A Second Harvest (8 page)

“It’s the best room in the house,” David admitted with a trace of pride, unloading containers from the bag.

“I guess! Did you build this addition?”

“Me? Nah.”

Christie opened the tikka masala and put a spoon into the container. It was a shame not to have real bowls for the meal, but he didn’t know David well enough to start getting greedy with his hospitality, and the Tupperware would work just fine. The table looked nice with simple placemats, heavy cream-colored plates, and shiny silverware.

David groaned as he opened the pie saver where Christie had put the naan. “Oh man. This looks incredible.”

Christie felt a wave of pleasure. “Thanks. Chicken tikka masala, aloo gobi, naan, and rice.”

David poured them both cold apple cider. Then they loaded up their plates and settled into their seats for some serious food appreciation.

Christie picked up his fork but David hesitated. “Do you say grace?”

Oh. Right. Christie put his fork down. “Please go ahead.”

David closed his eyes. His blessing was brief, thanking God for good neighbors and the wonderful food, which was actually very sweet. It was still strange. It had been years since Christie was at a table where prayers were said.

They both dug in. David was enthusiastic. His eyes practically rolled back in his head as he tasted each dish, and Christie tried very hard not to think about his little moans of appreciation in another context.

“You should open a restaurant. You have a gift. I can’t imagine even attempting complicated dishes like this.”

“It’s really not that difficult,” Christie replied modestly, though he soaked up the praise like a sponge. “I just followed the recipes.”

“That’s like a builder saying it’s not that hard to build a house if you have a blueprint.”

“Maybe it’s not hard,” Christie smiled wryly.

David wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Speaking of houses, you asked earlier about this addition. My father put it on when he discovered my mother was expecting me.”

“Oh really? That sounds like a sweet family story.”

“I guess. They didn’t think they could have children. My mom got pregnant with me when she was forty. And yes,” he said, smiling at Christie shyly, “the family story goes that my dad was so excited about it he expanded the house. Not that it was necessary, mind. I was one boy, not a new herd of cattle. Farmers tend to think big.”

“Maybe it was his way of preparing for you emotionally. He must have doted on you.”

“I wouldn’t say that.” David’s face grew carefully shuttered. “He was a tough man, my dad. Very strict.”

“Mine too.” Christie decided neither one of them needed to talk about their childhood traumas, though it sounded like they had more in common than he’d thought. “So… you have children?”

His eyes went to a framed photo on the wall. It was a professional family portrait, taken near the barn. The family of four wore lots of denim and red, like a matched set. Beside David there was a woman with dark hair pulled back severely and a pretty, chubby face. She wore a long denim dress over a red turtleneck There were two kids—a girl and a boy in their early and midteens. It was a good-looking family but very conservative Midwest.

It was also a strong reminder, in case Christie needed it, that David Fisher was not on his team or, indeed, even in his universe.

“Yes, Amy and Joe. Amy’s the oldest. She’s twenty-one. And Joe’s three years younger.”

“They’re both away at college?”

David nodded. “Amy’s up in State College studying nursing at PSU, and Joe’s just over in Lancaster at Franklin and Marshall. But he lives in the dorms and he’s pretty busy, so I rarely see him. He wants to become a minister.”

Christie’s eyes flickered back to the photo. Both Amy and her mother wore long dresses and had their long hair back in buns. They clearly weren’t Amish, but they weren’t exactly modern either. “A minister in what denomination?”

“Mennonite. Our church is fairly progressive—for Mennonite.”

Christie couldn’t hold back his snark. “Is that like saying a dog is gentle for an attack dog?”

David studied Christie’s face for a moment, a frown between his brows.
Yeah, way not to show bitterness with that analogy, Christie!
But then David shrugged, and the corners of his mouth turned up a little. “I suppose it’s all relative.”

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Actually I was raised Southern Baptist. I bet it’s not all that different.”

“You were?” David looked surprised.

Christie nodded and took a bite of rice—the tikka masala sauce was so yummy over rice; he could eat just that for days. He gave himself a moment to think about how honest he wanted to be. “I haven’t been to church since I moved away from home when I was eighteen. You could say I have some issues with religion.”

