The following Saturday, Morgan was at the Little Woodville markets before Nate and she was glad to have time to shunt back and forth to get things from the car before she’d have to face him. She’d embarrassed herself last week and she knew it. Since then, she hadn’t bumped into him in the village and for that she was thankful. She’d seen him in the street one day with Trevor and Branston, but she’d ducked into the bakery and ended up buying another loaf of bread she didn’t actually need as Betty leapt straight in to serve her. The last thing she was going to admit was that she was hiding from someone.
Morgan got all her boxes to her stall with Hildy’s help this time. Morgan swore nobody ever got to these markets before Hildy did, nor did they ever look as bright and bubbly as the florist stall operator’s bright-pink, woolly jumper over inky leggings and brown boots with fur bursting from the tops. Pedro watched her stall and everything on it while she ran to get a herbal tea, as well as a bottle of water, plus a large tea for him. The warmer days were upon them and she’d been caught out enough times not having enough fluids at her disposal. She didn’t intend to let that happen again.
She’d put on a loose-weave cardigan over a plain t-shirt and jeans but took it off, despite it not even being mid-morning. This was one of those summer days where you really didn’t need another layer.
Moments after she relieved Pedro and he went back to his own stall, Nate arrived with a brief nod and a hello.
‘Good morning, Nate. Lovely day.’ She opted to go with ignoring the events of last week. It seemed the easiest thing to do, rather than talk about the grief that sneaked up on her and took her by surprise when she least expected.
The same thing had happened to Morgan a few times since Elaina’s death. She’d been caught out in the street, at the convenience store and even at the bakery the day she saw the French twist on display in the window. It had reminded her of her mum recalling the stage she and Tegan went through when they were learning French at school and were obsessed with practising at home in case they should want to go to Paris one day and see Notre Dame and the Eiffel Tower. The girls had wanted French plaits in their hair and Elaina had done her best, but it was time consuming and a lot when you had to do it for two girls day in, day out. In the end, she’d told her daughters that it would be better if they learnt to do them on each other. The novelty had soon worn off. But remembering the conversation, the way Elaina had told the story of her two little girls demanding fancy hairstyles when they had to get to school on time, came hurtling back to Morgan the day she saw the French twist resting in its basket in the window of the bakery. And she’d reacted much the same way as she had at the markets last week when the cushion had suddenly gone.
Morgan watched Nate set down the first two boxes he’d brought over in one go with smaller items inside, presumably. He had big hands, the sort you expected were used to manual labour, and she tried to imagine his fingers crafting, using a firm touch when it was needed, lighter when the task called for it. ‘I’ll watch everything while you go back and forth,’ she suggested.
‘Appreciate it,’ he said to her without fixing his gaze on her for more than a few seconds before he was off again. It seemed he wasn’t going with thenothing happenedapproach, which made her wonder whether he was worried he’d break her if he upset her again.
Nate had soon gone to and fro to his half of the stall and although he wasn’t yet sorted out, he was at least in situ.
‘Nate…’ She paused when Madeleine, who had a stall with baked goods and locally renowned crumble squares, stopped by with bottles of water from Jasper and a reminder to stay hydrated.
‘Don’t tell me…’ smiled Morgan, glad to have extras, ‘he said, and I quote, “I don’t want anyone passing out on my watch”.’
‘Got it in one.’ Madeleine’s laughter ricocheted off the stalls around them. She wasn’t known for being particularly quiet. ‘You’re doing well.’
Morgan was puzzled. ‘I haven’t started trading yet.’
‘I mean to be here, at your mother’s stall, now she’s gone.’
‘Oh… well, you know, it’s what she would’ve wanted.’
What followed was a recollection of the funeral, the wake afterwards, a memory or two of Elaina until Nate interrupted her full flow, asking Morgan to help him shift a coffee table. Madeleine moved away to deliver water to the rest of the stalls.
Morgan took one end of the table but lifted it up before he even gave her the count. ‘It’s not exactly heavy. Where are your muscles?’ She blushed when she realised they were on display, with the t-shirt sleeves hugging them quite nicely.
‘Thought you could use rescuing,’ he said without looking at her for longer than was necessary; either he was awkward or was sparing her feeling of unease.
‘Oh… you mean from Madeleine.’
He was writing on a bright orange star shape with black marker pen to dictate the price, which he put beneath a set of three wooden photo frames already lined up on his table. ‘It did my head in, all the condolences over and over again after my mum died. I never handled it as well as you did just then. I left the village; that’s how I coped in the aftermath.’
She was shocked at his sensitivity and insight, as well as him sharing something so personal. ‘Well, I suppose I’d already upped and left the village, so I didn’t want to be too predictable.’
‘She looked like she was in for the long haul.’ He tilted his head in the direction Madeleine had disappeared.
‘She would’ve stayed for a good twenty minutes more, I reckon. She wasn’t here last week; I should’ve expected it.’ He caught her gaze then. ‘Mostly I’m fine to talk about Mum but sometimes… well, sometimes it catches me off-guard.’
‘What was it you were going to say to me before she came over?’
‘It was about the cushion…’
‘I was afraid of that,’ he smiled kindly. ‘I’m really sorry I sold it. I honestly had no idea the cushion had sentimental value. I thought it was for sale and so I went ahead when a customer showed an interest.’
‘I can’t believe they paid a fiver for it.’ She waited until he looked up from the coffee table he’d moved on his own with ease to the top of the table at the back where he could point it out to customers who might be looking for a bigger item. ‘It was awful,’ she said.
‘Wait, you didn’t even like it?’
‘No! It was dreadful… can you believe I made it?’ When he pulled a face, she added, ‘When I was at school. Mum insisted she keep it, but I’d have far rather she’d thrown it out.’
‘It was her job to make you feel good about it. She was being a good mum.’
