A Second Harvest (7 page)

He whistled to the dogs, shut the huge barn doors, and decided to leave the flatbed truck in the barn for the night. It wasn’t hurting anything. Once in the house, he put on some water for tea, stuck a cup of soup in the microwave for a late lunch, then went into the living room.

One of the bookcases in there had four shelves of
National Geographic
magazines carefully arranged by date. They were some of his most prized possessions. He’d read them so often it only took him a moment to find the two issues he was looking for. One had an article called “Monkeys of Morocco” with amazing photographs, and the other was on the ancient spice trade with pictures from a Moroccan food market. He took the magazines with him back to the kitchen, where he could read them and look at the pictures while he ate his soup.

He felt a giddy surge of anticipation stir in his heart. Tomorrow night he’d be eating food just like the people in these articles ate. He’d be dining in Morocco.

Chapter 6

CHRISTIE SET
his alarm so he’d get up early. He settled down to work by 7:00 a.m. with a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. He knew if he got his usual slow start, he’d be distracted all day, and he couldn’t let his new enthusiasm for cooking derail the progress he was making at work.

By three he finished his mock-ups and uploaded them to the cloud where his manager could look at them and comment. With happy relief he signed off for the day and allowed himself to think about tonight’s meal. By three thirty he was at the grocery store to pick up the fresh ingredients.

He was stupidly excited about making Moroccan tonight for himself and David. He had a warning voice in his head.
Be careful. Don’t get too friendly with this guy. David Fisher is not gay.
This wasn’t like meeting some nice New Yorker to date. Hell, David probably didn’t even want to be his friend. They had nothing in common.

Except, possibly, an interest in exotic food.

Even though those warnings were all true, Christie was a left-brain, instinctual kind of guy. This was a trait that had gotten him in trouble more than once, but generally his instinct was sound. He genuinely liked David—liked his honest, attractive face and the shy get-’er-done vibe about him. He was obviously a hard worker and a nice man. He lived alone and seemed… sad. It was simply a nice gesture to share meals Christie was cooking anyway. And God knew he could use a few ticks on the positive side of the karma balance sheet.

Beyond all that there were little flashes of something else—things that had gotten under Christie’s skin. There was the way David seemed uncomfortable and awkward around him, couldn’t look at him for long, the way he’d buttoned up that coat. The logical part of his brain said David was being fatherly, and not in a “hot daddy” kind of way. But Christie’s gut…. His gut was not so sure. David taking care of him like that, the touch of his hands…. Yeah, that started any number of alarms happily ringing deep down in Christie’s gay little heart.

Anyway, instinct—
wishful thinking
—notwithstanding, Christie knew nothing would happen with David. He was just sharing expenses and helping out a neighbor at the same time. He was also lonely as fuck. So who did it hurt?

He picked out three recipes from the Moroccan issue. There was a spiced cauliflower and almond soup, a chicken dish with lemon and olives, and a pastilla made with filo dough and stuffed with a mixture of almonds, cinnamon, and turkey sausage to replace the duck in the recipe. The pastilla would look impressive, but it wasn’t all that hard to make with prepackaged filo. For another easy and cheap side dish, he picked up a head of broccoli to roast. With some olive oil, sea salt, and cracked pepper, the broccoli would go well with the meal’s more exotic flavors.

He was home by four fifteen and started pulling out pots and spices. He texted David to let him know dinner would be coming around six. Then he put on some tunes and got to work. Everything came together pretty well, though the filo on the pastilla got too dark in a few spots. It smelled fantastic, though, and a dusting of powdered sugar covered up the black bits.

He was done just before six, so he shot David a quick text that he was bringing the food over. Feeling suddenly nervous, Christie changed into a fresh sweater, a dark-blue one that brought out his eyes, and brushed his teeth and hair. It only took a few minutes, but when he came out, ready to pack up the food, David was knocking at the door.

Christie let him in. “Hi. I was going to bring it over to you.”

David shrugged. “You did all the work. I figured the least I could do was pick it up.” He sniffed the air. “Wow. That smells incredible. How much do I owe you?”

