Page 29

Mom reaches into the bag and pulls out one of the squash.

"He's a good man."

"I didn't ask."

"No. You didn't."

There is something suspiciously Betty-like about her expression.

"Don't start."

"I haven't said anything."

"That seems to be going around."

She smiles and carries the squash to the sink. I unpack the rest of the bag. Tomatoes. Basil. Green beans. The squash Javier insisted I would like. My hands know what to do before I decide what I'm making. And for the first time in weeks, I let them.

I keep dinner simple. Tomatoes with basil, garlic, good olive oil, and salt. Green beans blistered in a hot pan. The squash roasted until the edges caramelize. Nothing elaborate. Ingredients this good don't need elaborate.

I taste the squash first. The edges have caramelized beautifully, but it's the flavor that catches me. Delicate, slightly sweet, with a texture that holds instead of collapsing into mush. I take another bite. Oh, that is good. This isn't just good squash. It's exceptional.

You will. He was right. I hate that he was right. How does he do that?

I taste one of the tomatoes. And stop. The flavor is even better than I expected. Sweetness balanced by just enough acidity, firm flesh, almost no excess water. This isn't luck. I know produce. Quality like this doesn't happen because somebody puts seeds in the ground and remembers to water them.

What variety is he growing? What does he use in the soil? How does he manage irrigation? Does he rotate crops? How much acreage does he have? And how in the world is he maintaining this kind of consistency across everything he brought to market?

I look at the basil. Even that is exceptional. Now I want to see where he grows it.

I stop. No. I absolutely do not. I take another bite. Fine. Maybe I do. But only because I'm a chef, and Javier Martinez is doing something remarkable with food before it ever reaches a kitchen. That makes it professional curiosity. Nothing more.

Except I know myself well enough to recognize when something has gotten under my skin. And apparently, so has someone. I look down at the tomato in my hand. I hate that Javier Martinez intrigues me. I hate even more that I want to know how he does it.

Chapter Four

Javier

Jack waits until the market is almost over. I know he's waiting because he's been finding reasons to walk past my stand for the last twenty minutes. First he needs an empty crate. Then twine. Then apparently the exact clipboard sitting beside my cash box.

On his fourth trip, I look at him.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Good."

I go back to stacking the remaining tomatoes. He doesn't leave. Of course he doesn't. Atlas lifts his head from the shade beneath the table, looks at Jack, then at me. Even the dog knows.

Jack nods toward the empty space where several baskets used to be.

"You gave Madison half the stand for free."

"I did not give her half the stand."

"Tomatoes. Basil. Beans. Squash."

"You keeping inventory now?"