Hannibal wished it would rain.

The sky outside his windows was pregnant and taut with precipitation, but stubbornly refusing to loose its drops. He and every plant on his acreage silently begged the sky to open, but the clouds remained indifferent to the pleas of dying verdance. All the requirements for rain were met and mixing in the stratosphere: why was it waiting?

It was enough to drive anyone slightly mad. He retreated from the window and began to grind his coffee.

The morning wore on at its prescribed pace: French pressed coffee, newspaper, protein scramble with a mid-grade 'choice' cut, newspaper. But his eyes continued to be lured by the heavy cumulus clouds and the silver bellies of maple leaves on the breeze.

He dressed sharply in a suit and tie and stalked the sweeping halls of his house, heading for the internal, windowless study. It was only when he'd breathed a sigh of relief at being away from the oppressive sky, having settled into his office chair studiously, that he realized the clouds had followed him. Unconsciously, he'd chosen a suit, tie, and dress shirt in the same hues of gray blanketing the outside air with humidity and molecular tension.

Snorting softly at his own subconscious' strivings, his fingers wandered over a little-used tablet's screen, checking the weather radar for the area. It showed heavy cloud cover, which he already knew about, but the radar was in the middle of its sweep and would not update the information for another half-hour.

The fabric-covered magnet of the tablet cover clacked shut and he put it down on his desk with an uncaring, heavy hand. The psychiatrist in him began to analyze: why was he so concerned about the weather?

Staring up at the vaulted ceilings of his study (by extension, the atmospheric phenomena under contention) and prodding them for answers, he listed the psychological - with emphasis on 'logical' - reasons for a human's desire for torrential downpour.

The want of a symbolic cleansing, he thought. Immediately, he discarded the thought. He had no desire to be cleansed of anything, because nothing stained his soul. If his carnivorous misdeeds were thick, Mesozoic era petrol, then the proverbial cleansing properties of rain were light as linseed oil: sliding harmlessly and ineffectually off his smooth, glopping insides.

A seeking for soothing auditory stimuli? Hannibal continued internally. But why? He was calm as ever, save for a touch of impatience at the atmosphere's teasing promises.

An instinctual want for crops and prey to flourish, he mused. And to put a Freudian twist on it, providence for mating opportunities.

His thin lips quirked dryly in amusement at the thought. He never did put much stock in Freud.

He had but two clients today that required the minimal, autopilot psychiatric urgings. One was a hypochondriac: the other, a mild narcissist. They were of no real challenge, had no true dark secrets, and held not a speck of his interest. In fact, he ought to farm them out to one of his dumber colleagues under the guise of stepping down their level of care. Reaching for his handy Rolodex on the corner of the desk, and dipping into his drawer for a datebook, he thumbed through the carefully arranged business and contact cards, debating his choice of scapegoat for the two bores that weighed his early afternoon.

It was a rare anomaly that his datebook was so barren. Most days, it was stacked with needy, teary-eyed, simple-minded people who usually just needed an ear paid to listen to them ramble and blubber. But today, being a spring holiday weekend tailing off an oddly dry winter, many had called to cancel or move their appointments in favor of pleasant weather activities at the coast.

The weather. It dominated his brain today, even as he called the patients and the referrals.

He wasn't unlike his thirsty land, yearning for the rattle of thunder and snap of lightening. His ears strained for the pat, pat, pat faintly against his distant roof, growing steadily into a lashing roar that drowned the drought and sated the dusty ground.

He shook himself bodily, shutting the datebook with a huff. He needed something to occupy his mind, since patients weren't going to.

Padding down his carpeted hallway in his fine dress shoes, he succumbed to the draw of the windows in his kitchen. Still nothing falling, but the sensitive lining of his nose detected an increase in the warlike humidity.

The promise was alluring. Perhaps the drawn ache of the uncertain was what filled him with such a thrill. He could fathom no other explanation.

He draped his suit coat over a bar chair, rolled up his sleeves, plunked a stool in front of his open refrigerator, and filled a bowl with warm water and a dab of bleach. With his back to the window and the cleaning agent filling his nose, he removed each container of accoutrements and rubbed down the shelves they presided. Everything he stacked in the refrigerator was perishable non-proteins: vegetables, expensive fruit, dairy.

He smiled lovingly as he opened the freezer portion. His proteins never made it to the leftover stage. They were too precious.

A liver from a stranded motorist, taken after an obscene gesture at an intersection.

A kidney from a woman whose profane and innuendo-riddled phone conversation could clearly be heard all over the grocery store.

Sections of a femur bone, for roasting in pursuit of buttery marrow, from a collegiate man who thought he was God's gift to the world.

A heart that he really should get around to eating this week...

Dingdong! Dingdong!

Hannibal pulled his chemical-laden hands from the freezer, brow knitting. "Who could that be?" he murmured.

Hastily, he made his way to the foyer. A politely insistent series of raps sounded on the stately wood. "I'm coming," he called, flinging open the door.

A woman's fist nearly struck him in the chest, but his killer (literally) reflexes caught it just an inch away. Recovering from the surprise, he looked to the hand's owner with mild annoyance. The vexation faded like smoke on the humid breeze.

With a look of sheepishness over her tanned face, the woman in question grinned up at him. "Oh! I'm sorry, did I hurt you?"

