Crops and Robbers (3 page)

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 restaurant’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.

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.

My mother attempted to soothe me in motherly ways, but I could see through her act as well as she could probably see through mine. She was angry at the public humiliation of one of her daughters. As she and my dad left to see Mathis, I was sure I saw smoke escape from her ears. I was glad that they left before Allison escorted the group back down the aisle and out of the market. I thought Mom might do something we’d all be sorry for later.

Allison shot me another secret and private look as she passed by; this time the look said, “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry I can’t do anything about what just happened, but I can’t jeopardize the other vendors’ opportunities.”

I shot her a private look that told her I got it and would be horrified if everyone else had to suffer for Joan’s taster being off.

As twins, I suppose we did communicate silently, but it was more with our eyes than with any sort of ESP or secret language.

“Becca, are you all right?” Linda, having been too busy to commiserate earlier, said as she pulled up one of our shared tent flap walls and walked into my stall.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“That was weird.” She looked at me a long moment. “You have to know that didn’t have anything to do with your preserves, don’t you?”

I blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Trust me, you don’t need her validation to know your products are delicious. She is, as far as I can see, the only person on the planet who doesn’t like them. She just doesn’t like preserves, and you got to bear the brunt of her criticism.”

“You are terrific. Thanks, Linda,” I said. I didn’t mean to sound pathetic, but nonetheless, I kind of did.

“Emotionally, that was still rough, though, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know. I guess her reaction was just such a huge surprise. You know when something happens that truly surprises you and takes the wind out of your sails? It was like that, and I didn’t really know how to react. But maybe we all need a little bit of that sort of thing from time to time. I’m pretty confident in my crops and my products. Maybe the universe was telling me not to be so cocky.” I smiled.