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Belle French wandered the Saturday morning green market like a seasoned pro. She turned over peaches and pears and inspected flats of strawberries and bunches of grapes in all shades from light, bright green to inky, midnight purple, choosing to buy only the best and freshest looking specimens. She delighted over the scents and colors of handmade goat’s milk soaps and lotions, and picked over recycled milk crates filled with old vinyl records for her boyfriend, Gary’s collection.
Belle bit her lip, a little pang of disappointment bursting through her. She’d asked him to come with her this morning, a few quiet moments of togetherness of the sort she enjoyed, but as usual he’d refused, rolling over and grunting something about needing sleep after DJing late into the night. She huffed to herself, they’d been together so long it was old habit now, but it always seemed like she was the one being let down these days.
She flicked through a few more records, grabbing a couple of good-looking Britpop standards, Arctic Monkeys and Oasis, along with a Paul Weller album she’d never seen amongst Gary’s collection. She wanted to be mad at him, but truthfully it just made her melancholy. She paid for the albums, slipping them into her canvas tote, careful to put them in a separate compartment from the gorgeous piece of salmon she had picked up at the fishmonger’s.
If she was honest with herself, she was actually a bit relieved that he wasn’t here. If Gary were here, he’d be grumpy and taciturn, looking for coffee every fifteen minutes, and constantly asking her when they could leave. This way she could actually wander the stalls in peace, browsing and enjoying herself. The thought made her sad.
Belle’s mouth curved into a smile when she saw who was manning the Robinson Farms stand, though. Their organic produce was some of her very favorite, their harvest always fresh and ripe, everything bursting with flavor. Of course, it didn’t hurt that most Saturdays a certain long-haired Scotsman she’d become acquainted with tended the booth. He always greeted her with a bit of cheeky flirtatiousness that made her heart beat just a little faster and her cheeks feel warm.
She subconsciously straightened her blouse and tucked back her flyaway hair under her hat before feigning an air of practiced nonchalance. She began examining a vine of tomatoes that the little chalkboard sign declared as
Just Peachy
in an elegant script along with a clever little drawing of two tomatoes. She watched him from the corner of her eye as he finished up with another patron, taking the woman’s money and tucking it into a small lockbox and counting back change with a toothy smile and an exchange of pleasantries.
He wore a paisley shirt in white and brown, untucked, over loose jeans and suede moccasins. Straight, sandy-brown hair fell around his face, sun-bleached ends curling up around his shoulders. His features were sharp, cheekbones high, but he had warm, amber eyes and a full lower lip that took the edge off. A chain of thick silver links encircled his slim, tanned wrist. She’d never seen him without it. Unlike her boyfriend, who was rather a hulking presence, this man was slightly built, and just a few inches taller than her own petite, five-foot-two frame, and slender to gauntness. It made her feel comfortable and safe in his presence.
He didn’t see her right away, tucked as she was amongst the produce, and she spent a quiet moment just watching him concentrate, his brow furrowing as he marked down the last sale and noted the price. He had a hunted, haunted look about him, dark circles beneath his shaded eyes, and for every ready, toothy smile he had for his custom, she knew there was a faraway look and a sadness behind his eyes.
“Hey, Lachlan,” she ventured after a moment or two, her pulse quickening just a touch when he looked up and his face blossomed into a crooked smile that Belle found utterly charming.
“Hey, Belle! How are you doing?” His smile was genuine, his accent a soft Scottish lilt, barely dulled by however long he’d been here in the States. “What can we find for you today?”
“I’m… okay,” Belle nodded. “What do you have that looks good and goes with a super fresh filet of salmon?”
“Oh! Take a look at these tomatoes, they’re absolutely peachy.” And the way he said
to-MAH-toes
and tossed his head to flip his hair back made Belle’s insides feel funny in way she hadn’t felt in a rather long time.
“So I see,” she laughed. “Cute sign.” She felt hyper aware of herself, nodding and touching her hair, smiling and batting her lashes coquettishly. She couldn’t seem to stop it, and she saw Lachlan respond, leaning in to whisper, like they shared a secret, a glint of mischief in his eyes behind the dark lenses. “How much for four, oh and this zucchini, as well?”
“Thank you.” Lachlan grinned. “For you, two dollars.”
“Really? That doesn’t seem like enough.”
“Really.”
“Well, OK.” Belle fished in her bag, pulling out the albums to look for her wallet. Lachlan leaned over and scanned them.
“Paul Weller?” Belle paused in her search and looked up at him, nodding. There was a wistful sort of look on his face, a little sad and a little far away. “ I wouldn’t have taken you for a British New Wave fan.”
“Oh! I mean, I like it well enough, but these are for my boyfriend, Gary.” Belle pulled out the two dollars and handed them over. Lachlan sighed, looking a little crestfallen. He
was
flirting with her, and the mention of her boyfriend had taken the wind out of his sails. The lines on his tanned face, the grey at his temples, and the scattered silver strands that glinted through his hair made her think he must be in his mid-forties, and she wondered again what brought him here so far away from home, all the way from Scotland, to work on a farm.
