Page 6 of That Conflicted Feeling

Oh,God, he’s gathering potatoes now as well.Withhis pin-striped butt in the air.Thosebuttocks and thighs are clearly not lacking time in the gym.

“Thanks, butIcan manage,”Iinsist. “Andyou must have important things to hurry off and do.”

Hepicks up the crate from the sidewalk, puts it on the table that’s topped with plastic turf, and drops his handful of potatoes in it.

“Okay.Well…”He’sinterrupted by a ringing phone that he pulls from his inside jacket pocket.Lord, that shirt really does hug his chest.

“Bye, then.Iguess.”Helaughs almost awkwardly for one so seemingly confident, and taps the phone. “Hi,Mom,” he says as he walks toward the car.

Ido a weird tiny wave, but thankfully he’s already turned around to open the back door.

Thebackdoor?

Myeyes flash to the driver’s seat, whichInow see is occupied by a well-dressed older man with a neatly trimmed beard and a big warm smile, who returns my awkward wave.

Achauffeur.

Mr.Twinkleshas a chauffeur.

Carlyappears in the doorway. “Who’sthe hot dude in the suit?”

Idrop the last of the potatoes in the crate alongside the ones touched by his gentle, yet firm, hands.

“Shouldn’tyou be taking care ofMrs.B?”Iask.

Carlystares at the black car, which looks about as out of place here as a fox in a chicken coop. “Shecan’t decide between tarragon or thyme for her chicken tonight, soI’mgiving her a minute.”Shelooks back at me and gasps. “You’reblushing.Whothe hell was he?”

“Noone.”Igrab the crate from the table.Ican’t build a pyramid from bruised produce.

Shesteps aside to let me through, as the car pulls away.

“Well, he didn’t look the type to do his own shopping,” she says, following me back inside.

“Hewas no one.”There’sno time for this nonsense.NotwhenImight have a planning application from a hideous discount grocery giant to stop.

Iplop the crate on the counter and turn toMrs.B, who’s still pondering the herbs.

“Youenjoyed thyme with your chicken a couple of months ago,Mrs.B.Anda squeeze of lemon.Yousaid it made all the difference.”

Ireach into the toolbox under the counter, grab the hammer, and head back toward the front door.

Thatgoddamn nail.

3

MAX

“Howlovely to hear you laugh,”Momsays in my ear asIslide onto the back seat.

Ilaughed?

AsGeorgepulls us away from the curb,Ilook back just in time to seePollydisappearing into the shop.Sheeven looks defiant from behind.Andit’s obvious there’s a perfectly pert butt hiding under those loose overalls.Ihad no idea baggy denim could be so alluring.

“Allthis fresh air must be messing with my head,”ItellMom. “Aweekend at your place and now a night inWarmSprings?Jeez.Waytoo much greenery.Don’tworry,I’llbe back to the grumpy son you know and love onceI’mhome, breathing in pollution to the sound of honking horns.”

“You’renot talking while you’re driving, are you?”

Wecrawl in the slow traffic along the historicMainStreetlined with red brick and clapboard buildings.