Crops and Robbers (2 page)

Two weeks earlier, at the beginning of August, the
South Carolina Record
, a statewide publication that had gained popularity as “The Paper That’s All About the Food,” had given Bailey’s the distinction of being named the “Best Farmers’ Market” in all of the southeastern United States.

That in itself was enough to boost business for the vendors. We’d all been seeing bigger crowds and heavier cash boxes at the end of the day. But, another result of the article and the rating was that Bailey’s had been approached by the Central South Carolina Restaurant Association. They were a group of about forty restaurants that were always meeting and discussing things like tablecloths, credit card companies, seating limits, and where to get the freshest foods for their customers. Apparently, the small article got their attention.

They, or at least their eleven board members, were on their way to Bailey’s to sample and shop. If we lived up to some standards that weren’t overly clear to any of us, we’d become one of their main suppliers. They would send the trucks, and we would pack them with products.

Yes, it was a very big day.

I needed to focus on my smile, and ignore Bo and the suffocating heat that I’d described to Allison as gates-of-hell hot. It was amazing how much I sweated when I was supposed to look my best.

My phone buzzed in my overalls pocket, interrupting my silent personal pep talk.

“Hey, Allison,” I said as I answered. “They here?”

“Not yet, but someone else, or elses, are.”

“Who?”

“Mom and Dad. They’re on the way to your stall. I explained what’s going on, so they wanted to be able to say hi to you before you got too busy.”

“Mom and Dad? Our wayward parents are home? Do they look okay?” I talked to my parents frequently enough, but they’d hit the road in an RV almost two years earlier and hadn’t said anything that made either Allison or me think they might be coming back to Monson anytime soon. I hoped neither of them was ill.

“They’re fine. I doubt they’re planning on sticking around long, but I think they needed a check-in to make sure we’re okay and you weren’t planning on another divorce soon, or getting shot at.” Allison laughed lightly.

“Funny,” I said. I was twice-divorced and not currently married. I wasn’t in a hurry to be married again, and my boyfriend Ian and I were on the same page regarding such commitments. He and I were both so busy building our businesses that it wasn’t the time for planning such things. I’d traveled back to Iowa with him to meet his family, and though I didn’t think it mattered all that much, Ian’s father and I hadn’t gotten along quite as well as Ian and I had hoped.

There was also the fact that he was ten years my junior. Not only was he building his business, he was also still building the sort of life a twenty-five-almost-twenty-six-year-old man should be building. We realized we weren’t
there
, but I suspected Ian was also part of the reason my parents had made a stop in town. It was time for them to meet him.

“Actually, you’re going to be pleased with the way they look. They seem healthy and happy,” she said. “Gotta go.”

I put the phone back in my pocket and peered over my front display table. Only a second or two later, I saw my parents moving down the aisle. Allison was right; they looked great. Polly and Jason Robins waved and flashed friendly smiles to the vendors as they made their way toward me. Dad was tall and dark, just like Allison, and Mom was petite and blonde, just like me. They were both hippies who’d made some great real estate investments over the years and were able to travel the country in an expensive RV instead of a Volkswagen van like they’d done when they were first married.

But today, they didn’t look as much like hippies as they had last time I’d seen them.

Dad’s dark hair was short, very short, shorter than it had ever been. He was clean shaven and tanned to a brown perfection. He wore khaki shorts and a blue golf shirt. I had never seen my father in a golf shirt before, and I pondered what could have happened in his life to make him wear one.

Mom wore a long bohemian sleeveless dress, which assured me that whatever had possessed my father hadn’t spread to my mother yet. But, on second glance, was her shoulder-length hair straight and in a ponytail? Mom and I looked alike except for the length and state of curliness of our hair. I wore mine short, straight, and easy. She wore hers long and curly. But where was the wild curliness that she preferred? Of course, the curls were achieved with perms, but it had always fit her so well. She looked almost distinguished with her smooth ponytail. She reminded me of Allison, and she never reminded me of Allison. Her nose was also a healthy pink; that, along with Dad’s tan, made me think they might have been at a beach recently.

