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She stands. Looks down at herself. My flannel, her torn dress underneath, boots dusty from the fall.

"I'll wash the flannel and bring it back," she says.

"Don't wash it. Just bring it back."

"You don't want it washed?"

"I don't want you to put effort into it. Just return it."

Something flashes in her eyes. Not hurt. More like she's filing something away. Making a note. Studying me the way she studied the chili.

"Saturday?" she asks. "When the patch is actually open?"

A nod. One word would be too many right now.

She picks up her bag. Heads for the door. At the threshold she turns back, one hand on the frame, light from the window catching the silver on her fingers.

"For the record," she says, "I would've paid for the pumpkin."

"It wasn't for sale."

"Then I would've asked permission."

"On a day when I'm closed."

"You weren't closed. You were here."

My mouth opens. Closes. She's impossible. She's absolutely, completely impossible.

"Saturday," I repeat.

Her smile widens. "Thanks for the chili, Deck. And the fruit."

"Berry."

"Right." The smile gets bigger. "And the flannel."

Then she's gone, screen door slapping shut behind her, boots on gravel, my flannel disappearing down the path toward the gate.

I sit at the table. Two empty bowls. Two spoons. The slow cooker still warm, the kitchen still smelling like peppers and cinnamon, and an empty chair across from me that five minutes ago had a woman in it.

Been eating alone at this table for five years. Never noticed the chair was empty until right now.

I get up. Wash the bowls. Wipe down the counter. Put the cornbread away. Normal things. Routine. The farm doesn't stop because some woman fell off my crates and ate my food and told me my chili was art while wearing my clothes.

My phone buzzes on the counter. Text from Hilda.

Hilda:

Somebody told me a pretty woman was headed toward your farm today. City car on Creek Road. Please don't scare her off before she gets to the patch, Deck. You need customers.

Me:

Patch is closed today.

Hilda:

Then why was the gate open?