“Looks perfect,” Tomato Guy says.
I smile in agreement and take my finished bouquet back over to Katie Mae. “Do you have plans for all those tomatoes?” I ask over my shoulder.
“I’m bringing them to a party.” I raise an eyebrow at him. He shrugs. “My mom always said a guest should never show up empty-
handed. I figure everyone else will be bringing flowers.”
I laugh. “Your mom sounds a lot like my mom.”
A sad smile crosses his face, then he brightens, nodding back at the juicy heirlooms. “You sure you don’t want to grab a couple? They smell incredible.”
“I’ll be okay.” My mom’s flower garden is rivaled only by her vegetable one. You can measure the progression of summer by how many bowls of tomatoes there are in the kitchen.
I settle up with Katie Mae, wave goodbye to Tomato Guy, and climb into Reba. Only, she doesn’t start.
I try a second time. No luck. The third time, I’m confident she will. That’s what it took on the rental lot. Maybe she’s just the type of girl who needs a little extra effort.
I pat the dashboard twice. “You got it, Reba. You’re a survivor, remember?” I try a third time. She makes a soft whining sound before clunking into silence.
“Do you need some help?” Tomato Guy appears beside my window.
“I think I do,” I admit. “Any idea what’s wrong?” He has the look of someone handy.
“Let me take a look. Can you pop the hood?” He heads back toward his truck to deposit his two bags of tomatoes. He rummages in the bed and pulls out a large wrench. A really large wrench. I hadn’t realized that whatever’s wrong with the car might require a wrench that big, and a flutter of nerves rises in my stomach.
I pop the hood and it rises up, blocking my view of the front of the car. There are some soft curses from Tomato Guy and a series of loud clangs. After a few minutes of this, I’m concerned enough to get out of the car and see what’s going on. I come around the front of the Jeep and peer into the engine, right as a jet of black oil spurts out, hitting me square in the chest.
“I am so sorry.” He looks genuinely mortified.
“What have you done to Reba?” I cry.
“Reba?” he asks.
“The Jeep.”
He only takes a beat to respond. “Because she’s a redhead.”
“Exactly.” I nod. “And she’s a rental. So I really can’t let her die a horrific death.”
Katie Mae pops out from the stand. “Sweetie, do you need a jump?”
I look to Tomato Guy for confirmation, but he just shrugs. “Maybe?”
She shoots me a kind but pitying look. “Why don’t we try it and see?”
In less than five minutes, she has pulled her own pickup around, popped the hood, attached the jumpers, directed me to “Put it in neutral,” and sparked life back into the Jeep.
Her last move is to pluck the oil dipstick from Tomato Guy’s hand. With a shake of her head, she hastily reattaches it to wherever it came from. She manages to do all this without touching a single drop of oil. She levels the guy with a raised eyebrow, then turns to me. “Tell your parents ‘hi’ for me, hon.”
“I sure will.” She heads back into the farmstand, leaving me alone with a sheepish Tomato Guy.
“Here, let me—” He returns the wrench to the back of his truck and grabs a rag. Shaking sawdust from it, he hands it to me, and I start trying to clean the oil from my top.
“So you’re from around here?” he ventures.
“I am. Or I used to be.”
“I thought maybe you were from out of town.” He gestures to the rental car.
