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“I’m a sucker for 70s classics.”
“Zepplin?”
“Queen, truth be told.”
“Oh my god, I love them. They’re on my playlist for when I’m in the shop.Somebody to Loveis one of my favourite songs.”
With a couple taps on his phone, the song started playing, and I was relaxing in my seat, mumbling along to the words. Another couple of songs played through, and then the opening words of one of their most popular songs.
“May I?” My hand hovered over the volume knob.
“Please do.”
I cranked it up and started singing along. This was the perfect car song, and as I hoped would happen, David started singing along too. He was as tone-deaf as I was, but we were bobbing our heads to the beat as we pulled into the U-Pick farm, and we sat in the car, bleating out the music like we were at a karaoke bar.
Then the song ended, and David killed the engine.
“Well, that was fun.” My two feet hit the ground with a renewed sense of energy.
“I’ve never done that before.”
“Really? Not with your wife? Or bestie?”
He shook his head.
“Maybe it’s a good thing you’re divorced then.” I nudged him playfully. “Because if that song comes on and you don’t sing along, then…” But I stopped myself. I wasn’t going to add the rest of the sentenceyou shouldn’t be togetherbecause that wasn’t fair.
I tossed my gaze to the ground.
“I get it. Trust me, I get it.” There was a slight grin stretching out, but it was the light in his eyes that soothed me. “That was fun.” He pointed to the little white shed at the entrance to the farm. “Shall we go pick some berries?”
Two hours later, we parked in David’s garage and hauled in four buckets of our fresh pickings; blueberries, raspberries, huckleberries, and cherries.
David’s kitchen was immaculate and had a very institutional feel. Aside from neatly arranged mixing bowls, measuring cups, and ingredients, his countertops were devoid of items. Not a coffee maker. Or a container of utensils. It was such a minimalist-looking approach I was terrified the berry juice would somehow stain his marble countertops.
He set a bucket in each sink. “What kind of pie should we make?”
I scanned for a safe place to set my buckets down, walking around the island in search of someplace suitable.
David brushed my hand with his, as he’d done all afternoon, while he grabbed my buckets and added them to the sink.
“We can make a mixed berry pie,” I said to his question.
“Do you know the ratios?”
“A little of each?” I shrugged. “It was how my grandma did it and her pies were always amazing.”
David started running the water, but I didn’t miss the slight cringe with my less-than-precise roundabout way of adding the filling. “Okay, if that’s how you’ve done it previously.”
“It’ll be fine, I promise. Can I help?” I stood beside him. “There’s so many berries.”
Washing them all was going to take hours.
“We’ll measure out what you think you need and wash those up. The rest I can do later.”
Together, we scooped out what I thought was the appropriate amount, stopping once in a while to taste a berry, although I swore I was going to burst from the sampling we’d done all afternoon. The raspberries were highly addictive and sweet with just the right amount of tartness. Grandma would’ve been happy with these.
Our hands bumped together as we froze them under the cool water rinse, and there was more than one heartbeat of steady eye contact.