David looked thoughtful rather than shocked or disapproving. “How old are you now, if that’s okay to ask?”

“Thirty. My youth is behind me, alas.”

“You’re thirty? I thought you were closer to Joe’s age. I would have guessed twenty-four or five at the most.”

“Thank you?”

“Even so you’re still just a pup.”

“I guess it’s all relative.” Christie smiled wryly. “How old are you, David?”

“Forty-one.” He ducked his head down when he said it like he was… what? Embarrassed? Lying? Christie didn’t think he was lying; he had no reason to. Maybe he didn’t feel his age.

“That’s pretty young to have two grown children.”

“It’s not that young. I was twenty when my oldest, Amy, was born.”

“Most twenty-year-olds are still trying to decide on a major.”

David looked out the window. “By the time I was nineteen, I was married and running this farm full-time.” It was a statement that might have been said with a prideful tone, but it wasn’t. There was a weariness to it that made Christie’s stomach clench.

“Why? What about your dad?”

“He died when I was a senior in high school.” David tore off a piece of naan and dredged up some sauce with it. “He was only fifty-eight. Had a massive heart attack while driving the tractor. Died almost instantly, they said. I had to drop out of school to run the farm full-time.”

“That’s terrible! Fifty-eight is so young.”

“It is. He worked too hard, and he was… not a happy man.”

“That must have been so hard, having that much responsibility so young and dealing with your dad’s death too.”

David shrugged, but his neck got bright red, as if he were feeling much more than he showed. “It wasn’t such a bad deal for me. The teachers at my school helped me finish my high school diploma from home, plus I got the farm. Most young adults have to work and save a long time to buy a house. When I got the farm, it was already paid off, plus I had job security to boot.”

“It is a beautiful place,” Christie agreed, looking out the window. David was right. Christie knew a lot of people his age who were still searching for their path in life. Maybe being born with a path all laid out wasn’t such a bad thing. But his host didn’t have the vibe of a contented man.

“Are you happy, David?” The minute Christie said it, he wished he hadn’t. He had a tendency to be too pushy, and that was a very personal question for virtual strangers.

David blinked at him in surprise. “I’m… I guess I don’t think about it like that.” He looked down at his plate. “What about your family?”

“My dad was a dentist, and my mom a teacher. I grew up in a small town too, in Illinois.”

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

“Nope. Only child.”

“Christie is an unusual name. Is your family Swedish or something?”

Christie laughed. “Pretty all-American, really, though my dad has Swedish roots. It’s Christopher on my birth certificate, but my mom started calling me Christie when I was little, and it stuck. I tried a couple of times to get people to call me Chris, but it never lasted.”

It brought back a wave of memory—himself in high school trying briefly, and pointlessly, to be more butch. But trying to change his name just made him more of a target, as if he were admitting shame about who he was. In the end he was just grateful if the other students didn’t call him faggot or fairy.

“I like it.
Christie
. It’s… foreign-sounding. Italian maybe, like something in Latin.”

Christie looked at David curiously. “Are you serious?”

David shrugged, his cheeks going a little pink. “Do you see your parents much?”

Christie was very careful to keep his voice light. “No. We’re not close.”

David looked like he wanted to ask why not, but he didn’t. Thank goodness he wasn’t as blunt as Christie himself.

“What about your mom?” Christie asked.

“She lived with us for a while when the kids were little, then her older sister’s husband passed, so the pair of them moved to Florida together. She loves it down there.” David looked at Christie thoughtfully. “Did you go to college?”

“Art school. I’m a graphic designer.”

“Oh? Well, I can see you’re very creative in the kitchen.” David’s gaze lingered on the earrings in Christie’s ear. “I don’t know that I’ve ever met a real artist before.”

Christie laughed. “You make it sound like I’m an aardvark or something. A person can be artistic in all sorts of ways.”

“I s’pose. And you look nothing like an aardvark.” David smiled wryly, and Christie thought,
He has a sense of humor after all.
“What do you do as a graphic designer?”

