Fruit of All Evil (23 page)

I couldn't remember the last time I stood in front of a group of people and wanted to make a good impression. It must have been in college.

I'd had customers who told me they thought I had an easy job, that maybe I'd taken the easy way out of really having a career. I worked in a farmers' market, how hard could it be?

I never explained how full-time and physically challenging my job was because, secretly, sometimes I thought they were correct. No matter that I was almost always working in one way or another, I loved what I did so much that it never felt like real work.

Today, I wore the same clothes I wore to the fateful dinner—after having them one-day dry-cleaned. I put on a little makeup and forced some earrings into the holes in my ears that frequently were forgotten because of more important things on my to-do lists. I was, in my way, dressed up.

And the moment after I was introduced to the owner of Maytabee's, Clarissa O'Bannon, I spilled some coffee on my blouse. She pretended not to notice, but it would have been difficult to miss.

Clarissa, dressed in casual but comfortable clothes, was all business. She greeted me with a firm handshake followed by a cup of steaming coffee. Her thick black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, Allison's favorite style, but Clarissa's dark features were severe and serious compared to my sister's serious but softer look.

She told me and Ian to make ourselves at home at a table in the corner and that her managers would be there shortly, and then she disappeared to take a call on the cell phone that was clipped to her belt.

I took a deep breath as Ian and I sat down.

“You're nervous?” he asked.

“A little. This is the first time I've done something like this. I'm afraid I'll stumble over my words.” I looked at the spot of coffee on my blouse. “Or that no one will be able to pay attention to what I'm saying because of this distraction.” The spot was in about the worst place it could be, and would have made junior high boys giggle.

“Run to the bathroom and try to get it out,” Ian said.

“I'd just end up making the wet area larger.”

“Good point.” Ian looked around. “Hey, I have a plan.” He stood up and went to a low set of shelves on the other side of the room. He rummaged around a moment and then pulled something from the bottom shelf. He took it to the counter, paid for it, and brought it to me.

“This might work.” He handed me a T-shirt.

I unfolded it and laughed. Printed on it was: Maytabee I Just Need Some Coffee. Now Would Be Good.

“That's perfect. Thanks, Ian.” I could have run to the bathroom and changed into the shirt, but I slipped it over the one I already had on, instead. It covered the inconvenient spot.

Soon, the other managers filed into the store. They were a young group, probably none of them over twenty-five. Most of them looked like they could use their coffee, so Clarissa passed cups all around and then turned a couch just enough that they could sit on it and look at me.

Maytabee's was comfortable, just like most coffee shops I'd been to. It had plush chairs, a couple of couches, plenty of work space, and good lighting. Maytabee's was different in one important way, though. It was very affordable. It didn't charge the arm and leg for a latte that other, bigger chains did. I remembered reading a story in the
Monson Gazette
about the shop's lower prices and how the owner was causing trouble in the coffee shop community because she kept her prices too low. At the time, I didn't know who the owner was, but I remembered something the paper had quoted her as saying.

Two men and two women were facing me from the couch and a chair that had been pulled up. Clarissa stood next to the couch, and I stood up as she introduced me. Ian moved away from our table and sat in a chair behind the couch. From there, he could send confident smiles in my direction and no one would notice.

“Becca Robins is a local farmer,” Clarissa began. “She grows her own strawberries and pumpkins. With her own fruit and some from other farms, she creates jams and preserves. I've asked her here this morning for you to consider a couple of ways we could incorporate her products into our stores' offerings. I think her jams would make a great topping for the English muffin breakfasts we're introducing next month.” The four managers looked at her and nodded. I was impressed at how much she knew about me, but she was stealing my opening lines. There wasn't much more about me, other than my two divorces and my amazing dog, that I could share. “And I'd like for you to consider giving her shelf space to sell jars of her products. Becca, do you have some samples?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Great, let's pass around some jars. I'd like for everyone to look at your labels. I think they're brilliant and perfect.”

I passed around some jars. My labels weren't fancy. In fact, I thought they were too simple, but I'd used them for so long that I didn't want to confuse my customers by changing them. On a white background, the top of the label said, “Becca's Berries.” And in a smaller font and on the next line, it said, “Home-Made Berry Jams and Preserves.” Then there was a hand-sketched picture of whichever fruit was inside. I'd done the sketches when I started my business. At the time, I couldn't find clip art I liked, and I didn't want to pay someone else, so I sat down and created them. I liked how they'd turned out, but they were meant to be temporary, something I could use until I knew if the business was going to be successful or not. The last line on the front of the label said, “a product of South Carolina.”

“You've already added an ingredient list and nutritional information on the back,” one of the female managers said. She was tall, with short brown hair and big green eyes. Her name was Mary, and her skin was perfect.

“Yes, I did that a couple of years ago. At the time it wasn't a requirement, but with so many allergies out there, I thought I should list the ingredients. The nutritional information seemed like the only thing missing, so I added it, too.”

“The pictures of the fruit are wonderful!” Kyle said. He had dreadlocks underneath a blue scarf. “They scream ‘homemade' and ‘country' and . . . well, ‘yummy.' ”

“Thanks,” I said. I didn't want to tell them I'd drawn them. I wasn't an artist, but it hadn't been difficult to draw some pictures of fruit. “How about a taste test?”