“Ah, I see.” He rallied, giving her a tiny smile, and shook his wrist, letting the shiny silver bracelet rattle and clink as it caught the sunlight. “Paul Weller gave me this bracelet.”
She looked at him curiously. “He did? This Paul Weller?” She lifted the album and pointed to the man on the front. He nodded, taking it from her and running his fingers over it almost reverently. “Wow. That’s pretty cool.”
“Yeah. It was a lifetime ago. I was the guitarist in a band called The Cranks. Your, ah, boyfriend might know that name.” He shrugged, his eyes fixed on the jacket of the album in his hands.
“The Cranks?” She asked, surprised that
she
knew the name. Gary never shut up about The Cranks whenever they were listening to 90’s Britpop. It explained something about Lachlan, she thought, the clothes, the hair. She still wondered why he always looked so melancholy if she stole a glance when he wasn’t looking. She supposed giving up, or losing, a life as an A-lister must come with some sense of isolation and loss. He obviously still held a connection to it, always keeping that little memento on his person. “Yeah, I’ve heard that album about a million times, what’s it called?”
“
Bank Street Waltz
,” Lachlan breathed, raising his eyebrows. “You’ve heard it?”
“It’s Gary’s favorite.” Belle nodded, packing away the albums and the produce in her bag. “Does all your other jewelry have such interesting stories?” She noted a braided leather bracelet twice wrapped around his slim wrist, and a thick silver ring on his pinky finger. He looked startled for a moment, his face falling a bit, and reached down to twist the ring on his finger, the muscles of his forearm twitching beneath smooth, tanned skin.
“Nah. There’s nothing interesting about me.” His mouth twisted.
“You were in a pretty big deal band,” Belle pointed out. “That’s pretty interesting.”
He looked at her for a moment, eyebrows knit. “I was the guitar player in a big deal band. My brother, he was the big deal. He was the artist. It’s ancient history, now, anyway.” He summoned up one of those disarming smiles. “But enough about me. You take those beautiful tomatoes and let me know how that fish turns out.”
Belle nodded. He ran his hands over the Paul Weller album one last time, handing it back to her with a grin. She tucked it back inside with the others, and gave him a wave as she bounded off to the next stall. He returned the wave and turned away.
She turned to glance at him a few more times while she finished her circuit of the farmer’s market. If he wasn’t with a customer, she noted, he was standing with his fists down on the table, the long strands of his hair hiding his face. Hiding him from the world.
#
Days on the farm were long, starting well before daylight and ending well after the sun had set. Lachlan wouldn’t complain. Physical labor and the sweat of one’s brow cleansed the mind, at least while you were doing it, and if your body was tired enough at the end of it all, sleep might eventually come, if you were lucky.
He couldn’t honestly say he didn’t enjoy the work either. There was something about digging your hands in the soil, the sun baking the back of your shoulders, that appealed to the creative energy in him. In a few short weeks, the green shoots would emerge sprouting from the cracked brown earth, life brought into the world by his own two hands. Eventually, with care and attention, the harvest would be made. Plump, ripe tomatoes and ears of sweet corn with rows of fat, yellow kernels that burst with sugary juice when you finally bit into them, slathered with melted butter that dripped down your chin and a squeeze of lime and a sprinkle of salt. The crazy chickens laid brown speckled eggs that tasted like he remembered eggs tasting when he was a kid on his family’s farm in Scotland.
He didn’t miss the sheep, though. They were cute when they were little, but the large herds of the MacAldonich farm in the Clyde River Valley near Glasgow weren’t all fun and games. Sheep were a lot of work, work he resented as a rebellious teen. Shearing and herding, the oils of the lanolin permeating the air and feeling like he could never get the smell off his body no matter how much he showered. No, he definitely preferred the bright blue skies of Los Angeles and the deep red dirt that eventually scrubbed from beneath one’s fingernails with enough willpower and soap.
Lachlan stood up, brushing down his jeans, and surveying the irrigation lines that he and Warren Robinson had just finished laying with the help of Warren’s teenage son, Julien. It was a feeling of accomplishment when he twisted the rusted tap and water sprayed from the lines in perfect arcs, covering the fallow field in a fine mist. They were ready to plant. He nodded to the two men and made his way back to the row of small, white, clapboard shacks that made up the housing for the farm workers. They were neat and well kept, but drab and firmly utilitarian in size and design. He’d long since stopped worrying about the fact that in his mid-forties he was living in a one bedroom row house with nothing to his name but a beat-up pickup truck, a couple of well-played guitars, and all of twelve hundred dollars in the bank. Having money had never made him any happier than when he didn’t have money.
Lachlan spent a good long while under the hot spray of the shower, and if the face of the girl he kept flirting with at the market swam through his mind, he welcomed it.
Belle
. She made his blood pump faster, her beautiful blue eyes and her charming Aussie accent. He knew she’d never really look twice at him, but she always had a kind word and a radiant smile. He finished his shower, dressing in a dark button down and his ubiquitous blue jeans, making himself a ham sandwich from what he found in the fridge and heading for the local bar. That was the place he felt like he could really lose himself, turn off his mind, and forget, well, everything.
