Crops and Robbers Read online

  There wasn’t much time to catch up considering the expected visitors from the restaurant association, so we made plans to meet at my house after work. I promised to bring Ian, though I pointed out where his stall was and that it would be fine if they wanted to go introduce themselves to him. I’d invite Allison and her husband, Tom, and son, Mathis, too. They said they’d take care of talking to Tom since their next stop was to go spoil their grandson Mathis.

  They would have made a clean getaway if they’d left only thirty seconds earlier. But since they hadn’t, they ended up being stuck.

  Before you saw the crowd of eleven at the end of the aisle, you felt them. It was as though the vendors began an invisible “wave,” like something at a professional sporting event. But instead of arms flailing in the air, the wave was made up of the consecutive movement of vendors coming to attention.

  Mom, Dad, and I turned and peered down the aisle.

  “It looks like they’re here,” I said as I glanced at the crowd of people milling around Abner’s stall. They were a casual group, but serious nonetheless. Allison was with them, looking beautiful and confident as always.

  “Shoot. Unless we escape out the back of your stall, we can only leave by walking through them. For some reason, that feels rude,” Mom said.

  “No, just come back here with me. The two of you will make us the best-dressed stall in the place,” I said as I maneuvered my front display table so they could join me. It didn’t seem right to send them out the back tent wall. They’d have to traipse through the load-unload area of the market, where trucks and vans were parked and had carved enough ruts in the ground to make the walking treacherous. Why did they have to leave anyway? I knew they wanted to see their one and only grandson, but I was kind of glad they were stuck. I could spend a little more time with them.

  However, the stall was crowded with three occupants, and the heat seemed to rise exponentially with the two extra bodies. I was feeling it but didn’t say anything for fear they’d leave, dangerous walking and all. They looked fine, fresh and unaffected by the warmth.

  The restaurant group didn’t move quickly but stopped at each stall, as Allison introduced, if I was hearing correctly, the president of the association to each vendor.

  Joan Ashworth was probably in her midfifties, with a high and tight brown bun perched on the top of her head. She was tall and skinny, and the bun only added to her height. She had a thin neck and a regal profile, as if it belonged on the side of some exotic country’s coin.

  From where we were, it seemed she was complimenting Abner and his flowers. I hoped the compliments would translate to extra business.

  The others in the group followed the woman with the bun and Allison, and directed their genuinely eager attention at the vendors and their products.

  Their next stop was at Herb and Don’s Herbs stall, which was close enough to mine that we wouldn’t have to strain to hear what was said. Herb, adorable and billiard-ball bald, and Don, supermodel handsome, were both life and business partners, and they had a way with herbs that few people could master. Their oregano was, without question, the best I’d ever tasted and the herb they hoped would get the restaurant owners interested in all their products. Herb sprinkled some into Joan’s extended hand. She licked her finger, dipped it into the oregano, and then put it on her tongue. Her face lit immediately and she smiled.

  “Delicious, delicious,” I heard her say. “I certainly will try this at my place, but Manny, you need to try some, too. Manny owns three Manny’s Pizza locations.”

  I knew of Manny Moretti and would recognize him if I ran into him somewhere. The most famous of his three pizza places was on the state highway between Monson and Smithfield. The two others were in Smithfield and Charleston.

  Manny stepped forward from the crowd. He was shorter than the president but taller than me; almost everyone was taller than me. He didn’t have a mustache, but I thought he should—not to cover up something or make him more attractive, but because it just seemed like it would fit him. He had a head full of short, thick, dark hair and a deep alto voice that seemed to rattle the tent poles and walls.

  “Delicious,” he said with an Italian accent after he sampled the oregano. “I will take some of that today, and it will be on the pizzas I create this evening. What a find, Joan, what a find.” He turned to Joan and they said something else to each other, but I didn’t catch it.

  Manny had moved to South Carolina from Sicily about twenty years earlier when he’d been thirty. His rags-to-riches American-dream story was well known throughout the area.

