Meeting Finch Blakely

My car wasn’t supposed to break down.

I intended to drive myself to Napa in order to soothe my thoughts and calm my nerves before meeting him. Him being Finch Blakely, the man I kept running into at Marley’s, the local market.

The first time it happened was in the springtime of last year, when I happened to be deciding between bell peppers. I had plucked a bright sunset-orange one from the pile and was examining it for bruises when I noticed a man come up beside me. He had come for the cucumbers.

I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was a man compiled of edges—his entire left arm was covered in tattoos, and his midnight-black hair was combed to perfection. Most of the shoppers at Marley’s were rounded, not in stature but in the way they carried themselves: grandmothers, new moms, the occasional middle-aged man lost in his own mind.

The bell pepper slipped from my hands, and to my surprise, Finch bent down to pick it up. He placed it in my hands as if it were a fine porcelain cup, and offered me a smile before returning to his shopping.

Two weeks later I saw him again in produce, and I tried to skirt away from him, slipping into the canned beans aisle instead.

I couldn’t shake the image of him from my head—he was someone who had the air of being of the shadows, yet week after week his cart was filled with colorful fruits and vegetables, narrow boxes of penne, the occasional tub of ricotta.

The first time we actually talked was in the freezer section. I was deciding what kind of frozen pizza I would most enjoy eating in front of the television that night, when he appeared next to me.

“You know, we keep running into each other,” he said, and I was surprised at the warmth in his voice.

“We do.” Then, because I didn’t want him to leave, I asked “which one of these would you recommend?”

I ended up leaving the market that night with a four cheese thin crust and a fluttering heart.

When I wrote down my phone number on his receipt two months later, I didn’t expect for him to actually call.

We agreed on Château de Flaire, a French themed winery I had been to before with some friends. It was somewhere I felt comfortable enough in, and I could make a quick escape if he turned out to be a crazy axe-murderer.

My car was not supposed to break down halfway there. Admittedly, this old Volvo of mine was bound to die at some point, but for it to be today of all days felt cruel.

With sweaty, fumbling hands I dialed Finch’s number and held my breath.

“Tamara? Is everything okay?” he asked.

I exhaled. “My car broke down. It’s old and…” I trailed off.

“I’ll come get you, no worries. Where are you?”

After we hung up, I got out of the car and tucked myself away against the median. I folded my arms against myself and stared up at the fire-tinder mountains that surround the valley. I imagined Finch driving a rusty pickup truck, or a tinted-windowed SUV, but then I caught myself. Why did I keep assuming he was less than me?

I kicked a rock into the ditch before remembering my open-toed heels and bit the inside of my cheek to keep from cursing. It was my own fault I was in this position. Who goes on a date with a guy they met at a grocery store?

My mind began to spiral, and to distract myself I started sorting through the contents of my purse. I swept aside the small ocean of old receipts and crumpled them in my hands until they formed a tiny ball. I extracted my collection of pens and tied them together with an old hair tie. By the time I had reorganized my pouch of emergency make-up products, thirty minutes had gone by and my armpits were coated with sweat.

This is it, I thought. I’m going to die out here in a ditch.

But the next moment a silver Prius pulled up behind me and out stepped Finch Blakely. He gave me a small wave.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” he said, looking sheepish.

I opened my mouth to respond but then I saw what he was wearing.

It wasn’t a surprise that Finch’s hair looked perfectly tousled, but it was a surprise to see him in a tailored navy suit, complete with pastel bubble-gum pink tie.

When I didn’t answer right away, he frowned. “Is everything okay? You’re not hurt, are you?”

I blushed at his concern and shook my head. “No, sorry. I guess I’m just a little hot.”

He nodded. “When you told me where you’d broken down, I had an idea.” His face colored. “I hope it’s okay, but a buddy of mine works at the winery just across the road.”

I let the coincidence roll over me and peered past him at the little stone house tucked away amongst the vines. I couldn’t believe that I hadn’t noticed it before. Near the house, elegant fruit trees reached their branches out under the sunshine, their boughs heavy with citrus.

Finch walked around his tiny car and took out a reusable shopping bag. He opened it wide to show me the contents.

Inside were neatly packaged containers of hard cheeses, summer sausages, grapes, and fine chocolates. He pulled out a slim bottle of Merlot.

“If you’d be willing,” he said, albeit a little breathlessly, “I would love to take you there for a picnic.”

The boyish smile on his face softened my insides, and I realized that this wasn’t just a risk for me, but for him, too. For all he knew, I could reject him and demand for him to take me home.

I imagined us settled in the grass together, a glass of the Merlot in each of our hands, the sweet spread of food he'd brought placed around us. The weather was fine and the breeze was cool, and I let myself breathe deeply.

I held up a finger and opened my trunk. Pulling off my heels, I exchanged them for sandals and grabbed the eagle-print blanket my grandmother forced me to put in my car.

“Let’s do this,” I said.

Finch grinned and together we crossed the road and made our way down the drive to the stone house.