Warren was already well into his second beer when Lachlan eased into the seat next to him, motioning to the bartender to pour him two shots of whisky. Brian stocked the Old Glen just for him, his favorite from home. Lachlan drained the first in one go, humming to himself as the rich, amber liquid traced a line of liquid fire straight to his belly. He tossed back the second, raising two fingers to Brian and earning a disapproving glare from Warren. Lachlan shrugged, and Warren simply shook his head, taking another sip of his own drink.
They made small talk about the farm, the community, and Warren’s family for another hour, before Warren stood and stretched, slipping on his denim jacket. He clapped Lachlan on the shoulder.
“Don’t forget it’s an early morning tomorrow.”
“Aye, s’no gonnae be a problem,” Lachlan assured him. “Gonnae go back and record a quick show, and then off tae bed. I promise.” The other man gave him a concerned look, but Lachlan was pretty adept at holding his drink, and Warren eventually gave him a curt nod and headed home to his own family.
Lachlan flagged down Brian and signalled for two more shots.
#
When Lachlan came to, he was in the tank, surrounded by the glares of petty criminals and the stench of piss and bodily odor. He wrinkled his nose and tried hard to remember what had happened, how he had got here. Hazy memories of flashing blue lights and the bitter taste of bile in his throat reminded him that he’d been utterly stupid after Warren left. He’d tried desperately to drown out the voices of his past, and now, as then, it brought him nothing but trouble. It was another hour and he’d lost track of the number of shots he’d drunk before Lachlan had practically crawled from the bar and into his battered pickup.
The officers that pulled him over had stumbled over his name and heritage as he’d stumbled trying to walk a straight line.
“How we doing tonight, sir?” The officer had asked, the flashlight bright and harsh in Lachlan’s eyes, the officer’s mocking politeness making Lachlan’s skin prickle.
“Fuck a duck,” he’d answered like a complete imbecile.
“Where are you headed?”
“Home.”
“Where are you coming from?”
Lachlan had tried to work out whether it was a trick question before answering, but his befuddled mind wasn’t up to the task.
“A bar.”
Photographed, fingerprinted, and booked before he’d even lost the buzz that made everything easier to bear had worn off, the officers unimpressed by his cheeky banter.
Are you Irish? Are you fucking Irish?
He slammed his hand on the bench and everyone jumped. He was no fucking Irish. He was Glaswegian born and bred. Hearty Scots stock that could hold his drink with the fortitude of his forebears. He settled down when the glares turned ugly, wrapping his arms across his scrawny chest and remembering that he was no real fighter. Scrappy and wiry he may be, but the sheer size of some of these blokes made him think twice before making another noise or any further sudden movements.
#
Warren dropped a crate of corn on the pallet with a loud crack and Lachlan started at the sudden sharp noise, squinting through his dark sunglasses at Warren’s even darker look. His head was pounding, and he wished the whole nightmare of the last night would fade into memory, as had so many of his escapades. But reality in the form of his boss was staring him in the face and refusing to let it go.
“Four months suspended license?” Warren snapped, throwing down another crate, and sorting through the ears of corn. He peeled back a bit of each husk to examine the kernels. “For one DUI? What a crock.”
“I’m sorry, Warren. I tell you what, back in the UK, they’d have dumped me on the front step and rang the bell.” Lachlan sorted through bunches of dark, green kale, picking out any leaves with dark spots or holes and bundling the best ones with twist-ties. He stood up, wiping his hands on his jeans. His mouth was dry and his headache splitting, but he had to suck it up. This was his own damn fault.
“Well, maybe when I was a kid,” he conceded, when Julien snorted at him, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Yeah, here, too.” Warren grabbed another crate of corn to sort. “That’s bullshit. Now, what am I gonna do about Saturday?” He tossed an underripe ear into a pile on the side. “Well, shit. Goddamn DUI.”
Lachlan continued sorting, his cheeks flushed. He felt guilty for inconveniencing Warren. His personal troubles shouldn’t affect his boss and their business plans. Warren threw another crate off to the side, giving the pallet a kick with his boot.
“What the hell, man,” he groused. “I thought you were smarter than that.” The older man stomped off, leaving Julien and Lachlan to finish the sorting and bundling.
Part of his job was the green market. He hauled everything up to town, set it up to best advantage, and used his own devilish charm to sell as much of it as humanly possible on Saturday mornings. Not being allowed to drive for four months was going to put a serious crimp in someone’s style, and he didn’t blame Warren for being irritated.
“He’ll be fine,” Julien offered, stacking empty crates off to the side. “I’ll drive you up there, and help out. He’ll forget about it in a minute.”
“Cheers, Julien.” Lachlan smiled and clapped the seventeen year old on the shoulder. “You’re a good lad. Ta very much.”
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
It was four-twenty when the alarm went off, rattling around his skull like a hammer and gong. Lachlan slapped the snooze bar and rolled over, squeezing his eyes shut. “Shut the fuck up!” He growled. A dozen years ago he would have just been rolling into bed on a Saturday morning, his head still pleasantly abuzz with alcohol and other recreational substances, his body still tingling from the rhythms of the music that ran through his veins, his skin still smelling of tobacco, sweat, and sex.
