Page 77 of Geordie

“I want to speak with Lily about the bid.”

“Do you think that's wise? Your first impression was not the best. Maybe you should ask Connell to talk to her.”

Layla doesn't know that Lily and I have been trying to have a baby for the last five months or that we know each other well. It irks me that Lily didn't bother to tell me she was bidding for the dinner, especially after the Catriona fiasco. She's only at my apartment once a month. There's not much to talk about other than the insemination. No, that's not the truth, she's been talking about the whirlwind tour she's been on promoting her cookbook and trying to attract the Michelin inspectors. Still, something as important as this, she should have said something.

Chapter thirty-seven

Sunflowers and Magnolias

Lily

Rowsofwhitetentsdot three blocks of Main Street, and concrete barriers prevent vehicles from entering the small sanctuary for pedestrians. I pull on a wide-brimmed straw hat and dark sunglasses before joining the sea of people with baskets and bags in hand who are moving at a leisurely stroll, all on alert for what's best on offer.

There are several farmer's markets in San Pacitas during the week; this one is the largest and my favorite. I volunteered to do the produce shopping today for the restaurant partly because I needed a break from my hectic schedule of interviews, cooking demonstrations, and book signings. The other reason is that I'm dying to feel the warmth of the sunshine on my body while in a familiar place.

I hustle through the food section to avoid the conflicting aromas of deep frying, caramelizing of corn, and roasting of meat until I get to the produce. At the end of that section is the raw meat and fish, ending with the colorful flower displays.

“Did you receive your schedule for this week?” Harv asks, examining a bulb of fennel.

This was supposed to be a solo trip, but when Harv overheard me talking to Tony about doing today's shopping, he announced he would go with me and drive. It was a sneaky way of having a meeting off-site, in a place we could talk freely with fewer interruptions.

“I did. They have me flying back to New York for a few days to be on morning shows. There's a possibility of going to England to appear on a few of their chat shows. It seems the book is taking off there. They'll try to book my appearance while I'm in New York.”

Harv smiles and waves to a woman behind the check-out table. She bustles over, leaving a younger version of herself in charge. “Hi, Harv, Lily.”

“Hello, Maria, how's Richard doing?”

“Enjoying Cal Poly. Although I wish he was closer; I like to keep an eye on my babies.”

“I'm sure it will be a good experience for him. He's a great kid.”

She beams. “Have you decided what you want?”

The chit-chat changes to business as Harv gives her the order. I motion to him, indicating I'll be in the flower section.

Few people have filtered to the end of the market. I have an unobstructed view of several fall displays of tall sunflowers, orange roses, tiny gold mums, and an assortment of leaves with a bunch of fragrant eucalyptus. I'm loading too many into my basket to sit in my apartment for a few days before I leave. When I return, they'll all be dead, but all I can think about is how happy I'll be seeing these blooms around the apartment.

My cell rings. I set the basket down to fish through my bag. It's Geordie's face on the screen and there's a jolt of concern that he's injured himself again as I answer the call. “Are you okay?” Not bothering with a greeting. Calls from Geordie are rare.

“Hello to you,” he says. “That depends. I was told you put in a bid for the Winemaker's Dinner. Why did you not tell me?”

I place my phone between my shoulder and ear so I can reach for my wallet. “I let you know–”

“Remind me when that was. Was I sleeping?”

I assume that's a joke or a jab, because we don't sleep together. After he inseminates me and I orgasm, I'm on my own. I leave the next morning before he gets up.

So far, there's been no joy. My period shows up each month like an unwanted friend. “You might have been sleeping,” I can't resist a jab back. “I left you a text and voicemail. I thought you were fine with it when I didn't hear from you.”

“When was this?”

Now he's pissing me off. Is this frustration coming from the Catriona debacle? If it is, then buddy, you need to let it go. Or is it deeper from my inability to conceive? The doctor told us it would take time. “Last week… I think it was Thursday.” There's silence for a few moments. I assume he's checking texts. I pay the vendor, hold my phone to my ear while picking up my basket, and search for a bench to finish this conversation.

“Aye, I see it–”

“I didn't solicit the opportunity, if that's what you're thinking. Layla invited me to bid.” I give an exasperated sigh. “Don't you people talk? I get it. You think I'm trying to get back into Catriona.”

“No, it's not that. I see you once a month and we hardly talk. I was going to invite you to the Winemaker's Dinner as my guest.”

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