Chapter Seventeen
Avoiding Carmel’s kitchen the next morning; even forgoing her morning coffee, Lindsey stuck to her self-enforced diet of fresh, unpeeled fruit. She had a lot on her mind, anyway, and a stroll around the garden seemed appropriate: some quiet time to sort through her ideas and, perhaps, the opportunity of seeing Toussaint, working in the field opposite. The thought of his shoulders quickened her step. But the field was empty, except for the pumpkins basking in the morning sun.
As she sauntered back along the gravel pathway she heard a noise from the garage. Passing by the open doors, Lindsey saw Roberto, leaning over the rear fender, sweeping away droplets of water with a yellow shammy. He had discarded his jacket and cap and worked in his shirtsleeves, rolled to the elbo
