A Second Bite at the Apple (31 page)

When I return to Washington the next day, I have made a decision: I am not going to be a muckraker. That isn't me. I want to write about people—about farmers like Rick and Maggie and homebrewers like Jeremy. If the
Chronicle
doesn't want to run those stories, fine, but someone else might. And if not, well, maybe I'm not cut out for this line of work. But I'll never know unless I try.

I start working on the story I pitched to Stu, about the ripple effects of the horsemeat scandal on local farmers and artisans. Given that Rick pays me to work for him, I focus on Maggie, since I don't have a conflict of interest with her or her business.

As I help Rick unload the truck at the Foggy Bottom market on Wednesday, Maggie pokes her head out from behind it, her spiky hair even wilder than usual.

“So are we on for Monday?” she asks.

“Yep. My friend is letting me borrow her car. I should be there by ten.”

“What's happening Monday?” Rick grumbles as he grabs a crate off the truck.

“Sydney is visiting my orchard for a story she's writing.”

“What, she hasn't kicked us in the balls hard enough already? Why the hell would you help her?”

Maggie shrugs. “Hey, at this point it couldn't get much worse, right?”

Rick throws a crate of blueberry muffins on the table, their craggy tops bursting with hunks of buttery streusel. “Like hell it couldn't. One more juicy story from this
chiquita,
and I could be out of business.”

“This isn't that kind of story,” I tell him.

“That's what they all say. And the next thing I know, my creditors are calling me up, and some debt collector named Obadiah is banging on my door, and my hip starts making that popping sound again, and my wife is pissing blood.”

Maggie and I make brief eye contact, both of us flummoxed by Rick's explanation. “This isn't that kind of story,” I say again.

“Then what kind of story is it?”

“It's . . . a people story. A look at the impact one person's bad decision can have on others.”

“Whose bad decision are we talking about, here?”

“Bob Young's.”

Rick grumbles. “That bastard?”

“Call him what you will, but he's the one who wanted to take your bread to the next level.”

“Yeah, but then he went and screwed it all up with his lies.”

I heave a long sigh. “Yes. That is the point of my story.”

He grips the handles on a crate of brioche with his meaty paws. “Fine,” he says. “Whatever. Go spin your little yarn. But so help me God, if I lose more business because of you, I will come after you for all you're worth.”

“Understood,” I say, because I hate to break it to him: At the moment, I'm not worth all that much.

 

Everything about this story feels right.

When I visit Maggie's farm on Monday, she takes me from field to field in her pickup truck, showing me the fruit they just started harvesting for the summer markets: yellow Sentry peaches, white nectarines, red plums, baby apricots. We spin past patches of Chantenay carrots and orchards of Honeycrisp apples, both of which they'll pick later in the season, after the raspberries, the canes already bursting with ruby and gold fruit. Back in April, the peach trees bore masses of fluffy, sweet-smelling pink blossoms, but now dozens of fuzzy, round fruits hang from their branches like Christmas ornaments, the ripe ones so juicy you can't eat them without wearing a bib.

I interview Maggie and her husband and talk to them about the financial hardships they've endured running their farm and the impact a sales agreement with Green Grocers would have on their business. We talk about the realities of operating a farm, from pests to labor, and the dreams they have for their family. I meet with their production manager and foreman, their marketing manager and market coordinator, everyone who assists with getting an apple from the tree to a customer's hand. With every person I meet, all I can think is,
This. This is what I want to be doing
. Meeting people and hearing their stories, learning about the difference between a plumcot and a pluot, tasting the difference between a yellow and a white peach—this is what I've always wanted to do, and what I should have been doing all along. I lost my way, but for the first time in a very long time, I feel as if I'm where I belong.

Once I'm back home, I get Drew's number from Heidi and interview him about working for Maggie, and he manages to go a full thirty minutes without working an obscure Alaskan bird or mammal into the conversation. When he eventually brings up the caribou, I close the lid to my laptop, take a deep breath, and thank him for his time. I wish there could be a future for Drew and me, but if I have to spend the next fifty years talking about the horned puffin, I might try to take my own life.

I spend the week pulling together all the pieces of my story and creating a companion video, and on Friday I send them to Stu Abbott. He shoots back a kind but tepid reply: “Nice angle, but not really what we're looking for. We could post on the Web, but you'll only get the blogger rate. Sorry.”