Christie talked about his job for the advertising agency. David wanted to see some of Christie’s work, so he pulled out his phone and showed his sketch of the field with the cow and farmer. “This is a campaign for a dairy company.”

David took the phone and looked at it for a long moment while Christie ate his food. “I like the way you did the soil, with all the lines and rocks and beetles. Well, it’s all good. You’re very talented.”

For some reason the compliment meant a lot to Christie. Maybe it was because David didn’t seem like the type who said things he didn’t mean. “Thanks. You might recognize the barn as yours. I had to guess some of the details. I can’t see it very well from my house.”

David handed back the phone. “You’re welcome to come over anytime if you need to sketch something close up.”

“That wouldn’t be intrusive?”

“Nah. What are neighbors for?”

“That would be great. So what all do you raise here on the farm?”

David shifted in his chair, sighed. “This farm’s a hundred acres, and I lease another hundred down the road. I raise conventional crops—corn, wheat, soy, alfalfa. I have a small dairy herd too. I sell the milk to an organic co-op. Then I run a chemical-free CSA with my daughter Amy during the summer. We grow the vegetables and herbs for that in a small field by the barn.”

“By conventional crops you mean nonorganic?”

“Yup.”

“Why not organic?”

David shook his head with a grimace. “Money. A farmer’s always got to be looking into what’s selling and adapt to that. Raising organic crops is very labor intensive, and it takes years to get certified too. It’s a big investment for no extra return until you’ve got the official paperwork. On the other hand, organic dairy is not that hard to convert to and earns twice that of nonorganic. We switched over six years ago.”

“Sounds complicated.”

David looked embarrassed. “Well. I could never do what you do. I meant what I said. You’re welcome to sketch whatever you like here. And you don’t have to always bring food either, though this is a wonderful meal.” He hesitated. Then his gaze met Christie’s head-on. “Thank you for offering to cook something special like this. I want you to know I appreciate it.”

There was so much warmth in his eyes it was like being handed gratitude in a brightly wrapped gift box. All the excuses and platitudes that came into Christie’s mind felt trivial by comparison.
It’s fun for me. I like having help paying for groceries. I like having company. I like
your
company.
Damn it, he so did.
He shouldn’t, but he did. Hell. He was crushing on David Fisher.

He mumbled a “you’re welcome.” And for a while, they focused on their food.

THE INDIAN
food was excellent—better than David remembered from his few restaurant visits. Sharing the meal with Christie was nicer than he expected, too. Very nice.

There was a hot feeling in David’s chest that grew over the course of the meal and took him by surprise. He genuinely liked Christie Landon. He didn’t normally take to people so easily. Even at church he tended to keep to himself. He found himself wondering about it as he savored the meal.

He was flattered, if he were honest with himself. Christie was a smart, interesting, and attractive young man—not as young as David thought, but still considerably younger than him. He imagined Christie would have no trouble finding people his own age who desired his company, especially young women. Yet here he was, spending time with David. He asked a lot of questions, looked directly into David’s eyes a discomforting amount of the time, smiled and laughed at the things David said like he was actually paying attention.

It struck David that it had been a long time since anyone truly
saw
him. To Amy and Joe, he was just “Dad.” They asked him how the farm was doing, or about his health, but that was about it. And when Susan was alive, they’d gotten far too comfortable with each other. She was always wrapped up in her sewing or church work or books. She’d ask what he wanted for dinner or talk about the kids or people they knew. But he couldn’t remember the last time she’d really looked at him.

Are you happy, David?

When was the last time anyone cared if he was happy, as long as he continued to maintain the farm and put money in the bank for school, clothes, and food?

That isn’t fair
, he chided himself. Amy worried about him, he knew. And Joe was a good kid. His family loved him, but he still felt invisible most of the time.

Then again Christie was just a stranger making small talk. It didn’t mean anything. Still, the company was stimulating. He liked the fact Christie spoke his mind, like he’d done about religion and his parents. He didn’t pull punches or give what he thought was the
right
answer, or simply quote scripture. David was both taken aback and admiring of that fact.