When I returned to the kitchen, clipboard in hand, everything was normal—the world had continued to turn.

But lunch was approaching, so my curiosity about the basket he’d brought me—I needed to see just how big this zucchini was—would have to wait. As I prepped the stew, I realized I was curious to get to the bottom of the Leo Story, as I’m sure it was a good one. And now I was off on a daydream tangent about his bottom, which was considerably cute.

I pondered this and other ponderables throughout lunch, and during the hour afterward roasting mad beets. I had some ideas of what I wanted to make for dinner tonight with Leo, and beets would be figured prominently. And speaking of prominent, I finally peeked in the basket he left me and saw the zucchini. He should have been arrested for carrying that thing through town. Honestly.

After I closed up the diner and collected my beets, I went shopping for the rest of what I’d need tonight. Being so close to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, this area had always had its share of impeccable palates. But with the farm-to-table explosion, the number of shops selling local and homegrown foods had multiplied significantly.

I’d spent the last few years being spoiled by the riches of living so close to the San Joaquin Valley, one of the greatest agricultural areas in all of the United States. Access to locally grown fruits and vegetables was something I took for granted.

But here, it was homegrown New York style. The Hudson Valley had always had a mix of people making it home. Take some hippies and richies, add a dash of old school, a sprinkle of blue blood and a dollop of millennial, with a generous helping of city professionals who owned weekend homes, and you had an eclectic melting pot.

So it made perfect sense that on Main Street, you’d find a high-end clothing store next to a shop that sold crystals promising you inner light and peace. A Realtor with pictures of multimillion-dollar “farmhouses” in the front window, next door to a dive bar advertising dollar pitchers and quarter wings.

But I was focusing on the return of the small-town butcher. A cheese shop. A bakery. An actual general store selling everything from two-dollar belt buckles to nine-dollar artisanal pickles. Ooh, and a wine shop. Locally grown, sustainably sourced bubbly to make us a little tipsy? Why, thank you, sir, I think I’ll have another.

I spent the afternoon popping in and out of stores, saying hello to people I hadn’t seen in ages, and stocking my summer pantry in a major way. I’d left so many of my things in LA, bringing only the basics: clothing, makeup, knives, chopsticks, a rasp, a bamboo steamer, and a fistful of saffron.

Now I filled the back of the Wagoneer with fresh pumpernickel bread, aged balsamic vinegar, and local maplewood smoked bacon. I snatched up armfuls of spices, bunches of fresh herbs, and a wedge of the stinkiest Stilton I could find, imported by a cheesemaker here in town. The cheese shop featured a wide variety from a nearby creamery, and I was willing to bet Leo would know more about those cows.

And as I shopped, I was reminded several times of things that Leo had told our group on the farm tour. What he was doing wasn’t any different from how family farms had been run a hundred years ago; he was just doing it on a larger scale than most. “What grows together, goes together” was a phrase I’d heard my entire culinary life. Sometimes it applied to wine pairings with specific foods, and often it applied to herbs and the like. Take tomatoes and basil. Everyone knew they tasted great together, but I learned from Leo that they literally grew better when they were planted together—something about the soil and a particular pest. It was hard to pay attention at that point, because he was kneeling down, which pulled his pants tight over his very cute caboose—but the point is that tomatoes and basil planted near each other actually tasted better. Mother Nature had her shit together.

So as I shopped, I was even more aware about what went with what, and who produced it. And why it was nice to find an honest-to-goodness butcher who not only could tell me what was the best cut of the day, but when I mentioned I needed some fresh ground pork, he lopped off a piece of tenderloin and ground it for me personally. His name was Steve. My new butcher’s name was Steve.

I caught myself whistling a happy tune on my way back to my car, and for one tiny moment I found myself a little homesick. For my hometown.

But for now, I sped off in the direction of my mother’s house. I had a boy coming over tonight. Thank goodness I’d cleaned the place up.

Chapter 10

A few hours later I’d opened all the windows to let the late afternoon breeze blow in, and I was back to thinking about Leo. I enjoyed being around him, and was looking forward to enjoying him naked at some point. But beyond that I wanted to get to know him, to find out what made him tick.

What would Leo think of my tiny childhood home? I wasn’t ashamed of where I’d come from, but it was striking to think of how different our backgrounds were.

But I couldn’t marinate on this too long, I had actual marinating to do. Tossing together some Meyer lemon, fresh tarragon, olive oil, and a pinch of salt, I poured this over the beautiful diver scallops I’d picked up at the fish market—something else new in town. I set the scallops and their marinade in the fridge, assembled the Stilton with some early cherries I’d picked out, then set about peeling the beets I’d roasted at the diner.

I was slicing the beets when I heard a car coming down the drive. A glance through the curtains showed Leo’s Jeep pulling to a stop, kicking up dust. Even under his shirt, his muscles were evident as he swung down, his back strong but not rippling in a beefcakey way. Just plain awesome strength, honestly come by. I’d seen how hard he worked on his farm. And speaking of awesome, he’d ditched the T-shirt/flannel workingman’s combo and was rocking the shit out of a white button-down and comfortable-looking jeans.