  Pizza had never been one of my favorite foods, so for a long time I didn’t know what I was missing at Manny’s. But my friend, police officer Sam Brion, was originally from Chicago, and he’d heard that Manny’s served Chicago-style thick crust pizza pies. We’d ventured there one evening a few weeks ago for dinner, and after one bite of Manny’s pizza, I became an instant pizza lover—but only if the pizza, was Chicago-style thick. In fact, if I hadn’t loved my wide-open spaces and my farm so much, the dinner might have almost convinced me to move to Chicago. It was delicious, but I hadn’t had time or opportunity to go back. My mouth watered just thinking about it.

  “Betsy, could you also purchase a container of the oregano for us,” Joan said as she turned to a woman who stood on her other side.

  Betsy slipped the notebook and pen she’d held at the ready into one of her pockets. She must have been somewhere in her twenties, but her large and thick glasses distorted much of her face. She wore denim shorts and a nice yellow T-shirt, and her blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail. She was probably an attractive young woman, but the glasses served as a mask.

  Betsy and Manny stayed at the herb stall as the rest of the group moved to the next one. The vendor, Brenton, who’d removed his Yankees cap in deference to the big event, and Joan greeted each other as he made a comment about welcoming them to the market but not expecting they’d find much they could use in his stall. Brenton sold homemade dog biscuits. His business had grown steadily, and he was currently in the process of putting together a website.

  “You might be surprised,” Joan said. “Jake, you might find these useful.” She turned to another man in the group, a man I knew fairly well. Not only had Jake Bidford also been involved in the community garden with Bo and me, he had dated Allison when we were juniors in high school. He’d adored her. I had tried to get to know him, but he was shy then, and I’d been busy working on the relationship that would eventually lead to my first divorce. After Jake and Allison had broken up, I’d married Scott One; Scott Two came later and ended with the same result: divorce.

  Three years earlier, Jake had moved back to Monson and opened Jake’s, a sandwich shop right in the heart of the small town. He’d done well for himself. His sandwich ingredients were extra-fresh and had become the talk of the county. Even though his shop was in town, his land extended back far behind his building. He’d cultivated most of that plot and farmed it like a pro. He grew lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, onions, and cucumbers. Many of the ingredients for his sandwiches were from his own backyard. He was as good with his crops as any farmer anywhere. But he still had plenty of land left over, so he’d donated the rest of it to the community garden project. He was involved with the planting and teaching, too, but not as much as Bo and I were. Jake’s aunt, Viola Gardner, had been put in charge of the garden. The kids called her Mrs. Gardener.

  In high school, Jake had been tall, skinny, and very good with audiovisual equipment. While in college, he turned into the very definition of a late bloomer. He filled out and found out that not only was he an AV expert, he was also a fast, actually superfast, runner. He’d run on the University of Virginia track team and had come this close to qualifying for the Olympics. He was handsome in a friendly, blond, all-American way. Allison had been the one to break up the relationship, and though he’d been heartbroken then, we were now all friendly toward each other. He’d never married, but I didn’t know
much more about his private life.

  I’d eaten at Jake’s a number of times; so had everyone else. The food was good, mostly healthy, and affordable. And though still shy, Jake was friendly and funny when you got him talking.

  Joan turned back to Brenton. “You might be aware that Jake’s restaurant, Jake’s, has a drive-thru.” Brenton nodded. “Well, he likes to hand out dog biscuits when a customer with a dog swings through.”

  “I didn’t know that. Hi, Jake.” They shook hands. I suspected each knew who the other was even if they hadn’t formally met. “Okay, well, here you go. Take this bag of samples and let me know what you . . . or the dogs think.”

  Satisfied she’d made a match, Joan smiled and turned to continue down the aisle while Jake and Brenton chatted some more. Joan’s next stop was Linda’s pie stall. Linda made fruit pies that were to die for. Since Linda’s new (and first) husband, Drew, was off on his secret military mission, she had plenty of time to bake extra pies in the huge and ultramodern kitchen she gained shared custody of by marrying him. I hoped someone would want to place an order or two with her.

