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Within fifteen minutes, I’m working hard to keep my eyes on the street as Sage sits beside me on a perfect Saturday morning in the fall. We drive along winding roads bounded by forests of trees turning unbelievable shades of red and orange and yellow. The sun slips in through Sage’s window and lights up her hair like a halo.
Watch the road,I tell myself.
The dairy is about a twenty-minute drive away, and Sage sings along to the playlist she chose from her phone. I watch her hit the drum beat on the dashboard, hear her reach for high harmonies, try to stop looking at her mouth. She’s amazing. Right now, with this woman sitting beside me, hijacking my sound system and laughing at herself as she sings, I think there’s nothing better than a long drive. Or even a short drive. My car has never felt so much like home.
We turn off at a side road marked by a wooden sign and come out of the trees to see a red barn on a rise. Sage claps her hands. “It’s perfect,” she says. “It looks exactly like a farm.”
I don’t tell her that’s because it is a farm. She knows.
The parking lot is small, and there are about a dozen cars already there.
“Popular place,” Sage says.
I’m thinking the same thing. If this is the place to get cheese, will all these people beat us to the good stuff?
When we step out of the car, the farm smell hits.
Sage’s eyebrows go up. “Oh. There are animals here.”
I nod. “So, you know I’m not an expert on food production. I mean, I didn’t study it in med school. But I’ve bumped into a theory over and over in my life. The best way to get dairy products is from cows. And goats and sheep, I guess.”
She looks around as if maybe there are free-range farm animals coming up behind her. The expression on her face tells me she’s not thrilled about the possibility.
She checks over her shoulders again and then moves a little closer to me. I win.
“I will be so annoyed if I get ringworm from these cows,” she says.
I laugh, because that’s a hilarious concern to have, and then I remember this is Sage. The queen of the unfounded medical worries.
“Don’t stress. I’ll keep you safe.” I hold out my hand, and, easy as that, she slips her fingers into mine. “But don’t take off your shoes, just in case,” I say, an excuse to squeeze her hand.
“See? I just need to keep a doctor around all the time. This is the kind of excellent medical advice that I might take advantage of,” she says, grinning at me.
We walk toward the glass door at the side of the barn. “Can I confess something?” I ask.
“Of course,” she says, swinging our hands between us. “I’m in favor of confessions.”
“I really like holding your hand,” I say.
She stops walking, just stands there outside the door to the dairy shop. She looks at me, and I can’t tell what she’s thinking.
Then she takes our joined hands, raises them to her mouth, and plants a kiss on my knuckles. “I like it, too,” she says. As if it was the easiest thing to say. As if it was obvious that we’d be in agreement about this.
I use my other hand to open the door, and we step into a tiny grocery store. I’m not sure what I was expecting Gilroy’s Dairy to look like, but I guess it wasn’t this. There are several open cold cases, all displaying cheeses, obviously. But I suppose I thought we’d just see wrapped blocks in stacks. This is art. Next to the wheels and wedges of brie, there’s a display of pears in six different colors. I didn’t know pears came in that many varieties. There’s Gruyere with pyramids of grapes. Goat cheese with sprigs of rosemary and tiny jars of honey. Crumbly white cheddars with apples. Loaves of fresh breads and boxes of artisan crackers. A whole section of wine. And so much cheese. All the cheese. Not to mention milk and ice cream.
Sage laughs.
“What?” I ask her.
“Your face. I’ve never seen you so happy. Who knew heaven looked like a cheese store?”
She crooks her finger and beckons me to come closer to her. No problem. I move in.
She’s gripping my hand, and she’s staring into my eyes. “I have to ask you something really important.”
Gulp. “Anything.” I can’t even play it cool. Absolutely anything she wants. It’s hers.
She moves so I can feel her breath on my cheek and whispers in my ear, “Did you say they offer samples?”