Though I could probably hold out for more, I decide to take the hundred bucks from Stu. It's the
Chronicle,
after all. I could certainly do worse. And in my gut, I know there's a better fit waiting for me, and I need to work as hard as I can until I find it.

In the meantime, I continue working for Rick and writing the market newsletter. At Julie's suggestion, I make another trip to Rick's bakehouse to show people how he makes his pain au chocolat, that magical, flaky pastry filled with heavenly bites of chocolate. I shoot video of Rick laminating croissant dough, rolling and flattening and folding the butter-filled slab of pastry until the dough is as long as a beach towel and stratified with butter like canyon rock. He cuts it into rectangles and stuffs each one with two fat chunks of bittersweet chocolate, rolling up the edges and tucking the chocolate inside. He bakes off five sheets in his convection oven, filling the bakehouse with the sweet perfume of browning pastry, and when the croissants emerge, their golden tops glistening, I have to restrain myself from reaching out from behind the camera to stuff three or five in my face.

As soon as the newsletter goes out the next week, Rick's customer base goes crazy. People line up and down the market thoroughfare, undeterred by the stifling July heat, clamoring for flaky pain au chocolat and crusty sourdough loaves. Day after day, he sells out of everything at least thirty minutes before closing, and the chocolate croissants sell out in the first hour.

“You know what, sweet cheeks?” he says Saturday morning, dabbing his forehead with a balled-up white towel as he eyes the growing crowd at the West End market. “You're not actually the worst person alive.”

“Thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He flashes his pervy grin. “Don't I know it.”

We work at breakneck speed, bagging up loaf after muffin after loaf, sweat dripping down our backs. Seven months after a record-breaking snowstorm, Mother Nature has careened in the other direction, and the temperature has skyrocketed to an unbearable ninety-five degrees. Sweat trickles down Rick's face and neck, and his light gray T-shirt looks as if it's tie-dyed with sweat stains. My white tank top clings to my moist, slippery skin, and my hair is slicked with sweat. I'm also pretty sure I smell like a pet store.

I wait on a young couple who orders the last of the chocolate croissants, which in this weather ooze melted chocolate, their once-flaky exteriors soggy in the hot, muggy air. As I shove the melting pastries into a paper bag, I glance up and see a familiar face at the end of the market—a face with a narrow chin and soft blue eyes and milk-chocolate hair.

Jeremy.

My stomach somersaults. I haven't seen or heard from him in a month, though I've thought about him almost constantly. As I follow his path, the paper bag slips through my slick fingers, sending the pastries tumbling to the ground.

“Christ Almighty,” Rick mutters, dabbing his forehead with the back of his arm.

I squat down and fumble with the bag, my eyes trained on Jeremy, who is moving closer and closer to the Wild Yeast tent. He hasn't seen me.

The woman hands me six bucks, and I pass her the bag, and as she and her companion walk away, Jeremy's eyes land on mine, and he stops. His cheeks flush, though whether that's from the heat or me I cannot tell. I think back to the first time I ran into him at the market like this—how little I knew about him, how little I knew about myself, how much I still have to learn about both of us.

Jeremy glances at the ground, then up again at me, his expression charged but unreadable. Sweat pours down my forehead and my back, and just when I think my heart can't beat any faster, he starts moving slowly in my direction, smoothly and steadily, as if he is gliding on ice. He drifts toward the Wild Yeast tent and stops directly across from me, on the other side of the table. His eyes are still fixed on mine, his expression still inscrutable. There is so much I want to say, so much I want to tell him, but I'm on my side of the table, and he is on his, and there doesn't appear to be any way for us to meet in the middle.

He stares at me for a long time in silence, while the blistering air pricks my skin. I've missed his face. I've missed his smile.

“Hi,” I say, my voice scratchy. “How have you been?”

He looks down, then up again, his expression softening. “Lonely.”

My heart races. “Me too.”

He surveys the baked goods displayed along the table. “I saw the profile you did of Maggie and her farm. It was a nice piece.”

“Thanks.”

“Sounds like things aren't so great for her right now, but . . . Who knows? Maybe your profile will make a difference.”

I shift my weight back and forth as I wait for him to say something more, but he doesn't.

“Listen, Jeremy—”

He holds up his hand and cuts me off. “I know,” he says.

“You know . . . what?”

“All of it.”