He groaned when the fucking thing blared again, rolling over and shutting it off with his fist. He stood under the shower as long as he possibly could, the steamy spray pounding his shoulders. Lachlan conjured up Belle’s face again. The chore of going to market was certainly mitigated by the tiny blossom of warmth that bloomed in his chest when he pictured her smile and her sparkling blue eyes.
Julien was a hard worker, he’d been trying to impress his father and take on more responsibility around the business, hoping for a raise and better work. He was already loading crates and flats of fruits and veggies onto the dually when Lachlan made his way outside to join him. The two of them working together in silence to load the truck. Lachlan grumbled a bit when the younger man hopped up behind the wheel, but that was frankly the reason he was assisting today to begin with.
They stopped for coffee, and three donuts for Julien, on the way into town, the sun just beginning to peek over the tops of the scrubby hills as the younger man drove. Lachlan told him all the stupid, bawdy jokes he knew, and they laughed and chatted until they pulled into the market. Julien backed the truck right up to their tent and got to work hanging the banner on the fence behind the generic white tent while Lachlan took time to arrange the produce into attractive piles, always highlighting the very best items. He drew up his little chalk signs. Today they touted his
Radiant Radishes
with a little squiggly rayed sun sporting sunglasses smiling down on a pile of bright red and green topped radishes.
Before long he and Julien were surrounded by the sounds and smells of the market. The people gathering around and the cheeky banter begun. Lachlan truly shone when he was selling. It didn’t matter if it was a couple of artichokes, all purple and forest green, their leaves tightly furled or a bunch of his radiant radishes, the people loved his easy smile and friendly demeanor. He flirted with the ladies and made friends with all the men, he listened to people chatter on about their favorite recipes and parroted them back to the ones who didn’t know quite what to do with that glorious zucchini.
“Try a little salt, a little butter.. Fantastic,” he assured the woman who smiled at him over the crates as he handed her four of the bright green vegetables to tuck in her tote.
“Oh, you cook?” She asked, interested.
“Me? No…” Lachlan gave her his signature smirk. “I don’t cook, a customer told me.” She laughed as she handed him the cash, shaking her head. Lachlan moved over to help another customer with a dozen eggs as he spotted Belle, wandering toward his stall. His heart skipped a beat. She looked beautiful in a gauzy yellow sundress that made her eyes look impossibly blue, her coppery chestnut curls falling from beneath the brim of a straw hat.
She smiled at him, her cheeks pinking just a touch and he smiled back, popping eggs in the carton as fast as he could so Julien wouldn’t get there first and he’d lose his chance to chat with her. A man could dream, couldn’t he?
“These eggs are laid with love,” he caught Belle biting her lip as she watched him. Julien came over but she ignored him, focusing on Lachlan. The thought made his pulse quicken. “Happy chickens. Cage free. Chemical free. Hormone free. As a matter of fact, the only thing that ain’t free is the cost. That will be four dollars for the dozen, thank you very much.”
Belle chuckled as he took the money and passed over the eggs. She tucked back a lock of hair behind her ear and gave him a cheeky grin.
“Hey, Belle,” Lachlan breathed, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He liked the way she looked at him, her lower lip pinched between her teeth, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Hey, Lachlan. What looks good today?”
“Well, the radishes are spectacular.” He grinned at her, highlighting the radishes with a flourish of his hand, and Belle snickered, ducking her head and touching her hair.
“Radiant! So, I see...” She nodded. “Very nice, and I love the sign. Huge improvement.”
“Thank you.” He touched his heart. “I’m thrilled you noticed.”
“Well, those will go nicely with the sea bass I just picked up. I’ve got some mint, fennel and cucumber. I could probably make a salad with those radiant radishes.” She chewed on her lower lip.
“That sounds very tasty.”
“Well, work’s been really slow, lately. So I’ve had plenty of time to cook pathetically elaborate dinners.”
“And when do I get to try one?” Belle glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed.
“I told you,” she grinned, fussing with the radishes, “when I get an invite to your farm.”
“You’ve had an invite for months.” Lachlan leaned in and Belle met his eyes. His flickered down to where her tongue darted out to lick her lips and back, his breath catching, pulse racing. If they had been alone rather than standing in front of the entire market, Lachlan was sure she would have leaned in close enough for a kiss. A kiss he would have been more than happy to brush against her sweet, glistening lips.
Her eyes went dreamy for a moment, and Lachlan heard Julien give a derisive snort that broke them both from their reverie.
“Ah, yeah, by the way, my boyfriend is here.” Belle turned away, glancing nervously at the tent with the record vendor. Lachlan felt his insides shrivel.
Dumb fuck, she’s just being friendly. She’s not flirting with your lame old ass.
Outwardly, he plastered on a smile as Belle waved Gary over. “He usually works late Friday nights, so he can’t make it, but I dragged him out of bed this morning.” He ignored her wave, flipping glumly through the crates of records, the scowl on his face making Lachlan’s urge to punch him in the face even stronger.
“Gary!” Belle called out, waving her hand when he finally glanced up again. “Gary!” She waved enthusiastically, her yellow sundress rising up to swirl pleasantly about her legs as the wind caught at the edges. Gary gave the crate he’d been looking in a petulant shove and lumbered toward them.
