He took my hand, tugged me forward, and kissed my cheek.
“Mommy, Mommy!” DJ and Daisy came darting through the legs of shoppers, holding up their adorable little arms. Where were their jackets?
“Hello, my babies.” I stepped away from Carl. “Where did you come from?”
“Daddy brung us.”
“We’re Christmas tree shopping,” John said.
I came around the table to give hugs. Raised my face for a brief, marital kiss. “What a nice surprise!” A memory stole over me like winter sunlight, John and me, shopping together for our first tree. Makinglove on the rug on Christmas morning, surrounded by tissue paper and the scent of pine. “Thanks for buying the tree. That’s one more thing off my list!”
John offered a hand to Carl, sizing him up. “I don’t think we’ve met. John Brooke.”
“Carl Stewart.”
They gripped hands a little too long, like arm wrestlers testing the competition.
“Carl has a farm stand, too. Over there.” I stood, waving vaguely in the direction of the river. “He’s been helping me.”
“So I see.” John gave me a level look. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“You’re not interrupting,” I said.
“I’m just being nice so she’ll come work for me,” Carl said.
“Can I try that stuff in the jar?” a man asked.
“Marinated feta. Absolutely.” I twisted open a lid. “It’s a great appetizer. Or on salads.”
He bought two jars of feta. I tucked his money into the cashbox. Almost out of singles, I noticed. I should have brought more.
“Come with us, Mommy,” Daisy said.
“I wish I could, sweetie.” Without her barrettes, her butchered bangs made her look like a little hedgehog. I smoothed back her hair, smooching her forehead.
“Mommy’s busy,” John said. “We’ll get out of your way.”
“You’re not in the way.”
A woman layered in scarves and sweaters, her feet in sandals—very earthy, very arty—picked up a log of chèvre. “Excuse me, is this cheese organic?”
I looked to Carl for guidance.
“Probably not certified organic,” he said. “But humanely farmed and pasture grazed, am I right?”
I smiled at him gratefully. “Yes. And it’s local.”
“Cheese is cheese,” her husband said.
He was talking about my mother’s cheese. “Actually, cheese is anexpression of the place where it’s made. Like wine. So a cheese made from local goats has a flavor you can’t get anywhere else.”
“I’ll take two,” the woman said.
I wrapped the cheese, tucked their money into the cashbox.
A familiar wail jerked my head up. “Mommy, Mommy!”
“Mommy’s busy.” John had hefted Daisy in his arms and was holding DJ firmly by the hand. “Let’s go.”
