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Chapter 12
Frannie woke up early on Thursday mornings so she could get the best dibs at the Geneva summer Farmers’ Market. She had a short list of produce she needed for the Shepherd’s Cafe, the farm-to-table restaurant she ran at the winery. She glanced at her notes: heirloom tomatoes, string beans, purple potatoes, and morel mushrooms. She liked to be there right when it opened. Usually, she was the only one there that early—along with the vendors. This morning was different. Across the grassy field, she saw a Distinguished Gentleman—a term she reserved for good-looking middle-aged men with silver hair—who seemed quite at home in the market. He struggled with several heavy bags of produce. She watched him in amusement until she realized the Distinguished Gentleman was standing directly in front of her favorite mushroom vendor. She suddenly got worried. He was loading mushrooms into his bags.They’d better not be fresh morels,she thought. The type of mushroom that was only available in the late spring and early summer. Frannie rushed over to the vendor, who knew her well.
“George, good morning,” she said, out of breath. Her hair was tousled from the sprint across the field.
“Ah, good morning, Frannie. You’re late today,” he said jokingly. He always liked to kid her about arriving at the market before 7:00 a.m.
“I hope you haven’t sold all of my morels,” Frannie said.
The Distinguished Gentleman turned to her and gave her an apologetic smile. It was a gorgeous smile. Frannie felt the color in her cheeks rising.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were still coming,” said George.
“But I need them,” she protested, hating how her voice sounded mildly hysterical.
It was then she heard his voice for the first time—the Distinguished Gentleman. “I am sorry, miss, that I seem to have bought up all your morels.” English tinged with a bit of a French accent. If Frannie hadn’t been so upset about not getting her morel mushrooms, she might have swooned. She was a sucker for French accents. Instead, she found herself returning his smile in a way that she hadn’t done in the three years since her husband died.
“I’m sorry too,” she said.
“What were you going to use them for?”
“Cooking,” she said with a tinge of sarcasm.
“Of course. But how?”
“I gently sauté them in butter with a sprinkle of salt and cracked pepper.”
“Really? Keeping it simple. Letting the flavor of the morels come out. I like that,” he said.
“Thank you.” Frannie discovered it was hard to be angry with this handsome man. She gave him her full wattage smile.
“Isn’t the pretty lady curious what I plan to use them for?”
Pretty lady? Is he flirting with me?Frannie wondered. Nobody had flirted with her in a long time. “What are you going to cook withmymorel mushrooms?”
“I am so glad you asked,” he said with that delicious French accent. “I am going to make lasagna with asparagus, leeks, and morels.”
“Interesting,” she said.
“It’s a creamy vegetarian lasagna, and the smoky morel mushrooms add a sophisticated flavor. I have a great idea. Why don’t you join me for dinner and try my lasagna?”
Frannie was surprised, unsure about what to say. But before she could respond, he was already scribbling an address on a slip of paper. This man had confidence.
“Here. Please join me for dinner. Six o’clock. Tonight.”
Frannie took the paper. She felt like a schoolgirl, and all she could blurt out was, “Okay.”
“I look forward to our rendezvous,” he said and walked away, smiling.
Did he just invite her on a date? How had that happened so quickly? She knew practically nothing about him. Then she realized…and called out after him, “What did you say your name was again?”
“I didn’t. But it’s Jean Baptiste. Everyone calls me J. B. See you tonight at six.” Then he flashed that fantastic grin again, and he was off.
Frannie opened up the paper and noticed the address. 238 Exchange Street. That seemed about right. She figured he lived in the downtown area. He seemed cool and hip.
Later that afternoon she was trying to decide what to wear that evening for her date with J. B. She liked how his name sounded on her tongue. It had been years since she’d been asked out. Her bed was littered with jeans and casual shirts. A low-cut black dress that she’d only worn once. Frannie looked at the clothes and decided to venture into her closet again. She stepped toward the back where she’d hung her really old clothes from thirty years ago. In the farthest reach of the closet was the white-eyelet dress that she’d purchased on her honeymoon in Greece. She smiled at the sight of the dress and unzipped it.
Stepping into the dress, she noticed it was starting to yellow at the hem, but it still fit her. It was a bittersweet moment as she remembered her honeymoon. They went on a cruise to Greece and island hopped. The food had been amazing. Dolmades. Moussaka. Courgette balls. Octopus. The feta and the baklava were out of this world.