“I don't think you do.”

He smirks. “You're challenging me now?”

“No—it's just . . . You don't understand how sorry I am, how much I've missed you, how often I think about you, how much I—”

He reaches out and presses a finger to my lips. “Yes,” he says. “I do.” A beat passes, and then he says, “Because I've missed you, too.”

My lip starts to tremble, my eyes welling with tears. He holds my gaze, his blue eyes fixed on mine, and then, as his finger slides from my lips, he leans over the table and kisses me. His lips are soft and warm, and I realize how much I've missed the comfort of his kiss, its warmth and familiarity, like a favorite pair of shoes that have molded to the shape of my feet. I don't want him to leave—not now, not for a long time—so I lean toward him, my lips pressed against his, my heart dancing with joy.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?”
Rick shouts from across the tent. “Oh, no, no, no. Not on my damn watch.”

I pull away from Jeremy and look at Rick, who is swearing and sweating like a wild beast. Then I look back at Jeremy, grab him by the shirt and pull him in for another kiss, because for the first time in a very long time, I'm exactly where I want to be.

“Psst. You're going to be late.”

Jeremy pokes me, and I grudgingly open one eyelid, then the other, and glance at the clock on his nightstand.

“So are you.”

“My meeting isn't until eleven,” he says. “And I don't take thirty minutes to blow dry my hair.”

“Maybe that's because yours is thinning. . . .”

“Oh, so that's how it's gonna be?” He throws off the covers, grabs me by the waist, and tosses me over his shoulder. “To the showers with you.”

“Hey—let me go,” I shout, kicking as he marches me into his bathroom.

“Listen, maybe you don't remember what it's like to go on a job interview, but I do, and let me tell you: BO and morning breath are discouraged.”

He puts me down once we reach the bathroom, and I readjust his Han Solo T-shirt, which I wore to bed last night.

“These guys sound like hipsters,” I say. “I'm pretty sure they wouldn't care.”

“Yeah, what kind of magazine is called
Washagrarian
anyway?”

“Don't knock it 'til you read it.”

“Do they print it on recycled corn stalks? Is their Web domain powered by chickens?”

I roll my eyes and push him out of the bathroom. “All right, enough out of you. Good-bye.”

I shut the door behind him and flick on his shower. “Be careful with the baby powder,” he shouts from behind the closed door.

“Not funny!”

“I disagree.” He chuckles to himself. “I'll put on some coffee. See you in a few.”

I hop in the shower and let the warm spray trickle down my back as I run through my plan for the day. At ten, I'm meeting with the editors of
Washagrarian,
a new DC-based digital and print magazine that will focus on local food, urban and rural farming, and the connection between what we eat and how we live. They plan to launch their first issue in September and contacted me after reading my profile of Maggie last month. They saw my horsemeat story too, but they are looking for someone to write what they call “people stories”—which, I emphasized to them, are precisely the kinds of stories I like to write. They haven't offered me a job yet, but given what they've told me so far, I have a good feeling.

After my meeting, I'll grab a quick bite before hopping on the Metro and heading to the Penn Quarter farmers' market, where I'll meet Rick for my usual Thursday afternoon shift. If I end up getting a job with
Washagrarian,
I'll need to scale back my hours with Wild Yeast, but ever since Green Grocers resumed their plans for a farmers' market partnership, I've had Rick's blessing to do pretty much whatever I want. Nothing is set in stone, and the new management has tweaked the terms of the deal, but Rick, Maggie, and the others are breathing a lot easier knowing they might not have to flush their investments down the drain. I'd like to say my Broad Tree Orchards profile turned the tide in their favor, but I know better than to overstate my role. I'm just glad one misdeed didn't cause irreparable harm—and that applies as much to Green Grocers as it does to myself.

I flick off the water and wrap myself in one of Jeremy's plush towels, and then I step out of the shower and wipe the steam off the fogged up mirror with my fist.
Geek chic,
I think as I stare at my reflection, recalling Libby's backhanded compliment. I smile.
Geek chic
. I'll take it.

Once I've dried my hair and put on my makeup, I throw on my outfit, which Libby helped me choose: skinny black capris with white polka dots, a sleeveless white wrap shirt, and red heels. When I'd mentioned I had an interview with a food magazine, her first question, in typical Libby style, was, “What are you going to wear?” And then, before I could answer, she said, “Forget it—let me help you.” She sent me an e-mail with four different options (“You want to look hip but professional—NO POWER SUITS and NO STRETCHED OUT PANTS”), and we decided on this one together.