Lachlan handed her a business card before Gary could join them. “Look, if you do want to come by, it’s only two, or three, hours drive. Just take the Canyon Road. Easy.”
“If you leave at the ass-crack of dawn,” Julien offered, snickering.
“Yes, thank you.” Lachlan bundled him off with a shove. “Thank you, very much, Julien, back to work with you…” The young man just laughed, turning back to the table as Belle’s hulk of a boyfriend arrived, giving Lachlan a dismissive glare. Belle’s glare back at him was not lost on Lachlan, even if it was lost on Gary.
“Gary, this is Lachlan.” Gary barely grunted acknowledgement, staring hard at Belle, who was tucking away the business card that Lachlan had just handed her. “Lachlan… Gary. You’re both musicians.”
Gary nodded sullenly, but Lachlan was gonna be the bigger man. He was gonna show Belle he was above being petty. He could be friends. He could do this.
“Oh, yeah? What do you play?” He asked. Gary’s brows knit together, as he seemed to actually see Lachlan for the first time, giving him a once over. Belle bounced on her toes between them, an excited little smile curving her lips, her curls bouncing around her shoulders.
“I’m a DJ.” Gary puffed out his chest, lifting his chin in challenge. Lachlan bit back a snort of laughter.
“Right.” He was a fucking musician. He was playing guitar with his bandmates to venues full of screaming fans before Gary was fucking shitting in his diapers. He was a musician. If Belle liked musicians, he knew right where she could find one. This condescending cretin was no musician he was a bloody DJ. Lachlan just nodded towards the milk crates filled with vintage vinyl. “Well, there’s some good stuff in the bins over there.”
“Yeah, I just found the Beach Boys’
Sunflower
over there.”
“Classic.” Lachlan nodded. Belle looked positively thrilled they were getting along, and Lachlan kept up his painfully fake smile.
“Hell of a lot better than
Pet Sounds
, if you ask me.” Gary was unshaven, his hair perfectly, artfully, messy in a way that was obviously contrived. His hipster vibe was enough to make Lachlan cringe, but at least he had some taste in music.
“Ah, a fellow contrarian, I see.” Lachlan nodded, trying his best to stay polite.
“Absolutely.” Gary turned away looking at Belle. “Can we go now?”
“Did you get a coffee?” Belle asked, smoothing down the collar of Gary’s denim jacket with a pout.
“No. The coffee guy was too slow and it was pissing me off, “ he grumped. He was clearly done with Lachlan. “I just wanna get out of here.” He watched her face fall. She clearly enjoyed her time in the sun and fresh air, and her idiot boyfriend was too wrapped up in himself to see it.
Arse.
“Ok,” Belle cajoled. “I’m just gonna get these.” She handed Lachlan the radishes with a put on smile of her own.
“Right.” Lachlan bagged the produce quickly. “It was good to see you, Belle. Nice to meet you, Gary.”
“I’m gonna go pay for that record.” Gary completely ignored him and stomped away. Belle tried to maintain her smile, but it no longer sparkled in her eyes as it had earlier. Before Gary had cast his shadow on the morning.
“What’s the damage on these guys?” She asked, too brightly.
“Just make it a buck.” He handed her the bag with a soft smile, trying to catch her eye.
“No.”
“I’m telling you…”
“Thank you.”
“Sorry about Gary.” She held onto the dollar, before releasing it to his gentle tug. “He’s an ass before he’s had like three coffees in the morning. I should have known better than to bring him.”
“S’no matter.” He shrugged it off. The other man’s obvious condescension rankling, but he knew Belle didn’t feel that way.
“It is to me.” He met her eyes again, and hers were over-bright. She wasn’t happy. He could feel it in his bones. Not that he was the man to make her happy, but fuck if he didn’t want to try. He pushed the ridiculous thought aside. She was a friend. A friend. “Robinson Farm. Road twenty-three.”
“I’ll sleep with one eye open,” he teased, giving her a wide and genuine smile. She gave him one in return, this one reaching her eyes, before she turned away with a tiny wave.
#
They took a detour downtown to a lawyer’s office, Lachlan hoping to get his license reinstated more quickly than the four-month suspension he was facing. It rankled him, to have to go see a fucking lawyer, but he didn’t want to put Warren or Julien out any more than necessary. He just wanted to be able to get back to his life, and they to theirs.
“Where are we going?” Julien asked.
“Towards the tall buildings.” Julien rolled his eyes.
“I know. But why?”
“Because I fucking said so. I have something to take care of. Just drive.”
“Ok, ok.”
He sat quietly while the lawyer read through his papers, the noises he made as he flipped through the pages thoroughly disheartening.
“You took the FST.”
“The what?”
“The FST. Field Sobriety Test.” The other man shook his head.
“Oh, yeah. Well, the officer had me get out of the car and stand on one leg. If I hadn’t been so drunk, I’d have probably found the whole thing rather humiliating.” Lachlan tossed back his hair and gave the lawyer his most charming smile. “I’d probably have passed it, as well.” He laughed at his own joke for a moment before realizing that the lawyer was glaring at him over the papers. The chuckle died on his lips.
