“Knock yourself out,” Betty answered with that hint of a sly grin.
Mabel grabbed the can.
“Are you sure you don’t want our help?” Margaret pressed with a crease to her brow.
Mabel waved her off. “That’s very sweet of you, but we need a lot of help, and we need it fast. I think I know where to get it. We’ll meet you at the town square. I can’t wait to see your horoscope booth.”
“Do you want to know your future now?” Sally called.
Mabel adored these women, but she didn’t need to hear another rendition of how Gemini’s forged their own path, blah, blah, blah.
She checked the clock again. “Does that future include what will happen in the next forty-seven minutes?”
Sally tapped her chin. “It’s more of a long-term prediction.”
That would be a hard no.
Mabel smiled at the woman, then propped open the door. “I’d love to hear it later. Can I get a rain check?”
“What about you, Cal? Want to know what’s written in the stars?” Sally continued.
“Um,” Cal said, but Mabel flashed him her don’t-you-dare-say-yes eyes.
“Cal has to carry the assports for me,” she answered for the man, pointing to the stack of papers and then to the door like she was directing a covert mission. Luckily, her broody farmer got it and sprang into action, swooping up the giant stack and bolting out the door.
“What’s the plan?” he called over his shoulder.
She opened the passenger door for him. “Baseball.”
“Baseball is going to fix our assports?” he asked, but she didn’t have time for twenty questions. They needed to get moving.
She jumped in the truck, jammed the key into the ignition, then gunned the engine, heading toward the park situated caddy-corner from the town square—the location of the first Saturday Eat Elverna Farmers’ Market. As the members of the sustainable farming initiative set up their stands, she zoomed by and spied Kenny and Abe unloading the Muldowney Farms truck.
Everything, minus this assport situation, looked to be going full speed ahead.
Soon, patrons would arrive eager to get their Eat Elverna Passport stamped.
“This has to work,” she mumbled, taking a corner way too fast. The wheels whined their protest as Cal struggled to hold on to the giant stack.
“Mabel, talk to me!” he exclaimed.
“There’s a little league tournament at the ball field today,” she answered.
“What does a little league tournament have to do with the passports?” he pressed, shifting the mountain of papers.
“Assports,” she corrected.
“Jesus, Mabel!” he cried, exasperation coating the words. “You’re acting like a maniac!”
Her idea was either going to be completely genius or an epic failure, but she needed to slow down. Centering herself, she exhaled a slow breath. “Hands, Cal. We need hands that can write the letter P,” she replied as succinctly as possible.
She veered toward the curb, slid in behind a minivan parked across from the ball field, and hit the brakes like she was auditioning to be a stunt driver as Cal turned ghost white.
“Look,” she directed, pointing out the window at the clusters of adults gathered in groups as little boys in crisp white uniforms peppered the field.
Cal’s gaze bounced from the assports to the bustling park. “Are you about to ask a bunch of six-year-olds to help us fix these?”
She cut the ignition. Counting the pint-sized players, the other children milling about, and the bevy of adults scattered across the field, they could change these assports into passports in no time flat. “It’s worth a shot, right?” she replied.
The color returned to his cheeks, and he gave her the sweet smile that made her weak in the knees. “You’re crazy, you know that?” he said, looking entirely a-okay with crazy.
She held his gaze. “We’re so close to making Eat Elverna a success, Cal. I can feel it.”
She wanted this. She wanted today to be the start of something big for Elverna…and perhaps herself. Could she have the best of both worlds? Would it be possible to whet her appetite for travel and fashion while making a life here? It had never seemed like a choice until this very moment.
Cal glanced over the stack of papers. “I recognize that guy. I think that he lives a few towns over now. If I remember right, his family used to farm in Elverna. He’s the man in the blue shirt wearing a whistle around his neck. It looks like he’s one of the coaches.”
Mabel tapped her hands on the steering wheel. “See, it’s a sign!”
Cal chuckled. “You sound like the old Young sisters.”
Excitement coursed through her veins. “They’re usually right, aren’t they?”
He stilled. “Come to think of it, yes, they usually are.”
She surveyed the scene. “We’ll walk over to that coach you know, explain the situation, then ask if he’ll lend us the kids for a few minutes.” She pointed to a throng of children sprinting from home plate over to first base. “Look at them run! They’re like little balls of energy. We need them to knock out a bunch of Ps. That’s not so weird, is it?”
Cal cringed. “I’m not going to lie, Mabel. It is a little weird.”
“But worth a shot?” she parried back.
She gazed into his stormy blue eyes. They’d been at each other for so many years. She’d do something to deliberately annoy him, and he’d ignore her. But now, on the same side and working together, she couldn’t deny that she’d never been happier. She’d dreamed of having this man want and need her. And here they were, again at another crossroads. The question was, did he have faith in her?
“Well?” she asked, her heart hammering in her chest.
“Can you get the door for me? These assports weigh a ton,” he said, keeping his tone even, but the glint in his eyes gave away his measured expression.
She grabbed the can of pens and grinned from ear to ear. He was all in.
She wanted to knock the assports off his lap, wrap her arms around his neck and kiss her broody farmer until the cows came home—which they actually did around six thirty each day. But they didn’t have a second to waste. Instead, she jumped out of the car, ran to his side, and swung open the door. They started toward the field, and she glanced at her watch. They had little more than half an hour.
“Be careful, Cal! Don’t drop any of the assports!” she warned.
He gave her that look.
She rolled her eyes at her farmer. “You’re a manly man with those big strong hands of yours. But I want you to be extra vigilant.”
“When am I not vigilant?” he shot back with a wink.
He had a point. With his lists, charts, spreadsheets, and that whiteboard that looked as if he had all the makings of a methodical serial killer, whatever way you sliced it, the man was a practitioner of efficiency and vigilance.
“That’s true,” she conceded. “You are maddeningly regimented and detail-oriented.”
“You didn’t seem to mind my attention to detail last night,” he said, lowering his voice.
A tingle ran down her spine and settled below her belly.
Stop! No sexytimes thoughts until after the assports become passports!