I smooth a little serum into my hair, and then I go into Jeremy's living room, where I find him sitting at his breakfast bar with his laptop and a mug of coffee.

“Well,
hellooo,
” he says, grinning.

“Don't get any ideas.”

He glances at the clock. “You have a little time. . . .”

“Not for that. Do you have any idea how long it took me to straighten this hair?”

He looks at the clock again. “A really long time.”

“Exactly. We'll revisit this later. Don't worry. I'll make it worth your while.”

“I like the sound of that.” He smiles. “You know, this whole being on probation thing is working out pretty well for me.”

Ever since Jeremy decided to give me a second chance, he has told me I'm on “probation.” He always says this with an air of seriousness, and though I know I have a long way to go in fully earning back his trust, I feel myself getting closer every day. If I can learn to trust and let go after Zach, I guess anything is possible.

I pour myself a cup of coffee, and as I hold the warm mug between my palms and take a sip, I eye Jeremy's T-shirt: another
Star Wars
getup, this one featuring an image of Darth Vader holding a picket sign that reads, G
IVE
E
MPIRES
A
C
HANCE
.

“You're going to change before your meeting, right . . . ?”

He peeks down at his shirt, and his lips curl to the side. “What? Not okay?”

“You want these guys to give you money, right?”

He shrugs. “They're nerds like me. That's why they love me.”

I take another sip of coffee. Apparently, Jeremy won “Home-brewer of the Year” at the Homebrewers Conference for his Munich Helles, and a few investors and fellow DC-based brewers at the conference approached him about starting a microbrewery. At first he hesitated, not wanting to embark on yet another road to professional failure, but ultimately he relented because deep down, this is what he has always wanted to do. It doesn't hurt that he is also really good at it.

I throw back the rest of my coffee, dump the mug in the sink, and walk around to Jeremy's side of the counter and lean in for a long kiss.

“Wish me luck,” I say as I pull away.

“No breakfast?”

“No time.”

“We're still on for dinner?”

“You bet. I should be back from the market by seven thirty. I was thinking we could try the new Mexican place on Fourteenth Street. They're supposed to have a good beer list.”

He wiggles an imaginary tie. “None as good as mine, I'm sure. . . .”

“Well, obviously. But it's a big day for both of us. We can either celebrate, or drown our sorrows.”

“Sounds like a brilliant plan to me.”

I lean in for one more kiss and then head for the doorway.

“Hey, Syd?” he calls after me.

I stop and look over my shoulder. “Yeah?”

He stares at me for a beat. “I'm glad I gave us a second chance.”

I smile. “Me too.”

Then I blow him another kiss and, with a smile so big it could take up the entire city, I head out the door.

 

As I walk along M Street toward Dupont Circle, my phone buzzes in my pocket. A text from Libby.

I text back.

A few minutes pass, and Libby sends one last message.

I laugh to myself. Libby will be Libby, and for that I love her.

The street forks as I hit Connecticut Avenue, a sunburst of roads heading north, south, east, and west. I rush across the street as the light turns yellow, holding my bag close to my body as I breathe in the thick summer air. Last month's spell of sky-high temperatures has passed, but it's still August in Washington, which means I'm already sweating buckets.

I turn onto Seventeenth Street and make my way toward
Washagrarian'
s office. They are renting temporary space just off M Street, in an eight-story tower of muted gray concrete, with receding rectangular windows that make the edifice look like a big Belgian waffle.

I stand in front of the doorway, letting the hurried masses hustle around me on the sidewalk, and glance up to the sixth floor. In a few minutes, I will sit in that office. In a few weeks, I might even call it my own. And maybe in a few years, I'll be the one running it. There are no guarantees—not with this job, not with Jeremy, not with anything in life, really—but guarantees are overrated. I'd rather trade in adventure. In chance. In opportunity. It's a scarier way to live, demanding trust in myself and others that I'm still trying to master, but I'd rather ask for a second chance than not take any chances at all. It's been a long time since I took such a leap of faith, but hot damn, it feels good to jump.

I rest my hand on the cool metal door handle and take one last look up the building's face. Then I pull open the door and walk inside, ready for anything.