“Yes, please,” she said, locking eyes with me, and in that moment, my heart began to pound.
“Everything here is local produce. Glass House grown.”
I surveyed the converted shed that served as a roadside fruit barn. Inside, neatly arranged cardboard boxes of pineapples, large green avocados, punnets of strawberries, and bags of macadamia nuts filled the space. Behind the small counter hung a banner readingGlass House Country Co-op,accompanied by a simple line drawing of the iconic Glass House Mountains—ragged volcanic peaks rising from the surrounding farmland.
“Sorry, I have to serve my other customers,” she announced as she moved gracefully to the counter.
“No worries,” I murmured, my breath momentarily catching as she passed by.
Determined to select my items while still lingering in her presence, I picked up two pineapples, a punnet of strawberries, and a bag of macadamia nuts before proceeding to the counter. The other customers stepped aside, creating a small space for me to squeeze through and put down my selection.
“Great choice,” she said, bending down to retrieve a small cardboard box from beneath the counter and carefully placing my fruit inside. “Where are you headed?”
“To the coast,” I replied, smiling. “Every year, my friends and I take a weekend away before the Christmas rush.”
I handed her my cash, and as I transferred a few gold coins into her hand, our fingertips brushed, sending a delightful tingle through me.
“That sounds great,” she remarked while briefly counting the money.
“It is—beach days and chats over wine into the night,” I replied.
Not long after, the sound of an arriving car, doors slamming and gravel crunching, signaled the approach of other customers, a family of four. She handed me my change and wished me a great day, then quickly added, “It was lovely to meet you. I’m Lucia, by the way.”
“It was nice to meet you, Lucia,” I responded calmly, masking my inner excitement. “I’m Anna.”
“Excuse me…” the mother interrupted, holding up an avocado.
I took that as my disappointing cue to leave. I gathered my box, walked to my car, and drove away. Lucia’s smile lingered in my thoughts during the drive to the coast, later that evening amid laughter with friends, and when I went to bed. The weekend was filled with beach swims, cocktails, chatting, and cake.
* * * *
As my friends and I packed up on Sunday afternoon, Cassie, hungover and tired, begged me for a lift home. She had taken the train up Friday night and didn’t want to take it home as it would be a two-hour trip. I couldn’t say no.
“I’ll take the back way to avoid highway traffic. And I want to stop off at the fruit barn where I got the pineapples,” I explained as we left the holiday house.
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’ll stay in the car.”
“No worries,” I replied nonchalantly. “I want to see the girl I bought the pineapples from.”
I had made a cake using the leftover pineapples from our pina coladas, and the macadamia nuts I had bought from Lucia.
“Oh…ohhh. You like her, don’t you?” Cassie teased.
“Yeah, I do. And I saved her some of the cake,” I admitted, with a playful blush.
Cassie reclined in the passenger seat.
“I bet she’ll like it,” she said, her eyes half-closed.
We drove past open fields, through bush and pine forests, and through quaint farming towns. To the west, the rugged peaks of the Glass House Mountains loomed over the plains, a vivid reminder that Lucia lived amid a beautiful landscape.
* * * *
My hair, still damp from our last swim, and my blackswimmers beneath a sheer beach dress embodied the languid summer mood.
“Oh, hi!” Lucia exclaimed when she saw me.
I had interrupted her as she rummaged through a box.
