LITMIR.BIZ

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text from Ian welcomed her when she returned to the kitchen. She read it aloud to Dom. “Teaching a group of fourth graders how a goat dairy works tonight. You sure you don’t want to come join in the fun?”

      She sat the table and texted back. Working on a recipe. You want to come over afterward?

      She took out a piece of paper and started playing with the recipe, writing out what she’d done earlier and considering changes to the breading mixture as she waited for a response.

      When it came, she wasn’t surprised. They both had busy lives. But she was a tad bit disappointed reading it aloud to Dom. “Mildred wants to go over the dairy records. She thinks something’s off with the output. Breakfast tomorrow?”

      She had a sneaking suspicion that Mildred Platt was lonely and just liked spending time with Ian. Angie texted a quick I’ve got plans to visit a farm. Have fun and talk soon, then put the phone down. She needed to be more open minded. More charitable. Mildred had just taken over the goat farm after last month’s events. She was still trying to get a hold of what she needed to do as well as continue her daytime job at the Cheese Commission. And Ian, well, the boy was a helper. He was always volunteering for one thing or the other. Community organizer and activist in a totally down-home, acceptable format for the more conservative River Vista townsfolk.

      Besides, her life with getting the restaurant up and going was busy too. Maybe they were both too busy for a relationship at this time.

      Feeling a little put out, she started cooking. She overcooked the first batch, the crunchy breading too brown and the tomato undercooked, hard and crunchy when it should be warm and almost melting. She put that batch aside and made another batch of flour mixture, this time backing out the sugar, which probably caused it to brown too fast.

      The second batch turned out better, and before she turned in for the night, she had a recipe that although it didn’t match the taste of Nona’s tomatoes, at least looked like the ones from her childhood. Frustrated, she cleaned up the kitchen and grabbed a memoir she’d been reading to take up to bed. She’d take a long bath, read, and have a glass or two of the wine she’d opened a few nights ago for dinner with Ian.

      * * * *

      Thursday morning she’d typically go into the office at the restaurant, but she’d mostly finished the paperwork yesterday, and the accounting could wait. She wasn’t meeting Estebe until later that morning, so after feeding the circus, she pulled out her waffle maker and tried a few different recipes. When she finally looked at the clock, she had just enough time to shower and get into town. She bagged up the waffles in three sections. One for the freezer for her, one to drop off with Mrs. Potter and Erica, and one for Felicia. Angie had a bad habit: She couldn’t cook for just one. Ever. Good thing she ran a restaurant.

      When she was ready, she gave Dom a hug, telling him to guard the house. He leaned into her like she’d just said she was leaving him forever and ever. Hopefully he’d be gentle with Mrs. Potter in the house next week. Angie couldn’t be here all of the time, but she could adjust her schedule to make sure Mrs. Potter was safe.

      As she drove, she turned her thoughts to the farm she was visiting. What did she need at the restaurant that the other suppliers didn’t have? Sweet corn would be coming on soon, and she wanted to do a multitreatment that highlighted the sweetness of the vegetable. Around here, corn on the cob was a summer tradition. Maybe she could play with that idea. She’d started to wrap her head around a possible dish when she reached Main Street. Estebe stood in front of a black Hummer, arms crossed and watching down the street for her. She went past the restaurant, pulled a U-turn in the middle of the deserted street, and parked behind him. Her newer SUV looked tiny compared to the military-style vehicle he drove. He moved to the passenger-side door and opened it for her.

      “I’ll drive.” He didn’t say anything else for a couple of blocks while they drove out of town. Then he looked at her. “You look very nice today.”

      Angie glanced down at the sundress she’d thrown on. She tried to dress up when she met new suppliers. The act of courtesy seemed to be appreciated by the more traditional farmers she met with. Besides, it was supposed to get in the nineties today. It was either shorts and a tank or a light cotton dress. She realized he was waiting for an answer. “Thanks.”

      He reached for the radio, then paused. “Do you like music?”

      Angie pushed away the nagging thoughts Felicia had stuck in her head. Estebe was trying to be kind. Any discomfort she felt must be double for him, since she was his boss. “I do. Play whatever you like. I like a wide variety of stuff.”

      When classical music filled the vehicle, Angie was surprised. She’d expected maybe classic rock or even a band from his cultural roots, but not an exquisite baroque symphony. She nodded. “This is lovely.”

      They didn’t talk again until he reached the farm. “I have to warn you, my cousin fancies himself a ladies’ man. He may turn his attentions on you for more than just the chance to sell his produce to the County Seat.”

      “Oh, I didn’t realize this was your cousin’s farm. Anyway, warning taken, but you have to realize I can take care of myself. I don’t fall easily for pickup lines.” She pulled her phone out of her purse. “Do you think he’d mind if I snapped some pictures? I like to photo document where our food starts.”

      “Take as many as you like. Javier is very proud of his farm.”

      Estebe’s tone told her there was more of a story behind the words than he was letting out. She tried to read his face, but she saw no emotion before he turned away and climbed out of the vehicle. As she reached to open her door, he was there, his hand reaching for hers to help her out onto the dirt driveway.

      A man came out of the brightly painted red barn with a large PF inside a circle, painted in black on the doors. A matching charm hung around his neck on a silver chain. The man’s smile lit his face. Where Estebe could be classified as broodingly handsome, his cousin was a lighter version, maybe not as handsome, but more open, friendlier.

      “Estebe, my cousin. How are you?” Javier pulled Estebe into a bear hug that even Angie could tell felt fake but required.

      “I am fine.” Estebe stepped back and turned toward Angie. “This is Angie Turner, owner and head chef of the County Seat. I told her you had the best produce in the area.”

      “And you didn’t lie.” Javier turned toward Angie, holding out his hand. “But you didn’t tell me how breathtakingly beautiful your boss is. What, are you trying to keep her to yourself?”

      Angie wondered how she should play this. She didn’t want Javier to have the wrong impression, but she also didn’t want to insult the man, especially if she wanted to forge a business relationship with him. She settled for a noncommittal response. “Thank you for inviting me over today. I’d love to see what you’re growing.”

      Javier apparently took the hint, as he laughed and slapped Estebe on the back. “All business, then? We’ll talk more at the festival at the end of the month. You’ve been way too quiet lately.” He turned to Angie. “Follow me.”

      As they walked toward the barn, Javier talked about the farm and its beginnings. He told her how he inherited it from his father, whose own father had built the area from a small acreage to the multiacre farm it was now. As they got closer, a young woman burst out of the house that sat next to the barn and called his name.

      Anger turned Javier’s handsome face into something cruel and hard. For a second, Angie thought he was going to yell at the woman. Instead, she saw his face soften. “I’ve got business to deal with, Heather. Go back inside.”

      Heather looked from Javier to Angie and then to Estebe and pulled the flimsy short robe she wore closer to her chest. She didn’t answer, just nodded and disappeared back into the house.

      Javier went on with his story like he hadn’t even been interrupted. “Of course, now we pasture our sheep close to home, no open range for us anymore. One of the traditions I was more than happy to give up. Spending summer at the sheep

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