Chapter 5 #2
She plants a hand on her hip and eyes me with distaste. “You said you came here to help out. Because Miles suggested it. You may think this place is beneath you, but it’s how my brother makes a living, and my great-uncle and grandfather before him.”
Chastened, I say, “Of course. You tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“The pumpkin patch has already been open for a while, obviously, but today is the official launch day. The first Friday in October. Haven’t you seen the flyer on the town bulletin board?”
Part of Apple Ridge’s charm is the oversized whiteboard set up outside town hall that keeps track of all upcoming events. They hire a different local artist to update it every week. Flyers can be tacked to the corkboard anchored beside it.
Of course, kids love tagging the board or changing the art to make it more suggestive. Once upon a time, Miles and I were two of those kids.
But I haven’t seen the board since I got to town, because I haven’t been anywhere other than Evergreens & Apples.
“Sure,” I lie. “Nice work.”
Her gaze narrows on me. “When did you go downtown?”
“I don’t remember exactly, but I’ve been there, of course. Looks the same as ever.”
A fair guess. One thing Miles has told me is that Apple Ridge never changes.
“They’re terrible,” she says, direct as ever. “My grandmother made them with clip art. I offered to do it, but she refused.”
I shrug. “So you need me to haul pumpkins or something? Sure, no problem. I’ve got you covered. I could even juggle some of those fifty-pounders.”
But Bianca’s shaking her head as she eyes me over the rim of her coffee cup.
“No, everything’s already set up. The potheads helped arrange the pumpkins in the tent, but they’re no good with customer service.
We need to be manning the tent. Welcoming people and telling them about Evergreens & Apples.
Giving out free samples of the baked goods.
My brother should be doing it, but he hates people.
And like I said, Nonna Rose didn’t want to miss out on the fun with the wagon. ”
Sweat beads on my forehead.
I want to tell her yes. God, that sounds so much better than wandering around in the hot sun, hanging out with a grove of trees that don’t talk back.
What are the chances I’ll get recognized by anyone, anyway? I haven’t shaved in well over a week, so I basically have a beard, and I can wear a ball cap to cover my hair.
“You could shave your head,” Nico had told me right before I left.
“Or dye it blond,” Enzo had offered.
But they both knew I was much too vain to do either of those things.
I tell myself the hat will do. I have a Hidden Italy one upstairs in my room.
It may be crisp out today, but the sun’s beating down hot. Wearing a hat would be the sensible thing to do.
But my name…
That’s distinctive.
Bianca’s still waiting for a response—impatiently, her foot tapping the floor—so I say, “Sure, no problem. But, just so you know, I go by John now.” I mention it conversationally, as if it’s perfectly normal to wake up and change your name.
She coughs, nearly spluttering coffee across the table. “Since thirty seconds ago? You’ve been here for over a week.”
I stuff my hands into my pockets and lean back against the counter. “It’s a nickname.”
“And how does your grandmother feel about you Ellis Island-ing your own name?”
“I don’t like talking about it in front of her. Obviously, she’s not a fan. She still calls me Giovanni. So you can stick with that when she’s around.”
Bianca’s not fooled. She’s staring me down—doesn’t matter that she’s short and sitting in a chair—and I feel like a little boy again. The dumbass kid who climbed that tree and bellowed for everyone to look at the “special” thing he’d accomplished.
“Be honest,” she continues. “Are you in some trouble with the law?”
“I’m not an outlaw, Bianca,” I say, abandoning my relaxed pose and retrieving my coffee. “It’s nothing like that.”
No point in lying and saying there’s nothing going on.
“So—” Her phone vibrates on the tabletop, and she sighs as she picks it up.
I can tell right away it’s not good news. Something subtle shifts on her face. She’s not Bianca, my friend’s bored and unimpressed sister anymore—she’s Nurse Bianca, on the case. Ready to run off and save a life.
Maybe that sounds sarcastic, but it’s not. I admire the purpose I can see thrumming through her. It’s something I, just-for-fun Giovanni, have always lacked.
“I’ll be right there,” she says without hesitation.
She’s already rising as she hangs up the phone.
“I need to get to work. One of my favorite patients is having a bad morning.”
“Sorry to hear that. We’ll do the pumpkin thing when you get back.”
She bites her bottom lip, and my eyes settle on it. I’m distracted by the view, which is probably why I don’t already realize what she’s about to say.
“We can’t. The pumpkin patch opens early on the official launch day. A Murphy needs to be there.”
“But I’m not a Murphy,” I say pointedly, my heart racing—partly with excitement but also with a tinge of worry. I could get caught. Everyone who was trailing me in Maine could find me here.
“No, John, but you are subbing in for Miles so he can do whatever mysterious shit he’s doing, where he can’t even use his phone to check in with his damn family.”
The woman has a point. I promised my friend I’d look after his family and try to smooth the waters for him, although I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do on that count. Especially since he asked me not to tell anyone what he’s up to.
The thing is: he has a pretty good reason for not checking in, but I can’t explain that without sharing his secret.
I steel my jaw and nod. “All right. I’ll do it.”
Some of the severity drops from her face. She takes a final sip of coffee before putting her cup in the sink. “Okay, head down to the apple barn and tell Fiona I sent you. She’ll get you set up and show you how to run the register.”
I give her an incredulous look. “I’ve run a store for years.”
“So you should be fine.” She surprises me by wrapping her hand around my bare arm after she finishes with the sink.
I go very still, my breath hitching as her touch ricochets through me, making me hungry for more.
Maybe I’m just touch-starved. It’s been days since I’ve hugged anyone other than my grandmother.
Hell, the Murphys don’t even have a dog anymore, or the triplet goats they had roaming around when we were kids.
Either way, her touch is disconcerting.
Her big eyes hold mine. “Thank you, Giovanni.”
The moment stretches between us, intense. But a beat later, the side of her mouth lifts into a knowing smile. “Or should I say John?”