Ian and I spread preserves on some English muffins that we'd brought. We also topped some crackers and bagels, and passed the food all around.

“I'm including a new product for you to consider. I haven't begun selling it yet, because . . . well, frankly, I haven't made a lot of it, but I can. It seems like a pretty good fit for a coffee shop. It's chocolate strawberry jam.”

The
ooooh
s and
ahhh
s for the chocolate strawberry jam were exactly what I was hoping for, and were the same response I'd received from Ian the night before. I'd been experimenting with chocolate strawberry, and I thought I'd mastered the recipe, but since my winter supply of strawberries had dwindled to almost nothing, I was holding off introducing it until fall. It was unique and would probably sell well, but only time would tell.

“This is so good,” Mary said. “It's the most amazing jelly I've ever had. Both the stuff with the chocolate and without it. How do you do it?”

“Thanks,” I said, not pointing out that she was currently testing some preserves, not jelly. “I don't know, really. I have a way with strawberries, I think. My farm has the perfect growing conditions for berries that are very sweet. From experience, I know exactly when to pick them, and I've made so many jars that my process is automatic. Plus, I inherited the farm from my aunt and uncle when they died. I like to think that in their way and wherever they are, they're helping.” It was honest, if not flashy, and hopefully somewhat humble.

My presentation had turned into more of a taste test than a presentation, and that was fine. Ian and I had worked up something the night before on his laptop, but we thought it would be too boring to talk about my products with a computer attached. I'd planned on just talking to the managers and then offering the samples. As it was, Clarissa had done most of the talking and I'd just passed around the food.

“How much?” Jarad asked. He was young but balding, and wore slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie.

“I've written it all out for you.” I passed around the papers that listed the wholesale and recommended retail prices. I used the same font on them that I used on the front of the labels, so the information almost looked like it was handwritten. It wasn't a big deal, but a detail I hoped made the right impression.

The managers read the papers. Jarad and Mary pulled out pocket calculators and punched buttons. Olivia, the manager who hadn't yet spoken, studied the sheet closely, her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. She looked up, put her hair behind her ears, and asked, “How much can you handle?”

This was the most important question of all. Ian and I had done our own calculations, and we thought I could handle the five Maytabee's stores if I purchased extra fruit during the summer.

“I've written that up, too.” I handed out another set of papers that listed what I thought was a reasonable output from me. I wasn't ready to hire employees, so if I couldn't handle the Maytabee's business on my own, I didn't want either of us to commit to anything. “Please look at the numbers and let me know if you have any questions. This is a reasonable expectation.”

Again, the managers peered at the papers. Clarissa's phone buzzed loudly, interrupting her study. She didn't hide her exasperation as she pulled the phone from the clip on her belt.

“Excuse me, Becca,” she said.

I nodded as she walked to the other side of the store, where she could have a mostly private conversation.

I answered a few more questions, and the managers answered some of mine. We chatted easily, and they asked for more samples. I happily obliged.

“Okay,” Clarissa said as she joined the crowd again. “Anyone have any more questions for Becca? No? Okay, we'll let her get back to her real job and we'll continue our meeting. Get your sales numbers ready while I walk them out.”

And just like that, the presentation was over. It had been painless. Clarissa led the way out of the store.

“Ian, thanks for introducing me to Becca's products,” she said as she shook his hand. She turned to me. “I'm sure we'll do business together in one form or another. Give me some time to talk to the managers and look at the numbers. I'll get back to you no later than next week.”

“I appreciate your time. You've created a great business,” I said, though I was afraid it sounded like I was sucking up. I wasn't.

“Well, it's a passion, but I don't think I need to explain passions to you. I apologize for the phone interruption. I've been dealing with some silly bank issues.”

“Really? Me, too,” I lied. Chances were, considering the small community, she was talking about Madeline's bank. “I bank at Central, and something weird must be happening over there, because they've sent me some questionable paperwork lately.” They hadn't, of course. I was still lying, but I couldn't resist seeing if there was a bigger pattern emerging at Central Savings and Loan.

“Well, I suppose this is a terrible thing to say, but I'm pleased to hear it isn't just me. I bank at Central, too, and . . .” She didn't want to share what the issue was, and I didn't blame her. She didn't want to spread her own bad rumors. “Anyway, I hope you're getting yours straightened out. We're almost there, I think, but I have to answer whenever they call, or the phone tag can go on forever.”

“I know. Gosh, I can't think of the name of the person I'm working with.” I looked at Ian, who was playing along well.

“I'm working with a Sarah Nelson, but she just told me that someone else would be calling. They all seem to want to pass off the work. Well, sorry about that. I shouldn't complain if they're fixing it,” Clarissa said.

Sarah Nelson. The one person who wouldn't talk to me about anything.

“Well, thanks again, Becca, and good job covering the coffee spot,” Clarissa continued. She turned and went back into her store.

“Great job, Becca,” Ian said. “You're a natural.”

“Thanks,” I replied absently. I was pleased with the presentation, but my mind was already rummaging through the new information about the bank. What was going on there that was causing so much false information to be disseminated? There must be legal issues involved, but I didn't have any idea what they might possibly be.

“Do you know who Bud Morris is working with at the bank?” I asked.

“Someone named Addison Something . . .”

“You have time for a trip to Central?” I said to Ian.

“Why did I know you were going to say that?”