Chapter 1
August
“Gerald, I need you to behave today.”
I patted the side of the van twice, and pulled out the flower buckets, lining them up on the folding table I’d had since college. The Millhaven Farmer’s Market was already buzzing. Someone three booths down was playing acoustic guitar badly and proudly. The smell of cinnamon from the baked goods stall on my left mixed with the warm afternoon air.
I was arranging the dahlias when I noticed the man next to me.
He was older, maybe late sixties, with a neat gray mustache and the kind of hands that had done a lot of work over a lot of years. He was setting up his booth carefully, lining up amber bottles in a row like little soldiers. A hand-painted sign above his table said:Clifford’s Local Honey.
He was looking at me like he was trying to figure me out.
“Who’s Gerald?” he asked.
I looked up. “Sorry?”
“You were talking to someone named Gerald.” He looked around. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Oh. Gerald is the ghost of my deceased grandfather,” I said. “We talk a lot. He loved honey, actually. So he’s probably already at your booth. You might want to watch your stock.”
The man’s mustache went very still.
“I’m kidding.” I laughed. “I’m so sorry, I’m completely kidding. Gerald is my van. I named him Gerald because this van here,” I pointed at the van. “Is the only “guy” who has ever truly loved me and never left my side. He doesn’t fight with me. He doesn’t say anything when I’m too emotional. He just listens. He has never once complained about my long stories. Not once.”
The man blinked. Then something in his face loosened. “That’s quite a van.”
“He really is.” I gave Gerald another pat. “Gerald and I have been through a lot.”
The man went back to arranging his honey bottles, but he was smiling now. I watched him for a second. His hands shook a little when he picked up the bigger jars, and he’d set each one down and then nudge it slightly to the left, then slightly back to the right, like he was trying to get it exactly perfect.
“Am I talking too much?” I asked. “Please tell me if I’m talking too much. I have a habit and I’m working on it but I’m not working on it very hard.”
He stopped nudging the jar. “No.” He shook his head. “Young people don’t usually talk to me much. I’m liking it.”
My chest did something warm and immediate. “Can I hug you?”
He looked startled.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Clifford.”
“Hi, Clifford, I’m August. Can I call you Cliff?”
He laughed then. It was a real laugh, the kind that comes from the belly. “Yes August, you may.”
I came around from behind my table and hugged him. He was a little stiff at first, like a man who hadn’t been hugged in a while and had forgotten what to do with his arms. Then he hugged me back.
“I’m a hugger,” I told him, stepping back. “And you looked like you needed one.”
“Maybe I did.” He looked almost surprised at himself for saying it.
“Will I see you here every week?”
“I’m sure you will.”
I went back behind my table and started re-arranging the peonies. The morning had moved slow. People were walking past, looking at things, not really buying.