“I spent thirty-six dollars, so eighteen dollars would be great.”

David took out his wallet and pulled a twenty.

“I think I have some ones.”

“Heck no. I should be paying more for my share anyway since you cook it.”

Christie stuffed the twenty in a pocket. “Thanks. Um. The recipes made six servings, so you’ll get a couple of meals from this. You can just reheat the leftovers in the microwave.”

“Great.”

David was still standing in the doorway in his coat, his cheeks rosy with the cold. As usual he wouldn’t meet Christie’s gaze for long.

“Would you like to eat it here or take it to go?” Christie suddenly very much wanted David to stay, to sit in his aunt’s small dining room with him and share the meal. He wanted to see David’s reactions, what he liked and didn’t like. And yeah, he would love the company. But that wasn’t exactly the deal they’d negotiated.

“I’ll take it to go. That would be great, thanks,” David said quickly.

Christie forced a smile. “Sure. Just give me a second to pack it up.”

He went into the kitchen and opened the big drawer that held his aunt’s Tupperware. He decided to put half the pastilla in a pie tin covered with foil, but the rest went into various sized containers. He put all of it in a fabric bag and took it out to the living room. “Here you go. I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will. Thank you, Christie.” The words were sincere, and David even met Christie’s gaze when he said them.

Christie handed him the bag. “You’re welcome. Thanks for helping me pay for it.”

David started to go and hesitated. “Remember—anytime you don’t feel like cooking, just text me and let me know. I can always do for myself with what I’ve got at home. I don’t want you to feel obligated. I know what it’s like to have to do a job you don’t feel like doing.”

Christie supposed farmers had lots of chores they had to do, rain or shine, sick or well. He’d never had a job that demanding. “Okay. But like I said, it’s fun for me. I enjoyed cooking today.”

“All right, then.” David gave Christie a grateful smile and left.

Christie sat down to his own meal. He wasn’t a big eater, so he liked to take his time and taste every bite. The chicken breasts could have been juicier, but the olive and lemon sauce on them was tangy and scrumptious. The soup was perfectly spiced and filling. The pastilla was to die for—flakey and savory and sweet all at once. He couldn’t make that often or he’d get fat. It wasn’t long before he was full and had to pack up the rest for the fridge.

It was a lovely meal, but eating it wasn’t as much fun as cooking it, or as much fun as eating it
with David
would have been. But there was no reason David should feel obliged to eat with him.

As he was cleaning up the kitchen, his text chime went off. He looked at the phone.

Enjoyed every bite of that. Thank you for taking me to Morocco.

It was a simple enough “thank-you,” but not what Christie would have expected from his neighboring farmer. He wouldn’t have expected David to be so openly interested in world cuisines, much less so appreciative about it. There was a glimpse of longing in David’s words that touched something inside Christie, the same spot where David putting on his coat planted a seed.

Then again, maybe Christie was just “touched” altogether and reading too much into it.

He hesitated for ten minutes before replying.
How does Indian sound for Sunday lunch? Maybe 1 pm?

David responded at once.
Sounds perfect. Thank you.

Feeling suddenly much better and full of an energy he needed to burn off, Christie changed into his running clothes and went for a long run around the neighborhood in the dark and chilly October evening.

DAVID SHOULD
have gone to church on Sunday morning, but he decided to skip it once again. He felt guilty when he didn’t go. The importance of church had been drilled into him since before he could walk. And the congregation was so supportive after Susan died. Also Pastor Mitchell called to “check in” if David missed more than a few weeks, and David dreaded that “visitation of shame.” But he just wasn’t up for it today. There were some church teachings he’d been uncomfortable with for years but silently ignored. He wasn’t sure where his faith stood, but right now it seemed to be buried under a dissatisfied and restless part of himself that grew bigger and heavier each and every day.

At least this Sunday, he had a good excuse not to go. He wanted to neaten up the house.

