No, I’m not. I’m really not, but only the alarmingly honest will mention how awful you do look.
“I have plenty of eggs here,” she says, as if the cure is food and lots of it. “And preserves, and, lucky you, you haven’t missed raspberry season.”
But I’m catching the tail end of it because it’s been three months. All of spring and into summer. I feel as if I’ve missed more than a mere season.
“Everything,” I say. “Eggs, raspberries, and preserves. I’ll pick them up on Tuesday.”
On Saturdays, the locals cater to the out-of-town visitors, mainly from the Twin Cities and the suburbs, especially the chichi suburbs. It’s so lucrative that the town council put in a row of chargers for all the fancy electric vehicles. And, of course, everyone raises their prices accordingly. I don’t want Matilda to lose sales on my account.
“How are you on herbs?” she asks, jotting down the items on a notepad. “Your mother always stocked up this time of year. The usual?”
I nod. We always supplemented with herbs from the farmers market. This year, my own garden has wilted from neglect. I didn’t mean to ignore it, but then I didn’t expect the events of this past spring to hit me so hard.
“Tuesday as well? I don’t want to keep you in case you need to—” She waves a hand at the pedestrian mall. “Do your thing.”
Yes, my thing. It is what I do. Those pockets of discontent nag at the back of my mind, a bit more insistent, a bit craftier. That’s never good.
Matilda drops her hand, a frown full of curiosity and appreciation crinkling her brow.
“Who is that?” she asks. “Do you know him?”
I turn to follow her gaze.
A man strolls through the market, resplendent in an actual three-piece suit. The material has the barest hint of a pinstripe, and his shirt is blizzard-white against his dusky skin. On his head sits a hat that’s a cross between a fedora and a bowler but is somehow neither. Even though he’s dressed like some 1950s movie icon, those cheekbones could go viral on social media. His paisley tie is loose at his neck, his only concession to the July heat. On his arm, he carries a large, black umbrella.
An umbrella? No. It can’t be. It’s Saturday, I reason. And while King’s End is a good hour’s drive southwest of the Twin Cities, we get all sorts here on the weekend, not just for the farmers market. The old-fashioned bridge across the Minnesota River, the parks, and the quaint downtown lure plenty of people. On a day like today, there are bound to be several proposals along the Rose Walk that borders the river.
“He has an umbrella,” Matilda observes, voice sly.
Well, yes, I noticed that.
“People carry umbrellas.” I give a little shrug. Yes, people carry umbrellas. But not on these beautifully blue summer days. Not like I normally do.
“He almost looks like an actor in a play,” Matilda adds. “Doesn’t he?”
Something inside my chest loosens. That must be it. He’s too well-dressed, too, too much for King’s End. “He probably is an actor, or a model. I bet he’s here for a photo shoot.” Even from across the pedestrian mall, those razor-sharp cheekbones are still on full display.
Matilda returns her attention to her stall and an approaching customer. “If you get the chance, stop by before you leave,” she says, then whispers, “Are you sure you don’t need your umbrella? You don’t want to get sunburnt.”
“I’m fine.” Really? Sunburn isn’t one of my problems.
But I’m wondering if this well-dressed man is.
Between the crowds and an extended goodbye with Tiny, I lose sight of the man. I wipe dog kisses from my cheek and consider my next move. Find him? Or find those pockets of discontent before they can find me, or worse, an unsuspecting citizen of King’s End.
I trek across the wide expanse of cobblestones, keeping my gaze on the milling crowd. A fluttering teases the corner of my eye. I glance up but don’t focus. Instead, I let my gaze drift. I raise my chin and gauge the shift in the air. The back of my throat burns with bile and bitterness. My heart gives a single warning thud. I sniff and wipe a trickle of blood from beneath my nose. This is a portent, and I have bigger problems than pockets of discontent and a well-dressed man.
Near the bridge, a couple enters the Rose Walk. The town’s master gardener coaxes the flowers to bloom late into the season. It’s a fairytale space, perfect for romantic wanderings, wedding photos, and, of course, proposals.
I get a glimpse—two, actually—of what might happen in the next five minutes.
Squeals. Kisses. A resounding YES!
Or?
A sudden squall. A lost engagement ring. A breakup.
I knew it. My mother is—or was—always right. And?
