Crops and Robbers (4 page)

“It was just one of those things.” Linda smiled, too. She’d taken off the bonnet, exposing her blonde curls. “I see your sales haven’t been affected.” She nodded at my few jars of remaining inventory.

“No, I’m still selling. I’m fine, really. I’m sure we’ll all laugh about this someday,” I said. “There weren’t any other customers around at the time, which was good. If there had been, I might have a full table left.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. Your regular customers aren’t going anywhere.”

“Thanks, Linda.”

“You’re welcome. Now, I didn’t get to say hello to your parents. Are they going to be around awhile?”

“I have no idea.” I laughed. “They don’t share their schedules very well, but I know where they’ll be this evening. Come over to my place for dinner.”

“I don’t want to disturb family time.”

“Don’t be silly. Come over. You’re family anyway.” Linda and I were close, but we hadn’t grown up together. She’d met my parents a couple of years earlier before they left on their latest adventure, but she hadn’t experienced them at their finest: leading philosophical discussions or sharing new ideas for recycling. She could use a little Polly-and-Jason time. Allison and I were convinced it was good for the soul.

“Only if I can bring dessert,” she said.

“That’s a deal.”

“Good.” She looked around. “Where’s Ian?”

“He’s on an install. I think. I know he had something to do, but I can’t remember exactly what it was.” Ian, my adorable and exotic (according to Allison) boyfriend, made yard artwork and sold it at the market. His business was going well, but he’d also recently bought some land with the plans to turn it into a lavender farm. It seemed he was always going in one direction or another, and some days I lost track of his whereabouts.

“Did he leave before the . . .”

“Before the disaster?” This time I really laughed.

“Yeah. See, you’re laughing already.”

“Right before, apparently.” I’d wanted to talk to him afterward, but when I went down to his stall it was empty. Abner told me Ian’d had to rush off, but he wasn’t sure where he was going. I’d left a message inviting him to my house for the evening, but I hadn’t heard from him yet. “I’m sure he’ll be at dinner, though. Did you need to talk to him?”

“Yes. I’d like for him to create something for Drew.”

“He’s really coming home? Soon?”

“I think. Really, I don’t know much, but I do think he’ll be home before the end of the year, and he’s always loved Ian’s work. It would make a great surprise.”

“Ian will be thrilled.”

“Good. I’m sold out, so I’m out of here for the day. I’ll talk to him tonight. I’ll see you in a few hours?”

“Perfect.”

As I watched Linda disappear back to her side of the tent wall, whatever leftover bad feelings I had about Joan flew away with the warm light breeze. Linda was right; my business hadn’t been affected. There had never been one word of complaint regarding my products. Ever. In fact, I always thought I was lucky. Perhaps I did need a little humbling, and I could accept that. What doesn’t kill us . . .

“Becca?”

I turned to see Bo Stafford at the front of my stall. He had his hands in his overalls pockets, and he gave me a strained smile. Bo was a big guy who’d played football in high school. Even though he was somewhere close to thirty, his bigness hadn’t gone soft, and his wide shoulders and thick arms always reminded me of a tough but kind of cute bulldog.

“Hi, Bo, how’s it going?” I’d been irritated at him earlier for his lack of cooperation and what I interpreted as disrespect, but now that rebel part of my soul wanted to offer him a fist bump. I guess I wasn’t quite over “it” yet, but I kept my fist to myself.

“Sorry about the way she treated you today,” he said.

“Oh, that’s okay. It was a surprise, but I’m fine. Thanks, though.”

“I was worried something like that would happen. Those restaurant people . . .”

“Yeah?” I said hesitantly. Bo sounded like he wanted to tell me something. I was curious.

“I used to work with that group. Well, my parents did when they ran the farm. The association members bought our onions, lots of onions. But then one day, they quit buying from us and started buying from someone they claimed was cheaper—who didn’t have as good onions as we did. It hurt our business, but mostly it hurt my mom’s feelings. She was sort of friends with Joan.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” That explained his earlier attitude. “When was this?”

Bo waved his hand through the air. “Four years ago or so, but they haven’t changed.”

Four years was a long time, and I doubted that the same people who were on the association board then were still on the board now.

“Did you know the people who were here today?” I asked.

“Just that Joan lady. She’s been around a long time. She’s been the president of the group for—well, I think since they put it together. I don’t like the way she treated you, but I’m not surprised. I’ll be sure and spread the word that none of us should go to her restaurant.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay. My business wasn’t affected, Bo,” I said. “I’m fine, really.” He’d taken this even worse than I had. Getting even with Joan hadn’t crossed my mind—well, not seriously at least. “It’s okay if she didn’t like my products. I guess you win some and you lose some.” I shrugged, but I didn’t like the look on his face.

“Did you see how she purposefully ignored my stall? Walked right on by, and so did everyone else—except Jake, of course. But between the work at the garden and the fact that he buys some onions from me anyway, we’ve gotten to know each other.”

I hadn’t noticed that they’d ignored Bo. I’d been so caught up in my own drama that I hadn’t paid a bit of attention to whatever else the restaurant group had done since then, except leave. If they had ignored Bo, it was a rude thing to do, but I didn’t think I should add fuel to his fire.

“Jake’s a great guy,” I said.

Bo stood in front of my stall for a long moment and stared at me with angry eyes, though I couldn’t understand just exactly why he was angry. Was he upset at Joan, or at me for not making a bigger deal of the whole situation, or was he still living the anger of four years earlier? Did he want me to say something bad about Joan? I couldn’t bring myself to go there.

