line. I wiped my hands on my apron. Part of my role, Iâd quickly realized, was to smooth things over with Carlosâs disgruntled customers. He needed my help fairly frequently.
âWhat kind of taco would you like?â I asked. âThereâs beer-battered mahimahi, shrimp, lobster, turkey.â¦â
I looked down at the man, who was our typical Wall Street guyâexpensive 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 wasnât a regular at the food truck.
âMy favorite is the mahimahi,â I said finally. âWe make it with fresh lime and cuminâitâs a bestseller, I think youâll like it.â 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. âHere you go.â
Iâll never forget the way he looked at meâas though I were the most unexpected treasure, a nearly extinct animal heâd 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.
âWould you like to have dinner with me tonight?â he asked.
I laughed, surprised. Behind him, someone jostled him and someone else yelled, âKeep it moving, man!â But he didnât budge.
âI insist,â he said. âA thank-you for this ⦠this wonderful taco. Iâm Richard, by the way.â
âEve,â I said.
It wasnât the first time a customer had invited me to dinner. It was, however, the first time Iâd been tempted to accept. Perhaps it was the fact that, unlike most of the Wall Street stockbrokers we served, he didnât seem entirely assured of my response? On the contrary, he seemed ⦠nervous. It was endearing.
âEve, I need guacamole,â Carlos yelled.
âIâll pick you up,â the manâRichardâsaid, 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. âAround seven. Anywhere you want to go.â
Carlos thumped around, making his impatience known. âGuacamole!â
Richardâs gaze pierced me, pinning me in place even as Carlosâs thick arm reached around me for the guacamole. Then Richard closed his eyes, pressed his palms together in faux prayer.
âYes,â I said, laughing. âYes, okay. Fine. Tonight.â I gave him my phone number and hurried back to the guacamole.
âGuess heâs pretty convincing,â Carlos muttered when Richard was gone.
I wish Iâd known how right Carlos was.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
I am just inside the gates of Rosalind House when I hear the bushes rustle behind me.
âHi,â I say, when Angus emerges.
âHey.â He drops his secateurs into a bucket and dips to snatch up a larger pair of garden shears. âThanks for the sandwich,â he mutters, then turns his back and starts chopping.
âYouâre welcome,â I say. Angusâs demeanor is barely civil, but I choose to be heartened by the fact he is talking to me. âActually, Iâm glad I ran into you. Iâd like to talk to you about starting a vegetable and herb garden.â
âA vegetable and herb garden.â He pauses, the shears still in hand. âI guess we could do that.â He turns to look at me. âHow big do you need it?â
âWell, Iâd like to plant carrots and potatoes. Plus herbs.â
I may be imagining it, but Angus seems slightly more upbeat. âYouâll want something with shade then.â He wipes his forehead with the back of his arm. âThereâs a spot in the yard that might work, but youâd need a canopy. One that can be retractedââ
âYou can buy those at Garden City,â I
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