“There’s no such thing as passing those tests,” Mr. Silva admonished him, all business behind his big, fancy desk. Lachlan suddenly felt small and unimportant in his dirty farm workers’ clothes, his corduroy jacket and long hair completely out of place in this starched and pressed world of suits and ties and fancy briefcases. “It doesn’t matter what you do. It’s just more evidence against you. You should never agree to those tests.”
“Well, that’s good to know...now,” Lachlan shot back. “Thanks.”
Mr. Silva huffed, shuffling the papers back into a neat pile and folding his hands over them. “Look, if we plead guilty, I can probably get you four months suspended license, plus a fine. Somewhere in the neighborhood of four or five thousand dollars.” Lachlan’s heart sank into his shoes. He might as well have said a million dollars. It would take him a year to pay that off.
“Wow.”
“That’s the best you’re going to get.” He looked at Lachlan with sympathy, but his dark eyes were firm. There was no negotiation, no argument. “Oh, one other thing. What is your immigration status?”
“Permanent legal resident. I, ah, have a green card.” He nodded confidently, that at least he knew was secure. “ Been here for years.”
“No prior arrests?”
Lachlan shook his head, about to shrug it off, he paused, holding up his hand. “No...well, one.”
The other man looked up sharply, his brow creasing. “You have a prior? Arrest or conviction?”
“Half ounce of marijuana or something. It was years ago.” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, glancing down as he fidgeted with his fingers.
“You’re going to need to speak with an immigration attorney. I’ll set up a meeting first thing on Monday.”
“I’m a permanent legal resident.” Lachlan insisted, his head swirling. Why would a twelve year old drug charge come back to bite him now? It was a whole other lifetime ago.
“It doesn’t matter, you need to talk to Piper. Oh, and whatever you do, do not drive. We don’t want to make a bad situation worse.”
“I have a green card.” He could hear his own desperation.
“First thing Monday morning.” Lachlan was brushed off and out of the office before he could think. He and Julien headed back to the farm in silence. Surely, a minor indiscretion from another life couldn’t get him kicked out of the US? He had a job. A life he liked. How was this even happening? Just last week he hadn’t a care in the world besides whether Belle was flirting with him or not, and now his entire existence was threatened over one dumb mistake.
Well, he’d had his cares. Which was why he was drinking in the first place, but now everything felt bigger, closer, and more ominous.
#
Lachlan poured himself another whisky, the melancholy strains of T.Rex’s
Spaceball Ricochet
washing over him while he took a sip, letting the amber heat flow down to his belly. He pushed the sliders on the soundboard and spoke easily into the mic.
“Welcome to another edition of
Flameouts
, the show where we discuss the tragic and sometimes spectacular deaths of the world’s greatest musicians. I’m your host, Lachlan McAldonich.” He settled back, and let himself slide into the easy rhythm of the narrative. He didn’t need Wikipedia or Google or even a script to let the stories flow, he was there, he remembered those nights. Those parties. The booze. The sex. The drugs. All of it. “Tonight Marc Bolan of T.Rex.” He rattled off the details of Bolan’s career, the highs and lows, the hits and misses, and the tragic circumstances of the singer’s untimely death.
When the show was finished, Lachlan watched the record spin on the turntable for a few minutes before picking it up gently and replacing
The Slider
carefully back into its jacket. The rest of his life might be a mess of empty beer bottles and dirty cereal bowls, but his record collection was immaculate, pristine, and consisting mostly of those who lived fast, played hard, and died young and tragically.
Something about doing the show was catharsis. He may only have a handful of regular listeners, but the hobby was a balm for his own soul, and he felt a little weight lifted off it each time he edited and uploaded another episode.
#
Warren had agreed he needed to see the immigration lawyer that Silva had suggested first thing Monday morning. Lachlan stared at the keys to his pickup where they sat on the counter. His options were to pay a fortune that he didn’t have for a cab, take two hours by train and bus or just fucking take his own truck. It wasn’t like his momentary indiscretion had left him incapable of driving. He just wanted this whole fucking mess to go away. Everything had been fine. He stood there for a moment longer, indecision and the desire to do it right at war with the part of him that said it just wasn’t fucking fair.
“Fuck it.” He snatched the keys and slammed the door behind him before climbing into the cab and heading into the city.
Of course, the immigration lawyer was also an unmitigated disaster. Another five thousand dollars. And the threat of being deported back to Scotland. Bloody fucking brilliant.
#
Belle dragged Gary through the market once again, dark sunglasses shading his eyes from the sunlight. She caught Lachlan’s eye and he sent her a wide smile and a toss of his shaggy head that made her stomach flip over in a very pleasant way. She blushed a bit when she remembered Gary stomping along beside her. This time it had been his idea to come to the market.
Lachlan gave Gary a curt nod, his lips pressed together. The twinkle in his eyes and his toothy, crooked grin was definitely for her. “Gary, Belle, how are ye today? What can I do ye for?”
Gary immediately shot out a hand to Lachlan, and Lachlan gave it a suspicious glance before accepting it. Even Belle thought Gary looked a little sheepish, a bit fawning, but he pumped Lachlan’s hand.