It was a beautiful warm fall day. The sky was blue, the sun was bright, and there were lots of orange, russet, and gold leaves around the farm, vibrant against the still-green grass. He cleaned up the kitchen, wiping down the counters and the inside of the microwave in case Christie wanted to heat up anything. He swept up dog hair and opened the windows for fresh air. He found some Pledge and used it to polish the big plank table in the dining room.

He hadn’t missed the disappointment on Christie’s face when he opted to take his meal to go last time. And it was Sunday today. David didn’t have to do any work except for the chores that could never be skipped—feeding and watering the animals, and the twice-a-day milking. He might as well invite Christie to eat over here. He might appreciate escaping his aunt’s small house for a few hours, and the view from the big windows in the dining room was real pretty. Golden-leafed trees marched down to the farm’s pond, which sparkled in the bright sunlight. It was foolish for both of them to eat alone on a Sunday, and the same darn meal yet. It didn’t mean they had to eat together
all
the time. It was just a nice thing to do for once.

He texted Christie midmorning.
It’s a nice day. If you want I can pick you and the food up in the truck, and we can eat over here.
He sent it, then had second thoughts. He quickly added,
Unless you have other plans.
Maybe Christie was going to the gym today. Or maybe he’d met some locals his own age. He probably wouldn’t want to hang out with an old man.

But Christie’s reply came quickly.
That would be great. See you at 1. Food looks good so far.

David read the text with a smile and then went about his mission. He set the table with some old plain navy placemats—he preferred them to the frilly ones Susan favored. He made sure the silverware, plates, and glasses were nice and clean. Then he pulled some
Nat Geo
magazines. There were lots of articles on India, but he grabbed the ones that were mostly food related—one on traditional Indian weddings and their feasts, and another on temple food offerings. There were photographs of exotic-looking plates of food. What would Christie bring over? A curry? Some kind of eggplant dish? Tandoori?

David had been to an Indian food restaurant in Lancaster several times. But Susan didn’t care for it, so he didn’t go often. He liked it at the time. But Christie cooking it himself made it a more authentic experience somehow. Or maybe David was just less busy and better able to appreciate it today.

He decided apple cider might go okay with the food, so he grabbed a jug from the basement and put it in the freezer to chill. After he’d done everything he could think of and taken a long shower too, it still was only just past noon, so he settled down to reread the magazines.

CHRISTIE MADE
chicken tikka masala, paneer naan, aloo gobi, and basmati rice. He bought mango sorbet for dessert and got sprigs of mint to spruce it up.

It made him stupidly happy David invited him to eat at the farm. God, he was cracking up living out here all by himself, and it had only been a little over a month.

The spices suffused Aunt Ruth’s house with aroma and left him in an extra-good mood. Everything tasted amazing when he sampled it. He put on a cream turtleneck cashmere sweater and a blue down vest the color of his eyes. Then he packed up his precious cargo and sent David a text.

A few minutes later, there was a knock on the door, and Christie opened it.

“Smells fantastic.” David’s expression was one of pure anticipation when he stepped inside. He put his hand unconsciously on his stomach.

“Wait ’til you taste it.”

David’s gaze fell to the bag in Christie’s hand, and he reached out to take it. “All ready to go, then?”

“All set.” Christie handed over the bag. He wasn’t going to complain if David wanted to schlep it, though he wasn’t used to people being quite so courteous.

They both commented on the fine weather as David drove them over to his place down the farm lane. At the house River and Tonga were excited to see him—or more likely to smell the bag of food David had.

“Hey, guys!” Christie gave each dog attention. They were nice dogs, super friendly. The black mix, Tonga, was a little hyper, but the golden retriever, River, was placid as could be.

“I’ve already set the table. This way.” They moved into the dining room, and David put the bag on the table.

Christie looked around. “Wow! I love this room.”

The original stone farmhouse had been added onto at some point. One whole wall of the dining room was made of fieldstone and was clearly once an exterior wall. Tall windows made up the opposing wall. There was an expansive view of gold-leafed trees, a sloping lawn, and what looked like a small lake at the bottom.