“Let me guess. You dabble?”
He grinned at my teasing and then finally let out a chuckle.
I suddenly wondered how big and impressive this home garden really was. I’d bet my largemouth bass that Mark’s backyard was a thing of beauty, a rural work of art. The more I learned about this man, the more I realized he was totally competent and proficient, and he excelled at whatever he put his mind to.
It was that surety that made it so hard to fathom Mark’s situation with Hannah and their daughter. Whatever happened there must have been serious. I couldn’t imagine steady and reliable Mark Mercer being anything but totally involved and utterly devoted to his child—no matter the distance or the circumstance.
Guilt had me glancing down at the worn worktable between us. “You don’t get all your farming in at work?”
“I like to bring my work home with me,” he said, pride evident in his tone.
It was nice to see him smile, to talk about something he obviously enjoyed.
I’d been worried after our last conversation on Saturday, at the farmers’ market. I’d gone and asked about him being a dad and made things awkward. Mark’sentire demeanor had changed, going stiff and becoming closed off. I couldn’t say I blamed him. His personal life wasn’t any of my business. We were co-workers, and, at times, it seemed like we were becoming friends. He had my back on my ideas for the orchard, and he was close with my whole family.
But I never should have assumed I had the right to ask about certain things. Parenthood was clearly a touchy subject for him. Despite what Bonnie had relayed during our lunch together, I had no idea what his actual situation was with Hannah and their daughter.
Gossip wasn’t gospel, after all.
Without much thought beyond hoping to keep that tiny smile on Mark’s face, I blurted, “I’m planning on taking a late lunch and going down to Apollo’s to talk to Magdaline about booking their food truck for the first Food Truck Friday this month. Want to come with me?”
At my abrupt subject change and graceless invitation, Mark’s expression dimmed. He clearly had some reservations about joining me. Maybe he was worried I’d corner him with more intrusive questions about his life.
“What time are you thinking? Apollo’s will be packed for lunch,” he said, shifting restlessly on his work-boot-clad feet.
“Oh, not until two or two thirty. I don’t want to take up their time when they’re so busy.”
At my words, Mark’s expression smoothed out and his shoulders lowered incrementally. “Okay,” he finally replied. “That sounds good.”
By the time two o’clock rolled around, I wasn’t nervous about driving us downtown and spending my lunch break with Mark. I’d been too distracted and busy with work. Now that I had the green light from Joan, a few of mymaybesandwait and seeswere actually happening. I was doing further research, networking, and contacting potential vendors and local businesses to make these new undertakings a reality for Judd’s Orchard.
When Mark and I walked into Apollo’s, it was clear that the lunchtime rush had passed. There were three occupied tables and no employees in sight. We waited by the hostess stand while I breathed in the glorious scent of cheese and carbs.
“It’s nice that some things haven’t changed,” I said quietly, eyes scanning the space of one of my family’s longtime favorite restaurants. Growing up, we’d eaten here for Brady’s birthday nearly every year. Mrs. Kouides would bring out a huge slice of chocolate cake with sparkling candles and lead the restaurant in a rousing rendition of “Happy Birthday to You.” I had memories from special occasions and casual pizza-night dinners too.
My eyes lingered on the vacant booth in the back corner of the restaurant. The black vinyl was worn and there was a framed photo of the Aegean Sea on the adjacent wall. I’d brought Lo here the summer after our junior year. Her boyfriend, Joey, had cheated on her with Amber Wilson after prom. She’d found out, and I’d brought her to Apollo’s to cheer her up...and to talk her out of keying Joey’s Mustang. We’d eaten two slices of Mrs. Kouides’s famous baklava cheesecake, and, in the end, she’d egged Joey’s car while I’d been visiting my grandmother in Virginia.
“Well, some things have changed,” Mark said, just as quietly. “They have that new sign out front, and Mr. Kouides took pastitsio off the menu after Gladys Oakley posted a copycat recipe in the Kirby Falls Facebook group.”
I snorted. “God, that group is unhinged.”
Mark’s eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement as he slid me a glance. “It really is. And, you know, they started charging for parking on Main Street.”
Gasping dramatically, I clutched the imaginary pearls at the base of my throat. “I bet the Facebook group had a lot to say about that.”
Mark rolled his lips between his teeth while nodding. “Oh yeah. There was an organized boycott of downtown businesses and everything.”
I sighed and shook my head. Then I considered what he’d actually said. “Wait. They charge for parking now?”
“Yeah. All street parking is paid.”
“Shit,” I murmured. “I need to go out and pay.”
“It’s an app, not a parking meter. I can show you. You just need your license plate number.”
“I’ll go grab that,” I offered. We were in Mom’s Passat, and I had no idea whatthe plate number was. “If Magdaline comes out, tell her I’ll be right back to chat. I called ahead. She’s expecting us.”
Then I hurried out the front door before Mark could protest further or offer to take care of it himself.