“Oh, man,” Gary said, giving Lachlan a disarming smile, “Lachlan MacAldonich, from
The Cranks
. Man, I had
no
idea. Dude, I’m, like a huge fan.
Bank Street Waltz
is my favorite album. Ask Belles.” He turned to Belle and she shrugged and nodded. “I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you last week. I feel like an idiot.”
“No matter,” Lachlan insisted, rearranging a display of artichokes that had been jostled by the crowd. “That’s ancient history now.”
Gary pulled a flyer out of a pocket in the olive drab jacket he was wearing and handed it to Lachlan, who looked it over, the crease between his brows deepening. “Hey, I do a total Britpop night every Friday at the Das Bunker on East Topanga in the valley. If you wanted to come by one night, I’d love to, you know, make you the guest of honor. Do a whole thing.” He was rambling, and Belle cringed at the furrow that formed between Lachlan’s brow.
Lachlan pulled away, frowning. “I’m not interested in that life anymore.” He fiddled with the tomatoes, restacking several that were already perfect. “I’m sorry.”
“Ok, no problem.” He lifted his hands and shook his head. “Man, it’s an honor to meet you. Tell Belle if you change your mind. Keep the flyer.”
Belle yanked Gary away before he made an utter fool of himself. She hoped next Saturday, Gary just decided to stay in bed.
#
The alarm rang early on Tuesday morning, but Lachlan lay staring quietly at the ceiling. He had nowhere to be today, though he should be trying to hustle up some funds for his legal defense. Maybe going back to Scotland wouldn’t be the end of the world. He shuddered and ran a hand over his face, scratching at the stubble on his chin. He thought dejectedly about the meager balance in his bank account and rolled over, pulling the covers up to his ears. Fuck all if he didn’t need to get his shit together.
He’d hit up Wendell, the man of the hour back in the day, still living in the posh part of the Hills, with a big, fancy gate and people who fawned over him. Parties every Friday and Saturday night. He’d been their manager, back in the heyday. The guy who always held their hands and cleaned up their messes. He was the one who got Lachlan’s weed charge bargained down to practically nothing. But Wendell hadn’t ever really been his friend. Jed had been Wendell’s boy, his prodigy, his star. Lachlan was always just along for the ride as far as Wendell was concerned. The perpetual screw-up. The reason his real meal-ticket, party-ticket, high-life ride was gone.
Wendell had basically told Lachlan to go fuck himself. He wasn’t cleaning up any more messes. There had been a moment of uncomfortable silence that stretched between them before Wendell had asked if he’d done an episode of Flameouts on Jed. It had been humiliating. The other man had asked him if he’d been back home to Scotland to face his family. Face the people he’d left behind. The people he’d stolen Jed from. Lachlan had left without a penny and the knowledge that Wendell resented and blamed him every bit as much as he resented and blamed himself.
He would do an episode on Jed one day, but not today.
His phone rang, and Lachlan started, picking up the ancient flip phone and glancing at the unknown number. He hesitated a moment before answering. “Lachlan MacAldonich.”
“Hey, Lachlan,” a bright, feminine voice answered, “it’s Belle. I got your number from the business card you gave me.” He did a double-take, why would Belle be calling him?
“Hi, Belle, of course. To what do I owe the pleasure?” He was desperately trying to sound nonchalant, even as a little thrill ran through him at the sound of her voice in his ear.
“Well, I had nothing to do today, and I was feeling trapped and bored, so I just started driving.” There was a moment of silence.
“That sounds fun, I suppose.” He filled the gap in the most inane way possible and cringed at his own ridiculousness. Belle laughed.
“I find myself driving in your direction. You told me I was welcome to come and visit the farm.” She paused, and he could practically hear her biting her lip in that adorable way she had. Pearl white teeth pressing down on plump, pink flesh. A shiver ran through him. “I can be there in an hour. Do you mind?” She sounded tentative, and he did not want her to think herself unwelcome at all.
“Well, today just happens to be my day off, so please, come down.” Lachlan wanted to shout for joy, but he kept his voice in check. “It would be my pleasure to show you around.”
“Great!” Belle chirped. “See you in an hour.”
Lachlan flipped his phone shut and stared at it for a long minute, wondering what this all meant. Was she interested in him or just bored and looking for a distraction? Did it matter? He was going to spend the day in the company of a beautiful, intelligent woman with a sense of humor he enjoyed. He pumped his fist in a little gesture of triumph before rolling out of bed to get in the shower.
He tidied his little flat as much as possible before spending a few minutes picking out his nicest pair of jeans and a white linen shirt that was newer and less worn than some of the others. He brushed his teeth and hair till both were shining and he felt the nerves flutter in his stomach like he was a teenager all over again, untried and unsure and clueless. Lachlan glanced at his reflection in the dingy, rust-spotted mirror and laughed at himself for his own folly. Belle was a friend and he was a fool to hope for anything more.
Blessedly, before he could spend much more time fretting, he heard her car pull into the drive, tires crunching on the gravel. There was no more time to second-guess himself or her. Now was the time to smile and greet her and give her the grand tour.
