the first impressions we were making.
    â€œMadeleine Spencer. It’s a pleasure. So now you know my hiding place. May I ask why you’re creeping around in the garden?”
    â€œMy mother doesn’t keep any food in the house. She survives on Melba toast and the blood of her enemies.”
    He barked out another laugh, his curls bouncing. “You’re lucky. Those strawberries shouldn’t be ripe for another two weeks.”
    â€œYet another one of the myriad ways fortune smiles upon me. What about you? Do you work at the restaurant?”
    â€œI own it, actually.”
    â€œCongratulations. My mother thinks you’re Satan for opening it next to her house, by the way.”
    Henry winced. “I know. I feel awful. She’s an incredible gardener. I’d hoped we might have something to talk about.”
    I looked over his shoulder at his garden, which was all function, long, straight rows of turned earth, tomato cages and strawberry planters standing sentry, stakes at regular intervals to separate out the crops. “Do you grow all this food for the restaurant?”
    â€œAs much as I can.”
    â€œThat’s amazing.”
    â€œI’d like to grow more. I wish your mother would talk to me. I have so many questions about how she gets such incredible produce, but she refuses to talk to me.”
    â€œWell, you don’t have to worry about it for much longer. She’s selling the house, apparently.”
    Henry lifted a broad fist to his chest. “
Mon Dieu!
” he said. Okay, no, he didn’t, but he looked so surprised, his eyes opening wide, his hand clutching his itty-bitty sledgehammer to his heart as though he were a well-armed heroine in a Regency romance. “Oh no! Was it something I said?”
    â€œHmm. She does hate you a little bit.”
    â€œYes, she’s made that fairly clear. I invited everyone in the neighborhood for a private dinner before we opened. Everyone came except her. And this one other couple, but I gave them a bye because the wife was giving birth.”
    â€œGenerous of you.”
    â€œI like to think of myself as a magnanimous neighborhood overlord,” he said, giving a little bow and then returning the mallet to his side. “In any case, your mother marched the invitation back over to me and told me exactly what I could do with it.”
    â€œMy mother? I don’t think so.”
    â€œWell, there were no specific body parts suggested, but the phrase ‘ruining the neighborhood’ might have been involved.”
    â€œHuh. Well, if anyone could tell you in a polite way that you’re ruining the neighborhood, it would be my mother.”
    â€œSo I’ll extend the invitation to you instead. You should come to dinner sometime. My treat.”
    â€œThat’s a very kind offer,” I said politely, but my stomach, hearing the suggestion of food, growled again quite rudely.
    â€œYou should get back to your strawberries,” he said, nodding at my impromptu basket.
    â€œYou should get back to your lurking.”
    â€œCan’t lurk all day if you don’t start in the morning,” he said, with such genuine cheerfulness that I couldn’t help but laugh. “Nice to meet you, Madeleine.”
    â€œLikewise.”
    Trying to keep from exposing myself in my flimsy boxer shorts, I took a few steps backward, the earth yielding gently beneath me. How long had it been since I had felt the ground beneath my bare feet? It was delicious and made me feel oddly like weeping. When Henry went back to his work, I turned and began to walk toward the house, looking up at its sprawl, the empty