But hang on, something else was missing. Where were the long beaded earrings she always wore? From where I stood, I would have sworn she wore posts. Posts!?

They weren’t themselves. I braced myself for whatever bad news they were bringing.

“Becca, my girl,” Dad said as he embraced me over the display table. He smelled of Zest soap, just like he always had.

“Becca, so lovely to see you,” Mom said when it was her turn.

I inspected them both very closely. Allison was right; though they didn’t look like the parents I was accustomed to, they both looked great. They were only fifty-four, but they actually looked younger—in an oddly mature way—than they did two years ago.

“Wow, it is so good to see you both,” I said, holding back some surprise tears. It
was
so good to see them. “I don’t know where to begin with my questions, so tell me everything. Where’ve you been recently? Glad to see you, but really wondering why you stopped by. And, Dad, why are you wearing a golf shirt instead of a T-shirt?”

They both laughed.

“We just spent a few days at Myrtle and thought we’d stop by for a visit. Can’t a mom want to see her girls?” Mom said. Myrtle was Myrtle Beach, perhaps one of the greatest places in the world and located on the South Carolina coast.

“Sure,” I said.

“I like my golf shirt,” Dad said as though he was surprised by my observation. It was then that I realized what had happened. They were living their midlife crises, in reverse of how most middle-aged people experienced such a thing, but for a couple hippies they were “crisising” in their own ways. I’d faint, though, if they’d driven to Bailey’s in a four-door sedan.

“You look spectacular,” I said as I laughed.

There wasn’t much time to catch up considering the expected visitors from the restaurant association, so we made plans to meet at my house after work. I promised to bring Ian, though I pointed out where his stall was and that it would be fine if they wanted to go introduce themselves to him. I’d invite Allison and her husband, Tom, and son, Mathis, too. They said they’d take care of talking to Tom since their next stop was to go spoil their grandson Mathis.

They would have made a clean getaway if they’d left only thirty seconds earlier. But since they hadn’t, they ended up being stuck.

Before you saw the crowd of eleven at the end of the aisle, you felt them. It was as though the vendors began an invisible “wave,” like something at a professional sporting event. But instead of arms flailing in the air, the wave was made up of the consecutive movement of vendors coming to attention.

Mom, Dad, and I turned and peered down the aisle.

“It looks like they’re here,” I said as I glanced at the crowd of people milling around Abner’s stall. They were a casual group, but serious nonetheless. Allison was with them, looking beautiful and confident as always.

“Shoot. Unless we escape out the back of your stall, we can only leave by walking through them. For some reason, that feels rude,” Mom said.

“No, just come back here with me. The two of you will make us the best-dressed stall in the place,” I said as I maneuvered my front display table so they could join me. It didn’t seem right to send them out the back tent wall. They’d have to traipse through the load-unload area of the market, where trucks and vans were parked and had carved enough ruts in the ground to make the walking treacherous. Why did they have to leave anyway? I knew they wanted to see their one and only grandson, but I was kind of glad they were stuck. I could spend a little more time with them.

However, the stall was crowded with three occupants, and the heat seemed to rise exponentially with the two extra bodies. I was feeling it but didn’t say anything for fear they’d leave, dangerous walking and all. They looked fine, fresh and unaffected by the warmth.

The restaurant group didn’t move quickly but stopped at each stall, as Allison introduced, if I was hearing correctly, the president of the association to each vendor.

Joan Ashworth was probably in her midfifties, with a high and tight brown bun perched on the top of her head. She was tall and skinny, and the bun only added to her height. She had a thin neck and a regal profile, as if it belonged on the side of some exotic country’s coin.

From where we were, it seemed she was complimenting Abner and his flowers. I hoped the compliments would translate to extra business.

The others in the group followed the woman with the bun and Allison, and directed their genuinely eager attention at the vendors and their products.

