“And the coffee,” Grace added. “I’d return to this rusty enclave for the coffee alone.” She grinned at Shay. “You’re an added bonus.”
Shay beamed at her. “Aren’t you a gem.” To me, she asked, “Do you do this every weekend?”
“No,” Gennie replied, her tone making it known she didn’t enjoy market duty.
“What Gen meant to say is we cover the local markets on days when our event crew is stretched too thin. We have a crew down in Narragansett today and another in Connecticut, plus the usual at the Hope Street market on the East Side of Providence. That’s always a big one. We hold it down here while everyone else has their hands full.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen y’all in Boston,” the blonde said.
“Yeah, that’s part of our regular circuit too.” I shoved my hands deep in my pockets.
“Hear that, Shay?” Grace asked. “You can come home and still have the bread you were moaning over last night.”
“I wasn’t moaning,” she replied. “I can appreciate good bread just the same as you appreciate good coffee.”
“And you were definitely moaning over that coffee,” added the one who’d thankfully traded her bikini for actual clothes.
“Markets are boring as shit,” Gennie said. A beat passed before she slapped a hand over her mouth. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Not a peep,” Shay replied.
“I didn’t hear a word,” Grace said.
“The dogs went crazy last night,” Gennie said. “Do you want me to tell you about it?”
“Definitely,” Grace replied. “Start at the beginning. Leave nothing out. What are the dogs’ names?”
“Bernie Sanders, Elliot Stabler, Olivia Benson, Sandra Day O’Connor, and RuPaul were the troublemakers,” Gennie said.
“Unsurprising, with that group,” Grace said. “Go on.”
The blonde and Bikini Top inspected the jam offerings while the others listened to Gennie’s breathless story about the dogs trapping a woodchuck in the kennel and not knowing what the hell to do about it. They’d barked their heads off around midnight. Shay gave me a sympathetic face, mouthing “oh no” over Gennie’s head.
“Strawberry verbena,” Bikini Top said as she read one of the jam labels. “I’m not even sure I know what verbena is.”
“It’s a flower,” the blonde replied. “Lots of tiny flowers, long, trailing stems.”
“So, it tastes like flowers?”
I was ready to explain but the blonde beat me to it. “No, it’s very mild. Like herby lemon or tangerine. You’d like it.”
Bikini Top nodded. Then, she spotted the price sheet and her eyes flared wide. “Holy shit, it’s fifteen dollars? Forjam?”
“Emme,” the blonde chided. She gave me a long-suffering smile. “We’ll take two, please.”
“Gennie, you have a customer,” I called.
To Shay and the others, my niece said, “Watch this. I get to use the pay machine.”
Gennie climbed onto her milk crate and tapped the screen. “Two strawberry verbena,” I told her.
“Two…strawberry…verbena.” She keyed in the order, her lower lip snared between her teeth. “Anything else?”
“Anything you’d recommend?” the blonde asked.
Gennie thought about that for a moment. “I like ginger peach on toasty bread.”
“I’ll have to try ginger peach, then,” she replied. “You’re an excellent saleswoman.”