Lachlan guided her to an out-of-the-way spot in the shade of a large oak, and she parked up. He offered his hand and she grasped it as she got out of the car, her powder blue sundress flaring up and baring her long, perfect legs before she pushed it down, giggling. Color rose in her cheeks and chest, and he felt his own blush rise as he laughed with her. God, she was beautiful. He wondered for the tenth time in the last hour what she was doing here with him.
“Welcome, to Robinson Farm, Belle.” Lachlan gestured with one arm to the expanse of green and brown stretching out before them, as far as the eye could see, fallow fields ready to be planted, and plush, green fields bursting with produce ready for harvest. At the horizon, the orchards rose up, groves of peaches and avocados, pears and almonds, making the farm seem like it went on forever. The other arm Lachlan offered to Belle, dressed as she was in a sundress and wedge heels, not the most practical for traipsing through fields and orchards, but she seemed to manage well enough.
“Thank you!” She smiled, taking his proffered arm and following him down through rows of knee high corn, the slender, lime green shoots reaching happily for the sun. Belle did the same, lifting her face from beneath the floppy straw hat she wore and smiling as she squinted up at the bright blue sky the same color as her eyes. His heart did a little double-time. He pointed out rows of lush strawberries and vines of ripening tomatoes hung from pvc structures. They strolled together easily, their strides matching precisely and effortlessly.
“It’s so interesting to see where my food comes from,” Belle gushed, as he showed her row upon row of lettuces in various colors and varieties from deep purple and dark green to chartreuse. “Does everything go year round?”
“It does indeed,” Lachlan answered, guiding her through vine-covered trellises bursting with bright, sunny-yellow zucchini blossoms. Belle stopped to touch one and started as a fat, lumbering, bumblebee popped out and buzzed gently before zipping off faster than she expected. “Different crops are rotated throughout the year, depending on conditions.”
“Fascinating.” He watched her look around in wonderment as a large harvester trundled by, it’s gigantic tires towering over their heads. “Where is that going?”
“Down to the almond grove, about a half-mile that way.” He gestured off towards the trees on the horizon. “We can go down there and watch if you like.” Belle nodded eagerly, and he smiled to himself, determined to enjoy her company for as long as he had it.
#
They came to a large coop constructed of lumber and chicken wire, and Lachlan disengaged to scoop up a metal coffee can full of seeds and grains and other unidentified bits and bobs. Crickets? Mealworms? She wasn’t sure. She wrinkled her nose.
“Would you like to help me feed our mental chickens?” Lachlan asked, shaking the can and laughing merrily as the chickens bopped over, pecking at him and each other and squawking loudly. “Get back, you ravenous beasties.” He waved the can around, causing the raucous hens and proud, aloof rooster to scatter with the flap and bluster of many wings, feathers flying.
“No, thanks,” Belle laughed, watching as he stepped carefully, scattering the seed mix over the ground, the crazy chickens scraping and pecking madly around his feet. “I think I’ll stay safely on this side of the fence.”
“Well, they’re really all right.” Lachlan cooed gently at them, and they seemed to calm down, one of them actually scooting up under him and weaving through his legs until he reached down to scritch her on the head. “Wilhelmina here is our best layer. That is, only if she gets a proper head scritch every day.”
“Aww. Tell her she lays delicious eggs.” Belle ran a finger across the chicken wire. “My favorite, by far, of all the egg vendors.”
“Did’ja hear that Mina?”
The hen butted his hand, rubbing her head into his fingers and clearly enjoying herself. Belle thought she might enjoy the feeling of those fingers playing over her scalp as well before reluctantly pushing the thought away.
Keep it in your pants, Belle. He’s your friend, and you still have a boyfriend.
He spent a few more minutes with the hen before collecting the food can and slipping out the door of the coop.
They spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the orchards, shoes off, soft grass tickling between her toes as she and Lachlan strolled arm-in-arm beneath the sun-dappled leaves. She felt so comfortable with him, his easy chatter filling the companionable silences. He reached up and plucked two rosy pears that dangled just above the path, handing her one with a little toss of his head and a shy grin. Sticky-sweet juice spilled over her hand and dripped down her chin when she took a bite. Belle closed her eyes and moaned in pleasure at the bright, crisp flavor that burst over her tongue, giggling as she suddenly remembered where she was and who she was with. She glanced over at Lachlan who’s own pear was poised for a second bite. His eyes were wide and dark as he stared at her, a trickle of juice at the corner of his mouth tempting her fantasy.
Belle’s first thought was to reach over and swipe it away with her fingers and sucking the juice from them while he watched. Her second thought was to simply lean in and lick it off with her tongue before devouring his mouth in a hungry kiss. For a moment, she imagined laying with him in the soft grass, kissing and touching until the sticky sweetness was everywhere, chasing it with her tongue. Lachlan chasing it with his.
Belle shivered, goosebumps rising on her arms even though the sunlight was warm on her skin. Her reverie was broken by Lachlan wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and his hand on his jeans.
“Pretty good, eh?” He chuckled, his eyes roaming her face. Belle nodded, hiding her blushes by taking another bite. “Aye. Right good.”
What the hell had gotten into her?