Their next stop was at Herb and Don’s Herbs stall, which was close enough to mine that we wouldn’t have to strain to hear what was said. Herb, adorable and billiard-ball bald, and Don, supermodel handsome, were both life and business partners, and they had a way with herbs that few people could master. Their oregano was, without question, the best I’d ever tasted and the herb they hoped would get the restaurant owners interested in all their products. Herb sprinkled some into Joan’s extended hand. She licked her finger, dipped it into the oregano, and then put it on her tongue. Her face lit immediately and she smiled.

“Delicious, delicious,” I heard her say. “I certainly will try this at my place, but Manny, you need to try some, too. Manny owns three Manny’s Pizza locations.”

I knew of Manny Moretti and would recognize him if I ran into him somewhere. The most famous of his three pizza places was on the state highway between Monson and Smithfield. The two others were in Smithfield and Charleston.

Manny stepped forward from the crowd. He was shorter than the president but taller than me; almost everyone was taller than me. He didn’t have a mustache, but I thought he should—not to cover up something or make him more attractive, but because it just seemed like it would fit him. He had a head full of short, thick, dark hair and a deep alto voice that seemed to rattle the tent poles and walls.

“Delicious,” he said with an Italian accent after he sampled the oregano. “I will take some of that today, and it will be on the pizzas I create this evening. What a find, Joan, what a find.” He turned to Joan and they said something else to each other, but I didn’t catch it.

Manny had moved to South Carolina from Sicily about twenty years earlier when he’d been thirty. His rags-to-riches American-dream story was well known throughout the area.

Pizza had never been one of my favorite foods, so for a long time I didn’t know what I was missing at Manny’s. But my friend, police officer Sam Brion, was originally from Chicago, and he’d heard that Manny’s served Chicago-style thick crust pizza pies. We’d ventured there one evening a few weeks ago for dinner, and after one bite of Manny’s pizza, I became an instant pizza lover—but only if the pizza, was Chicago-style thick. In fact, if I hadn’t loved my wide-open spaces and my farm so much, the dinner might have almost convinced me to move to Chicago. It was delicious, but I hadn’t had time or opportunity to go back. My mouth watered just thinking about it.

“Betsy, could you also purchase a container of the oregano for us,” Joan said as she turned to a woman who stood on her other side.

Betsy slipped the notebook and pen she’d held at the ready into one of her pockets. She must have been somewhere in her twenties, but her large and thick glasses distorted much of her face. She wore denim shorts and a nice yellow T-shirt, and her blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail. She was probably an attractive young woman, but the glasses served as a mask.

Betsy and Manny stayed at the herb stall as the rest of the group moved to the next one. The vendor, Brenton, who’d removed his Yankees cap in deference to the big event, and Joan greeted each other as he made a comment about welcoming them to the market but not expecting they’d find much they could use in his stall. Brenton sold homemade dog biscuits. His business had grown steadily, and he was currently in the process of putting together a website.

“You might be surprised,” Joan said. “Jake, you might find these useful.” She turned to another man in the group, a man I knew fairly well. Not only had Jake Bidford also been involved in the community garden with Bo and me, he had dated Allison when we were juniors in high school. He’d adored her. I had tried to get to know him, but he was shy then, and I’d been busy working on the relationship that would eventually lead to my first divorce. After Jake and Allison had broken up, I’d married Scott One; Scott Two came later and ended with the same result: divorce.

Three years earlier, Jake had moved back to Monson and opened Jake’s, a sandwich shop right in the heart of the small town. He’d done well for himself. His sandwich ingredients were extra-fresh and had become the talk of the county. Even though his shop was in town, his land extended back far behind his building. He’d cultivated most of that plot and farmed it like a pro. He grew lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, onions, and cucumbers. Many of the ingredients for his sandwiches were from his own backyard. He was as good with his crops as any farmer anywhere. But he still had plenty of land left over, so he’d donated the rest of it to the community garden project. He was involved with the planting and teaching, too, but not as much as Bo and I were. Jake’s aunt, Viola Gardner, had been put in charge of the garden. The kids called her Mrs. Gard
en
er.