Miles of tanned legs extending from delicious jean shorts. Sunbleached blonde hair from under a cute ballcap. Snapping, bright green eyes... Hannibal had to wet his lips before responding. "No. No harm done." Her hand was knobby-knuckled, strong, and had a dash of dirt imbedded in the creases. The contrast of his own meticulously kept hands and her rough ones was striking. He found his throat in need of clearing. "What can I do for you?" he asked, dropping her fist.

She squared her lithe shoulders with a faint blush. "Not exactly how I like to start my spiel, but, here it goes." Shoving a pamphlet at him, she said, "My name is Maryann Shule. My business's name is Bee All Gardening. I am a fully certified horticultural and agricultural specialist, seeking to bring my skills to the homeowner looking to grow beauty, bounty and health on their own land."

Hannibal did not want to stop looking at her, because the animation with which she spoke was intriguing, but he dutifully opened the glossy pamphlet and scanned the services listing.

"You plant and maintain gardens for the use of a homeowner?"

"Yes, sir," Maryann replied, seemingly relieved that he understood. "From landscaping to vegetables and everything in-between." When she tapped her finger on a particular paragraph, there was an unobtrusive amount of dirt under the nail, like she'd given up trying to clean it out completely. "You strike me as a culinary lover, so let me direct your attention to my Chef Package."

"How would you guess that?" he asked, quirking a smile.

"I can smell it," she confessed, indicating the open house behind him. "Like heaven's Olive Garden. You made chicken marsala last night?"

Hannibal was impressed, even though the 'other, other white meat' was used, not chicken. "Good nose," he approved.

"It's something of a hobby," she replied. "Even thought I'm more of a baker, myself." She tapped the paragraph again. "This includes the widest variety of vegetables, and even some fruits."

Baker, hmm? Hannibal, his smile growing despite himself, read the paragraph as she explained. The Chef Package covered a full year, with various vegetables, fruits, and herbs being planted seasonally and tended on an agreed-upon schedule. The price was competitive enough to raise his eyebrows.

He was as restless as the clouds above, though it did not show in his cool exterior. This undertaking might prove the cure.

"Why would I engage your services, Miss Shule?" he asked. It was just as much an opportunity for her to explain, as it was for him to watch her without being accused of staring.

"It's extremely healthy," she began, pleased at the question. "Obviously. The impact of growing your own produce reduces the national and personal carbon footprint. It is easier to go out your door and pick it than drive to the supermarket. And," she leaned in close, as though sharing a secret. "It's incredibly satisfying."

His brown eyes flickered as he mulled her innocent phrasing and the prospect of this endeavor. Why not? Money was no issue. His inner cook was tantalized by the thought of produce at the peak of freshness and flavor - the ideal accompaniment to his choice cuts. And the idea of having this charming young thing bent over and sweating in his yard appealed, too...

As he stared at the pamphlet and considered, he was struck by a wave of oppressive heat. Was the weather, currently refusing to let his sweat leave his skin, altering his mood? Surely not. This was a logical and interesting idea, presented with care and conviction. "I can imagine this most comprehensively, but I believe I would prefer to know." He swung the door open wider. "Would you like to discuss this further in the air conditioning?"

She hesitated. A wise move, though she would never know it. "Forgive my rudeness, but most of my work congregates out of doors. That's where I prefer to be."

Hannibal nodded. Smart woman: she didn't know him. "I understand."

"Won't you walk with me?" she asked. With a sweeping arm, she invited him to his own yard. "I can give you a rough idea of what I would do with your space. A free consultation." She cocked her head to the horizon, where the clouds loomed heavy, dark, and indolent. "The rain'll hold out for us."

Hannibal glanced momentarily over his shoulder, towards his kitchen. "Very well." The rain had been holding out all day: he doubted it was more than an atmospheric tease.

By the time he had shut the door, she had bounded down the stairs and ducked into her older model blue pickup, rejoining him at the base of the porch steps with a tape measure, a few surveyor's flags, and a sketchbook.

"This area would get the most sun, right?" Maryann asked, striding purposefully across his lawn.

"Yes, all year," he replied, falling into step with her. He sneaked a look at her flexing muscles, appreciating the way her ankles tapered gracefully to her worn sneakers. "Why would your business be called Bee All?" he queried, falling back a half step to watch her twitching behind.

"I'm an apiculturist," she replied, looking over her shoulder to beam at him.

"A bee keeper?"

"Very good, Mr. - " she stopped walking, planting her head in her palm. "Damn. I've blabbered on like a moron without even asking your name."

Hannibal chuckled, which seemed to ease her dismay. "Doctor Hannibal Lector, at your service."

They formally shook hands, even though the time for it seemed passed. Her grip was as strong as his, and she met his eye confidently, inclining her head. It gave him the most endearing view of her heart-shaped face and full lips.

Maryann danced forward, laughing with a peal. "I think I've done everything I can wrong with this encounter, Dr. Lector. Nearly punched you, dragged you into this awful heat, and forgot to ask your name."

"In defense of your technique," he replied. "An unusual service calls for unusual implementation."

"Thank you. I appreciate that." She threw her arms wide, palms out, and closed her eyes. It was as though she flung open a portal to parallel dimension, and bade him to see through her eyes what could be. "Picture this: six different kinds of Asian greens, lavish tomato bushes in every shade and shape... and the potatoes! You've never had potatoes like the ones I grow, Doctor."

He listened and envisioned, dreaming of the dishes.