“I COULD ABSOLUTELY kiss you!” Aimee grinned at the farmers’ market vendor, then whipped around to show Taylor a fistful of the slender cherry-red stalks. “Beautiful rhubarb, exactly what I wanted. Organic, local . . .” She turned back to the smiling vendor. “But they’re so finicky to grow in Southern California. How do you do it?”

“We’re up in the coastal mountains. It’s a little cooler, but still plenty of sun. That’s a Victoria variety, from our five-year-old plants.” The fresh-faced young woman glanced at her tall and lanky husband, Aiden —Aiden and Eve of the Garden of Eatin’ farm. “We mulch with our own compost and hand-tend all the crops ourselves.” She smiled and patted her obviously expectant tummy. “Five more weeks for this particular one.”

Aimee chuckled. “You’re here every Friday?”

“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,” Eve assured, handing Aimee her change and a flyer for their family farm. “Like chickens to the roost.”

“Perfect.” Aimee slung her mother’s faded rope market tote over her shoulder. “I’ll need more of this wonderful stuff next Friday. I’m going to make it famous.”

Eve grinned. “We’ll be here. Count on it.”

Aimee thanked her again, then followed Taylor as she wove through the tents, mounded displays of produce bright as a painter’s palette, and a crowd of shoppers already boasting summer linen, sandals, and sunglasses. The air was a delicious mix of sea spray, kettle corn, and Moroccan grilled chicken. Aimee’s stomach rumbled; she reminded herself to think vegan.

“I can see the creative wheels turning, my little ‘rising culinary star,’” Taylor teased as they settled at a small outside table. “Rhubarb. Your mom’s yummy recipe?”

“What could be better?” Aimee closed her eyes for a moment, enjoying the sun on her face as a light breeze sifted her hair. “Strawberry rhubarb crumble was my birthday dessert as far back as I can remember. All tangy and sweet, with buttery brown sugar–and–oatmeal topping. I’d smell it before I opened my eyes in the morning; then Mom would pretend to smack me with her baking spoon when I sneaked some.” Aimee met her cousin’s gaze, swallowing against a growing ache. “That last week . . . she said she only wished she could make my dessert one more time.”

“Aw, sweetie.” Taylor reached across the table to touch her hand.

“So now I’ll bake it for her,” Aimee said with a decisive nod. “And I’ll decorate the crumble top with strawberries cut into little Valentine hearts . . .” She frowned.

“What?”

“Lucas Marchal. I can’t even plan a garnish without seeing his face.”

“Not such a bad face.”

“I guess not.” Warmth that had nothing to do with the sun crept up Aimee’s neck. “But it’s so obvious that he questions my motives.” She saw Taylor’s brows lift. “Okay, I’m there because I don’t want Wanda to write me up —in smoke trails over the hospital roof while cackling from her broom.” Aimee winced, instantly sorry. “Edward’s awful joke. I shouldn’t have repeated it.”

Taylor’s eyes were kind. “She’s giving you a hard time?”

“Not directly.” Aimee sighed. “I heard she’s been an aide for like thirty years. But I don’t think she likes her job. Or anyone there. I get the sense she’s putting in the time and counting the minutes until she can retire. I think the only thing that makes Wanda Clay happy is her dog.”

“I’ve seen her walking him and . . .” Taylor hesitated for a moment. “Wanda’s faced some challenges. She hasn’t kept it secret that her husband ran off and left her with a mountain of debt. It was a long time ago, but some people have a hard time letting go of bitter feelings. And dealing with unexpected loss.” She took a slow breath. “I’m guessing she’s holding on to all that hurt so tightly that she’s forgotten how good it used to feel to help people. Be part of a team.”

Aimee studied Taylor’s face. “I swear —when I grow up, I want to be like you.”

Taylor laughed, raised her hands. “Just don’t expect me to weigh in on your hunky CSI situation. Out of my league.”

“I doubt that,” Aimee told her, wondering if her cousin had already managed to weigh in without realizing it. “Some people have a hard time letting go . . .” Had she completely missed that about Lucas? She’d empathized with his grandmother’s grief, but this was also about her grandson . . .

“You’re suddenly lost in thought,” Taylor noted, catching Aimee’s attention again.

“No, not really,” she hedged. “Just thinking I should go pick up some strawberries so I can do a trial run of that recipe tonight. Make sure I won’t miss something important.”

By three thirty, Aimee had found the recipe in her mother’s old tin —filed under B for birthday instead of S —read it several times, and then calculated the necessary changes to convert it to an acceptable vegan dish. She popped a few of the luscious, sweet strawberries into her mouth, hulled the rest, and expertly chopped half of the beautiful and tangy-tart Garden of Eatin’ rhubarb.

Finally she stilled her mother’s German chef’s knife and checked the clock for the third time. And then told herself she was being ridiculous.

It was her day off. And miraculously, Wanda’s as well. Which meant there was no obligation on Aimee’s part to go to the hospital and volunteer her time in the rehab wing. Someone else would watch Margie make a rabbit out of her paper napkin. Another staffer would encourage Rosalynn Marchal to try a sip of juice and praise the dear lady’s halfhearted attempt to use a fork with her left hand. Lucas would be there too, with concern in his beautiful blue eyes. And so much love. Anyone could see that. Maybe someone else could manage to listen to Lucas without bristling and giving in to her own stubborn pride so much that she completely missed . . . Did I do that? Am I that self-centered?

Aimee set her knife down beside her mother’s recipe and reached for another strawberry, remembering what Taylor said. “Some people have a hard time letting go.” She’d been talking about Wanda and her bitterness. But why wouldn’t that apply to Lucas as well? Of course he was afraid he’d lose his grandmother. How well had Aimee handled the thought of losing her mom?

She groaned aloud, remembering her parting shot at Lucas. How she’d smugly called him a pest. She wouldn’t blame him if he managed to avoid her until her obligation to Wanda was completed. Except that he’d trust her to oversee his grandmother’s evening meal about as much as Wanda would trust her with Potter. Lucas would absolutely be there every night. Just the way he was there right now.

Aimee glanced at the clock again. Tray time. With Wanda off today, Aimee would be challenged about being there. As a dietary assistant, as a short-term volunteer . . . but not as a visitor.

Aimee gathered up the rhubarb and strawberries, put them in the apartment’s tiny, aging fridge. Then she grabbed her purse and headed for the door.