I cleared my throat.

“Yes, he is. Remember, Becca, you make delicious jams and preserves. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Y’hear?”

I nodded and smiled, still not sure what he was most bothered about.

“Will you be at the garden Sunday?” He asked, lightening the mood.

Sunday was a busy day at Bailey’s, but a number of the Idaho onions that the kids had planted were ready to harvest. I’d already posted a sign that I wouldn’t be at my market stall on Sunday. I planned on working at the garden in the morning and catching up on things at my place in the afternoon. As long as I gave plenty of notice to my customers, they didn’t mind if I took a day off here and there.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Bo smiled. “So are the kids. And Viola, of course.”

Viola loved the community garden and had taken her role as garden boss-slash-goddess very seriously.

“Of course. Hey, I’ll bring jam and crackers for everyone,” I said.

“Good idea. I’ll bring some milk.”

“Sounds good.”

He seemed to have gotten over his anger as he turned and walked back to his stall, and then made his way out the back of it. From where I stood, I could see that he’d either sold out for the day or packed up the rest of his product. His tables were empty except for a few stray onion skins fluttering in the light breeze his moving body had created.

“Huh,” I said quietly.

I suddenly felt guilty for being perturbed that Bo had behaved less than perfectly for our guests. A four-year-old issue with Joan might not be a good reason to act disrespectfully, but I now understood where he was coming from, at least. Joan’s ignoring him was uncalled for.

There was also that immature part of me that was pleased that he hadn’t acted as though we were being visited by royalty.
So there
, I thought for a brief instant, but then I laughed at my own sour grapes, or would that be strawberries in my case?

I looked around the market and breathed in the hot fresh air. I had no reason to feel bad about anything. I had the greatest job in the world; I worked with the most amazing people in the world; I had a perfect sister, a wonderful boyfriend, and the best dog on the planet waiting for me at home. My parents, who were an adventure in themselves, were in town for a visit. Who cared if someone didn’t like some of my products? I had no reason to feel bad about anything or have even one sour grape.

I spent another hour roaming around the market, talking to vendors and touching base with my sister about dinner plans. A couple people made supportive comments regarding my products, but most had forgotten or acted like they’d forgotten about the restaurant association’s visit. We didn’t have time to dwell on much in the farmers’ market world. There was always something that needed our attention—our products, our crops, our art, or even just making sure our trucks and vans were full of gas.

Finally, after I felt rejuvenated, I packed the few remaining jars of product into my old orange truck and headed for home. Surprisingly, the truck’s air-conditioning still worked, but I preferred to roll down the windows. The truck could only reach about fifty-seven miles per hour, but that was good enough to keep some air, warm though it might be, blowing through the cab.

The twenty-minute drive down the state highway to my farm served to further put me into a better mood. The one AM station that my radio broadcast clearly played the Su-premes’ “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough,” which I sang along with, not caring if anyone heard or saw me.

By the time I pulled into my gravel driveway, I was in a better mood than I had a right to be.

Unfortunately, my good mood disappeared as I shifted into Park. My body reacted before I even acknowledged exactly what was wrong. Pure dread hollowed out my gut. My senses came together and I realized what the problem was, or at least what part of the problem was.

Since she’d been old enough to train, my short-legged, long-footed retriever, Hobbit, had waited for me on my front porch. I had no idea what she did while I was at the market all day, but no matter what time I came home, she was always on the porch, lying on her dog bed and waiting for me to pull down the driveway.

Allison had once been at my house and seen Hobbit’s ears perk up a few minutes before I got home. Hobbit had put her nose in the air, sniffed as though she could locate the scent of my truck’s fumes, and then made her way to her spot on the porch.

But today, as I pulled into the driveway, the dog bed, the entire porch, in fact, was empty of life, canine or otherwise. I looked around my property. Nothing else looked out of place; the house was fine, and the converted barn that housed my kitchen was in one piece, the door shut tightly. My pumpkin patch was thickening with green vines, and the leaves on my strawberries looked undisturbed.

And Hobbit was nowhere to be seen.

I threw myself out of the truck. Logically, there wasn’t any reason
to be in such a panic until I searched the property thoroughly, but I couldn’t remember one day when Hobbit hadn’t been on the porch.

“Hobbit, hey girl!” I yelled as I cupped my hands around my mouth.

I hurried into the house, checking her dog door on the way. Everything was fine, nothing was out of place. Nothing was wrong except that Hobbit wasn’t anywhere. She sometimes stayed with Ian or his landlord, George, but I remembered specifically that she was home with me this morning and we hadn’t made plans for her to be somewhere else.

I rushed though the back sliding doors and yelled for her again. My crops traveled up some small slopes in the land, and they were definitely undisturbed. I shielded my eyes with my hand and looked off into the wooded distance. There was no sign of any living creature, my dog included.

I ran back around to the front of the house, still calling her name and still receiving no response. I’d left my truck running, so I switched it off, put the keys in my pocket, and yelled some more.

The thought that something bad might have happened to Hobbit ripped a hole in my soul. She’d come into my life the day that my second ex-husband had left it, and she’d been the best relationship I’d ever had. In fact, I often thought that if she’d come into my life sooner, I might not have made such compulsive decisions when it came to marriage. If I’d placed an expectation for a man to be half the person my dog was, I would have ruled out husband number two completely. Husband number one might have made the cut but only barely.

“Hobbit,” I said as I felt panic tighten my throat. I didn’t have time to cry, though.