  “What a delightful costume,” Joan said as she greeted Linda. Linda’s Laura Ingalls Wilder getup had become an important part of her marketing. When she first started working at Bailey’s, she wore the costume to gain extra attention for her new stall. Once her business was established, she tried to wear something more modern, but her customers protested, so she switched back to the long skirt, apron, muslin shirt, and bonnet. On days as hot as this one, she usually didn’t bother with the bonnet, but it completed the look, and today was special. I was sure it would be removed once the company left.

  “Thank you,” Linda said. “It fits with the way I bake my pies: fresh, simple ingredients, taking the care the pioneers always took with their food preparation.”

  Good line, Linda, I thought.

  “Very good,” Joan agreed.

  “Would you like a sample?” Linda had lots of plates spread out over her display table. Each plate had three small slices of pie: blueberry, raspberry, and boysenberry. “There should be plenty for everyone.”

  I had indulged in some samples earlier, and I knew she’d hook at least one restaurant owner, hopefully more.

  “I love it,” Joan said after savoring a bite of each flavor. I was really beginning to like this woman. She made sure that the people in her group were looking closely and considering the product or products that we were peddling. She was friendly and complimentary. She didn’t seem to be in a rush.

  Allison stood to the back of the crowd of restaurant owners and snuck me a quick and private thumbs-up. Things were going better than she expected. Since I was looking beyond the crowd and at Allison, I also caught something else. Betsy, her notebook back in her hand, walked casually by Jake and Brenton, who were still in the middle of their conversation. Jake glanced at her as she passed, and he smiled, his cheeks turning slightly red. She didn’t seem to notice, but I filed away the information. Jake might be shy, but he wouldn’t blush unless he liked Betsy. Since I knew him, and knew that my sister had broken his heart all those years ago, I had a sudden urge to play matchmaker and wave at her to let her know she should pay better attention. But I quickly thwarted the urge. Yes, he was a nice guy, but I had no business interfering in either of their private lives.

  “Linda, right?” said a petite woman dressed in jeans. She also wore a T-shirt emblazoned with “Smitty’s Barbeque, Come Pig Out at Our Place” in blue letters over a yellow background. I’d never heard of Smitty’s Barbeque, and I couldn’t read the address that was partially tucked into the waist of her jeans.

  “Yes,” Linda said.

  “I’m Delores Smitty. Nice to meet you.” She held a sample and tipped her fork at Linda. Delores’s petite figure was topped off with short dark hair and brown eyes that smiled even when her mouth didn’t. Without her saying much more than she had, I could tell I would like her. There was something about the confidence in her voice and in her stance that was immediately appealing. “Do you make any cream pies?”

  “No, actually, I don’t. Is that what you’re looking for?”

  “I’m looking for both. We need some desserts. My mother, God love the old woman, currently makes a couple dessert items, and even though she knows her way around a barbeque pit, she doesn’t seem to understand pie . . . or cake for that matter, or Jell-O, actually. But pie is what I’m looking for. I’ll definitely buy some of yours, but I’d be happy if you’d consider making some cream ones, too. If they’re half as good as these, I bet I could keep my customers for dessert instead of watching them escape to the ice cream shop across the street.”

  “I know someone who makes amazing cream pies,” Linda said. “She doesn’t work at Bailey’s, but I can get you her contact information.”

  “That’ll work.”

  Linda was talking about Mamma Maria, who worked at the Smithfield Market and who made the most amazing—and tall—cream pies on the planet. She also dated one of Bailey’s peach vendors, Carl Monroe. We all kept expecting an engagement announcement from them, but nothing so far. Mamma Maria was like one of the family. It was a good idea to suggest her.

  A couple of the other board members stepped forward to talk to Linda as Joan stepped toward my stall. My parents, who had been staying behind me, took another couple steps backward. I knew they wanted to be out of the way, but I was glad they were here to witness Bailey’s, and more specifically Allison’s, moment of glory. If Allison weren’t such a terrific market manager, none of this would be happening. They couldn’t have picked a better day to return to Monson.

