His voice sounded funny, tight, like he was choking when he asked, “Chicken coop?”

“We had chickens once growing up. Mom didn’t eat them but my sister and I did, and fresh eggs are hard to beat. Plus, chickens have funny personalities. They have brains the size of a pea, but they still have personalities.”

Johnny again was silent.

He was this for so long, I called, “Johnny?”

“Sounds like you had a full day,” he noted.

“I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

“Well, I mean, it was just a day.”

“Strawberry pots. Chicken coops. Horseback rides. Grocery stores. And lasagna,” he oddly ran it down.

“And my tomatoes, and I’m half into my facial. And then, of course, there was breakfast and, uh . . . other things with you.”

He let out a sharp bark of laughter that sounded so nice it tingled through my ear down my neck and parts south.

“What’s funny?” I asked softly.

“Watched you walk from that sleek, burgundy Murano without a speck of dust on it in those sweet jeans with that cute top and all that hair, and I would not have pegged you as a woman who wanted chickens and planted herbs.”

“It was car wash day yesterday,” I informed him. “My Murano is usually coated in dust and specked with mud.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Well, that would be about now since it’s been sitting at the front of my house all day and it’s dusty around here. I don’t have a garage.”

“Probably should consider that before a chicken coop, babe,” he advised.

“Perhaps,” I mumbled.

He chuckled.

That tingled down my neck too.

Since he was chuckling, I didn’t want to ask. But I’d mucked things up earlier that day, so I had to ask.

“You okay?”

“Don’t do my thing until later. Movin’ out in about an hour.”

“Okay,” I replied and didn’t pry about what his “thing” was.

“What time you want me over there tomorrow?”

I stared at my beautifully crocheted throw.

I got off at five but usually hung around to make sure my staff met their goals for the day and were off themselves. The commute was an hour, if traffic cooperated. The chicken cooked all day and it was only a matter of separating it, tossing in more stuff, and letting it cook a little longer, but there was that little longer.

He lived close to town and had a garage in that town (not that he’d shared that last with me).

And he was a small-town guy with a blue-collar job. Or at least he owned garages that were blue collar, if perhaps owning them made him not so much that.

Maybe he wanted dinner on the table at five thirty, which was an impossibility.

“Six thirty?”

“It’s you gotta be ready for me, Iz, so don’t know why that’s coming at me as a question. That give you enough time?”

“I work in the city.”

“Again, that give you enough time?”

“It’ll probably be more like seven.”

“How ’bout you call me when you’re ready. It’s earlier, I’ll come earlier. It’s later, I’ll come later.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

“Text me your address and I’ll bring the condoms. You don’t have to worry about that shit.”

I blinked at my beautifully crocheted throw.

Was he coming for dinner?

Or for sex?

“Okay?” he prompted.

“I’ll text you my address,” I replied.

“Great, babe. Now I’ll let you go so you can finish your facial, eat your lasagna and read A through F of the encyclopedia.”

“Sorry?”

“Izzy, you do more in one day than a lot of people do in a year.”

“Hmm . . .” I hummed because I never thought of it, but that was probably true.

Mom taught me that. Even when we lived in apartments, she had herb gardens in the kitchen window, tomato pots on the balcony, front or back stoop, as many animals as the landlord would allow (and some they wouldn’t), and in the rare occasion we had extra money, she cooked up a vegan storm doing things with tofu, beans and lentils that made my mouth water at the memory.

Our house was never exactly tidy but whenever she scored skeins of yarn, she also knitted and crocheted. She’d horde bits and pieces everywhere she could find them to get the stuff to make all her own cards and saved up to make huge scrapbooks for any occasion (all of which I had in my bookshelf in my office). She meditated, journaled, read anything she could get her hands on, sometimes wrote poetry or lyrics to songs she’d read or sing to us. She’d often spend hours doodling or turn the music loud and make us get up and dance with her, or sometimes she’d just take us outside, anywhere outside, and lay us down on an old blanket to look up at the stars.

I always thought it was because we couldn’t afford a TV.

But I was beginning to wonder, even if we could, if she’d have had one.

“You camp?” Johnny asked into my thoughts.

“Is that have I or would I?” I asked back.

“The last,” he clarified.

“Well, just to say, it’s yes to both.”

“Take you camping.”

My heart leapt.

“You free next weekend?’ he asked.

My heart leapt higher.

Then my brain kicked in.

“I’m having friends over for dinner Saturday night.”

“That’s cool. Maybe another time.”

“I could see if they’d do Friday,” I offered.

“You’re up for that, Iz, we’ll head out Saturday morning.”

We’d head out Saturday morning.

And I was sure he’d bring condoms.

But if you camped, you didn’t do it just for an alternate place to have sex.

You did it to spend time with nature.

And whoever you were with.

“I’ll change dinner,” I told him.

“Great, babe. Now I’m gonna let you go.”

“Okay. I hope, well . . . whatever you’re doing, I hope it brings you some peace.”

He didn’t say anything for long moments before he said, “It never does, but that’s still sweet, Izzy.”

“Sorry, Johnny,” I whispered, then knowing he wanted to let me go, I finished, “Take care and see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, Iz. Later.”

“’Bye.”

We hung up and I stared at my beautifully crocheted throw.

We were having dinner tomorrow and then spending the weekend camping.

I wondered if he’d let me bring Dempsey and Swirl.

I’d still have to ask Deanna and Charlie to look after the rest.

Another thank-you dinner.

That wouldn’t be hard.

And Johnny wanted to take me camping.

He’d probably camped with Shandra.

However, next weekend he’d be camping with me.

Maybe I was an idiot.

But I didn’t care.

He hadn’t asked me to mother his children and he hadn’t made any promises of any sort, except that he’d be there tomorrow and we’d be camping next weekend.

I could live in the moment.

I had the info I needed.

I could enjoy Johnny.

And I could let him enjoy me.

I was Eliza “Izzy” Forrester, daughter to Daphne, sister to Adeline, and if my mother and sister taught me nothing (and they didn’t, they taught me a lot, good and bad, but mostly good), they taught me to enjoy everything I could.