“It’s amazing how much better a pork chop is from a pig that’s been rooting through the forest, rolling in the mud, sleeping in the shade, and living a full life. We try to produce as much as we can on the farm, try to be as diverse as we can and still maintain the quality. It’s a balancing act, one I’m still learning.”

He was so full of passion for what he did, his entire body perked up when he talked about it.

I checked one of my scallops—charred and gorgeous on the underside. Using tongs, I flipped each one over.

“I wonder if this was happy bacon,” I said, taking the plate I’d cooked up earlier.

“Where’d you get it?”

“In town. Steve, my new favorite butcher, recommended it.”

“That’s very happy bacon,” he said proudly. “That’s from Maxwell Farms.”

“Well, look at you.” I grinned, watching him puff up a little bit. And why shouldn’t he? It seemed like he was doing exactly what he was supposed to do.

The scallops only needed a moment on the second side, so I lifted them out of the pan. “Might want to lean back a little bit,” I warned, then splashed a tablespoon or so of brandy into the pan, which I tilted slightly. The fire caught the alcohol, flames dancing furiously before dying down just as quickly. Was I showing off a little? Maybe a touch. It was nice, cooking for someone I was . . . getting to know.

I let the brandy deglaze the pan a bit, added a pat of butter for shine, then tumbled the bacon back in. Swirling for just a moment, I finished the sauce and poured it over the line of scallops on the plate, sprinkling fresh-cut chives over the whole thing. “Well, I’m ready to eat this happy bacon, and these totally blissed-out scallops, and those supremely thrilled-to-be-here beets.”

“This looks amazing—thanks so much for cooking tonight. I’d say I’d return the favor, but saying I suck in the kitchen would be the understatement of the century.”

“You help me with my mother’s kitchen garden out there, and I’ll teach you some basic recipes. How would that be?” I offered before I thought about it. I didn’t teach guys to cook. That wasn’t how I operated. But what could it hurt—right?

He set the plates on the table, then looked back at me, eyes dancing. “I’d say it’s going to be a busy summer.”

The beets were good. The scallops were lovely. The wine was fantastic. The farmer was lickable. We chatted as we ate, and he praised everything lucky enough to be brought to his exquisite mouth. Never in my life have I been more jealous of an endive leaf. But in between my fantasies of being devoured, I actually learned a little more about Leo. I say little because he didn’t share all that much.

Ask him about crop rotation, and you’ll hear more than you ever thought you could. Ask him about the phrase slow foods movement and you’d think you were in church, listening to a testimony. But ask him about his parents, how this all happened for him, or how often he saw anyone with his same last name, and the guy clammed up like a littleneck. Thank God for Chad and Logan—and Maxine the gossipy waitress.

“But you didn’t grow up here, I would remember that,” I said, leaning back in my chair and allowing Leo to pour me another glass of wine. I wasn’t tipsy yet, but the edges of the room were becoming juuust the tiniest bit fuzzy.

“Why would you remember that?” he asked, finishing off the bottle with his own pour.

“Are you kidding? When the big house got opened up again, people knew. It’s like the queen: when the flag is there, she’s in the house.”

“The Maxwells. That’s really how people see us, don’t they? The name?” he sighed, his eyes looking tired as he swallowed his wine.

“Well, it’s a bit of an institution, you have to admit.” I traced the lace in the tablecloth. “I always wondered if you guys were the coffee people too.”

“Very distantly related. We’re just the bankers. Well, they’re the bankers. I’m not involved in the family business anymore,” he said, watching my fingertips on the table. “You were born and raised here, right? Why’d you leave?” he asked, the change of topic coming so swiftly I had to shake my head. “Other than wanting brighter lights and a bigger city.”

“Uh, yeah. Born here, raised here, Bailey Falls through and through. I left right after I graduated because I wanted to add something else to the Bailey Falls. I knew what would happen if I stayed here.”

“What were you so sure was going to happen?”

“It was pretty much written into the town law books that I’d inherit the diner and run it for the rest of my life. I’d like to actually have a life first.”

“You didn’t want the diner?”

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to try on a new hat, when everyone in your family assumes you want to wear the same one they’re all wearing?” I asked, feeling some of the old weight I used to carry around, taking care of everything including my mother, beginning to pile back on.

He grimaced. “Yeah. There’s a bank in Manhattan the size of a city block with my last name on it.”

It was quiet except for the plink plunk of the faucet dripping. Of course he knew what I was talking about. There was more to that story, but he seemed content to sit in the quiet, and I wasn’t about to push him.

I sipped my wine, then drained it. “So yeah, away I went to culinary school in California.”