  “Hello.” Joan extended her hand to me.

  “Hi, I’m Becca Robins, and I make and sell jams and preserves. Nice to meet you and nice to have all of you here. Please sample.” My display table was full of crackers and jams, jellies, and preserves even though I wasn’t expecting any of them to purchase my products for their restaurants. It was part of my team-player attitude.

  “I’d love to,” Joan said. “In fact, we’re looking for some preserves—some really good preserves.” Joan reached for the arm of a man who’d been trailing directly behind her. He was probably in his midtwenties, but it was hard to tell. He had short, dark curly hair that seemed like it wouldn’t behave no matter what sort of brush or comb was used on it. He wore frameless glasses that slightly magnified light brown eyes, which were naturally sad and puppy-dog-like. But his most distinguishing feature was his pale complexion. It was August, and I was used to seeing people with at least a little tan or burn. Market vendors might work under tents part-time, but we were outside almost every day. Even with sunscreen, we each had our own unique form of a farmer’s tan.

  Joan continued. “This is my son, Nobel Ashworth. He’s my recipe man”—she smiled proudly—“and makes a strawberry layer cake with a preserve filling in between the layers. I haven’t been happy with the preserves he’s been using. I’d love to find something fresh and new.” Nobel didn’t say a word but looked down at the ground as if he was taking her comments personally—as if he was lacking a skill for finding good preserves. Joan spooned some of my strawberry preserves onto a cracker and took a bite.

  “Here you go,” I said as I extended some crackers to Nobel. Even though I was as busy as I could be—or needed to be, for that matter—making a few extra jars of my preserves for cakes would be easy.

  At that moment, I realized exactly who Joan was; she was the owner of Bistro, one of the best restaurants in all of central South Carolina. Bistro was located in the small town of Smithfield, but there was nothing small about the restaurant. It was large, and elegant on the inside, and served delicious food. I once heard the menu described as almost designer food, but still tasty and filling. I’d been to Bistro, but not for a number of years, and I suddenly remembered the melt-in-your-mouth pasta dish I ate that had big, juicy pieces of lobster throughout it. I would love to say that a preserve I’d created was an ingredient in one of the restaur
ant’s desserts.

  I made delicious preserves, jellies, and jams from all kinds of fruit, but my best efforts were whatever included my amazing strawberries. I had no idea how I managed to grow such delicious fruit. I was proud of my crops and my products, and I hoped she’d love them just as much as everyone else seemed to.

  But something suddenly went wrong, very wrong, about as wrong as something could go.

  Joan’s face didn’t light up as so many of my customers’ did. She didn’t get that look that said she was experiencing a little bit of heaven on a cracker.

  In fact, her face pinched and soured. She’d taken a bite out of a cracker, but she put the rest of it back on the table. She looked at Nobel and shook her head slightly. Instead of putting the cracker I’d handed him into his mouth, he set it back on the table and gave me an apologetic wince.

  Joan said, “Thank you, dear, I’ll have to let you know later.” She turned and went on to visit other stalls. Whoever wasn’t straggling behind followed her and ignored my stall altogether.

  I felt the vacuumlike shock of rejection. I’d never experienced such a thing before. Never. I’d even converted those who didn’t like fruit into avid eaters of my jams, jellies, and preserves. Until that moment, I had batted a thousand. I hadn’t had one strikeout, one foul, or one misstep.

  And now my perfect record was over, crushed and demolished in front of all of the people who were most important to me.

  Including my parents.

  Maybe they hadn’t picked such a good day to come back to Monson, after all.

  Two

  Everyone tried to console me, so much so that I began to feel bad that everyone else felt bad. I tried to make a joke out of the entire situation, but I was sure it came off as just a bunch of discomfort trying to find a way out of my system.

  On their first day back to see their daughters in a long time, my parents had to go into parent mode. My dad ate some of the samples and tried to convince me that Joan was either crazy or her taster was “off.” He did a lot of pshawing and harrumphing, which was another change in his behavior. He’d never been the type to do much of either; he usually just took things as they came.