Mari had thought the spell that had settled on them in the lagoon had been broken by the arrival of the teenagers, but she’d been wrong. She held on tight to Marc’s waist and pressed her chest to his back, her cheek to his shoulder and watched the trees and picturesque farms pass by as he drove on country roads for miles. When Marc turned the bike down a long, narrow drive, she noticed a handmade sign featuring a peach and a fluffy pie: McKinley Farm and Orchard—Pick Your Own Fruits and Vegetables and Savor the Harvest at the Cherry Pie Café.
She dismounted from the motorcycle and removed her helmet. Marc had turned off the engine in a gravel turnabout featuring signs in the shape of pointing fingers. Cherry Orchards. Strawberry, Blueberry, Blackberry Picking. Peach, Plum and Apple Orchards. Lake Michigan, the Che
rry Museum, Country Store, Restrooms and the Cherry Pie Café.
“Have you been here before?” she asked, grinning.
“Never,” Marc replied. “But who can resist a place called the Cherry Pie Café?”
Mari pulled her tote bag out of the storage bin. “I’d like to change before we look around,” she told Marc.
Marc also retrieved some folded clothes from the bin. He grabbed her hand and led her down a quaint path featuring bright flowers and a tiny bridge over a burbling stream.
Wearing a sundress, she came out of the bathroom a few minutes later. She saw Marc standing at the entrance to the Cherry Museum. He’d changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a white, collarless shirt that made his bronzed skin glow in comparison. When he turned and looked at her as she approached, he broke into a wide grin, his teeth flashing in his sun-darkened face.
“What were the chances of that?” he drawled, staring at her sundress, patterned with red cherries.
She joined him in laughter until he reached out and grabbed her hand, leading her out into the gorgeous summer evening.
They picked up a little wooden basket from a receptacle and wandered into the cherry orchard. Again, they talked little, speaking with their eyes and small smiles, both of them comfortable in the silence as they filled the basket. Only the sound of a bee or two buzzing contentedly in the trees and the gulls calling in the distance reached Mari’s ears. She idly wondered if the farm was deserted, because they saw no one. It was as if an enchantment had fallen over the place.
She quickly learned they weren’t alone on the farm, however, when, their basket nearly overflowing with cherries, they exited the orchard. She glanced up at a clicking sound and saw a white-haired man wearing khaki shorts and white socks, taking their picture.
He was smiling when he lowered the camera a moment later.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he called. “I saw you while I was in the next grove over. You make quite a picture in that dress, ma’am. The photo would look great in my brochure.” The man’s kind eyes glanced over at Marc, and he nodded cordially. “With your permission, of course.”
They approached the sunburned man and exchanged greetings and handshakes. As she suspected, he was the owner of the farm, a man by the name of Nathan McKinley. He told them that he and his wife had bought the farm last year and moved there from New York, looking for an escape from the city grind. It seemed right, somehow, she thought as she watched Nathan and Marc talk pleasantries, that the only person they’d conversed with during these golden hours was someone new to the area, a stranger to their past.
“You two should check out the café,” Nathan said. “We have lake-view seating and the best cook in Harbor Country.”
Marc glanced at her, his eyebrows cocked in a query. Mari nodded eagerly. She was in no mood to return to town at the moment. In fact, she wished this stolen day with Marc would never end.
They sat at one of the small tables in the cafe. Looking as large and picturesque as the Mediterranean Sea, Lake Michigan sparkled to their right. The only other occupant of the café was a brown dog whose tail wagged in friendly welcome when they sat, although he appeared to be too drowsy to move from his reclining position in the cool shade. The view was spectacular as the sun started to sink toward the lake, but Mari hardly noticed it. Her attention was all for the man who sat across from her.
The best cook in Harbor Country ended up being Nathan’s smiling wife, Clarisse. Nathan’s boasting about her cooking hadn’t been without merit. Mari was surprised and pleased by the delicate, flavorful sauce on her Cornish hen, which was accompanied by mouth watering mashed potatoes, garden-fresh steamed spinach and homemade cherry tarts. After Clarisse had cleared their empty plates, and Mari had requested a bag of the tarts and some homemade cherry salsa to take home, they lingered at their table, enjoying the view.
“I’m not surprised Nathan wanted to get a picture of you,” Marc said after a while.
Noticing his warm gaze, she paused in sipping the remainder of her tea. “I know. How funny that I picked this dress to bring.”
Marc reached across the table and covered her hand with his.
“I don’t mean the dress,” he said. “You’re glowing, Mari.”
“Am I?” she laughed, made a little self-conscious by his heady stare. “I got some sun today. We both did.”
Marc shook his head, a small, quizzical smile on his lips. “It’s not the tan.”
Clarisse’s arrival broke the delicate bubble of the intimate moment. Mari and Marc thanked Nathan and Clarisse profusely and promised to tell everyone who would listen about their wonderful farm and café.
A wistful sadness came over Mari as she climbed onto the motorcycle and Marc drove down the lane back to the main route. Night settled slowly on their return to Harbor Town.
She didn’t know for sure what to expect when Marc pulled into her driveway. She released him reluctantly, having grown used to the convenient excuse of holding him so close while they were on the bike. He kept his feet planted on the concrete of the drive while she dismounted. Mari smoothed her dress and tried to read his expression, but his face was cast in shadow.
“I’m leaving the cherry tarts,” she said as she removed her tote bag from the storage unit. “Give them to Brendan tomorrow at his party for me, will you?”
Marc turned the ignition on the motor and silence fell, interrupted only by the waves hitting the shore rhythmically on Sycamore Beach.