The Things We Keep by Sally Hepworth

line. I wiped my hands on my apron. Part of my role, I’d quickly realized, was to smooth things over with Carlos’s disgruntled customers. He needed my help fairly frequently.
    â€œWhat kind of taco would you like?” I asked. “There’s beer-battered mahimahi, shrimp, lobster, turkey.…”
    I looked down at the man, who was our typical Wall Street guy—expensive suit, gold watch, shiny shoes. His hair was thick and black, his eyes chocolate brown. His adorably perplexed expression gave away the fact that he wasn’t a regular at the food truck.
    â€œMy favorite is the mahimahi,” I said finally. “We make it with fresh lime and cumin—it’s a bestseller, I think you’ll like it.” I arranged the fish on a flour tortilla and topped it with slaw and a dollop of Mexican crema. Then I rolled it up and handed it to him. “Here you go.”
    I’ll never forget the way he looked at me—as though I were the most unexpected treasure, a nearly extinct animal he’d stumbled across in the wild. Beside me, oblivious or uninterested, Carlos grunted at the next person who dared not to know exactly what he wanted.
    â€œWould you like to have dinner with me tonight?” he asked.
    I laughed, surprised. Behind him, someone jostled him and someone else yelled, “Keep it moving, man!” But he didn’t budge.
    â€œI insist,” he said. “A thank-you for this … this wonderful taco. I’m Richard, by the way.”
    â€œEve,” I said.
    It wasn’t the first time a customer had invited me to dinner. It was, however, the first time I’d been tempted to accept. Perhaps it was the fact that, unlike most of the Wall Street stockbrokers we served, he didn’t seem entirely assured of my response? On the contrary, he seemed … nervous. It was endearing.
    â€œEve, I need guacamole,” Carlos yelled.
    â€œI’ll pick you up,” the man—Richard—said, moving in closer. His face, I noticed, was full of surprises, from his wide-set eyes to his cleft chin. He stood like a rock in a stream while customers flowed on either side of him. “Around seven. Anywhere you want to go.”
    Carlos thumped around, making his impatience known. “Guacamole!”
    Richard’s gaze pierced me, pinning me in place even as Carlos’s thick arm reached around me for the guacamole. Then Richard closed his eyes, pressed his palms together in faux prayer.
    â€œYes,” I said, laughing. “Yes, okay. Fine. Tonight.” I gave him my phone number and hurried back to the guacamole.
    â€œGuess he’s pretty convincing,” Carlos muttered when Richard was gone.
    I wish I’d known how right Carlos was.
    *   *   *
    I am just inside the gates of Rosalind House when I hear the bushes rustle behind me.
    â€œHi,” I say, when Angus emerges.
    â€œHey.” He drops his secateurs into a bucket and dips to snatch up a larger pair of garden shears. “Thanks for the sandwich,” he mutters, then turns his back and starts chopping.
    â€œYou’re welcome,” I say. Angus’s demeanor is barely civil, but I choose to be heartened by the fact he is talking to me. “Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. I’d like to talk to you about starting a vegetable and herb garden.”
    â€œA vegetable and herb garden.” He pauses, the shears still in hand. “I guess we could do that.” He turns to look at me. “How big do you need it?”
    â€œWell, I’d like to plant carrots and potatoes. Plus herbs.”
    I may be imagining it, but Angus seems slightly more upbeat. “You’ll want something with shade then.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. “There’s a spot in the yard that might work, but you’d need a canopy. One that can be retracted—”
    â€œYou can buy those at Garden City,” I