Page 44 of Bottle Rocket
“Oh, pish. Making jam isn’t cooking. It’s boiling. Here.” Mirabella handed a huge reusable shopping bag to Leo. “You two can make jam together. It’ll be … cute. We’ll get you everything you need to make something yummy.”
The grin that stretched Leo’s face made Rosie think she’d fallen into a trap. She didn’t know how to prevent this steamrolling. She didn’t know if she wanted to prevent it.
“It’ll have to be at your house, Rosie,” Leo said. “Do you mind?”
“Umm, I guess not?”
Before Rosie could blink, Mirabella had dumped a bushel of dill, five heads of garlic, and three onions into the bag.
“This is for the jam?” Rosie asked, then immediately felt ridiculous.
“No. You’re making pickles too,” Mirabella said.
“Iam?”
“Yes. Do you like dill pickles?”
“I do. I guess.”
“Great. This is Leo’s favorite treat.”
“Mom,” Leo said, his voice full of warning. Not much good it was going to do. His mother was determined to make Rosie a canner, it seemed.
“It’ll be fun!” his mother said, a winning smile on her face. “Cucumbers. Ah. Here we are. Hello, Mr. Woolenbury.”
As Mirabella chatted with the cucumber farmer, Leo drew Rosie into his arms, his hand on the back of her neck.
He kissed her temple. “I’m sorry.”
“I think your mom’s my hero,” Rosie said, and he laughed.
She let him hold her. This was a date. A date with his mother in attendance, but still. Everything was colorful and warm and artificially pastoral. She loved it.
Mirabella returned with an obscene amount of cucumbers. “Now, the jam. You’ll have to buy pectin and jars of course. Leo will tell you what you need.” She threw a huge ginger root in the bag and a handful of lemons.
Rosie and Leo followed along behind Mirabella as she chattered away. Every once in a while, she’d scold Leo for some silly thing. Rosie got the feeling both mother and son enjoyed that, like it was a game between them.
Leo held Rosie’s hand as they perused tables of local honey and studied pots of sunflowers taller than them. He led her through booths full of peaches and apples and carrots of every conceivable color. They taste-tested salsas and sauerkrauts and olive oils. They bought fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice and breakfast empanadas. Rosie let it all happen in a pleasurable daze.
Then, after Mirabella divvied up their farmers market haul, she hugged Rosie, enveloping her in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. “I’m so glad you were here today, Rosie,” she said simply. “You make him smile.”
Their perfect morning cracked into a million pieces because Leo made Rosie smile too, and it wasn’t fair. Leo wasn’t going to be around for regular farmers market dates. Rosie wasn’t going to get to spend weird mornings with the indomitable Mirabella Shawcross-Whittaker. That wasn’t what this was supposed to be.
Working through a checklist of sexcapades was very different than going on the best date of her entire life, and it was all Leo’s fault.
* * *
By midmorning,Rosie was neck deep in vinegar and cucumbers. Her entire kitchen counter was covered in the prettiest peaches she’d ever seen, and Leo kissed her neck or touched her butt every time he squeezed past her.
“I just put this big ass jar on my porch, and the sun does all the work?” Rosie asked. She loved the way the cucumbers, dill, garlic, and onions layered in the glass jar. It was pretty.
“Yep. They’re sun pickles. It’ll take at least three days. Maybe longer if it’s cloudy.”
She felt a small prick of unhappiness. Leo would be leaving in three days. He wouldn’t even get to enjoy these stupid sun pickles.
She followed him into her backyard and watched as he placed the jar on an exposed bit of patio.
“This is a nice space,” he said, looking around.
