“You didn’t need to do that.” I accepted the bag she thrust in my direction. “Will you please take some cash?”
“Nope,” she replied, popping thepand grinning at me. “My treat. Plus, I’m trying to buy your vote for favorite Judd co-worker. I fully expect to be ahead of Brady before we finish here today.”
I laughed. “You pulled ahead of Brady just by breathing.”
She cackled delightedly then took a sip of her iced latte.
“Thank you for breakfast,” I said.
“You’re welcome. Just be glad I wasn’t the one doing the cooking.”
I wondered at that. Candace’s mom, Amy, was a great cook. Joan and Brady both knew their way around a kitchen too. Maybe being in New York and surrounded by some of the best restaurants in the world made Candace a little less self-sufficient with meal prep.
“Not a fan of cooking?” I asked.
She finished chewing a bite of Pop-Tart and then admitted, “I’ve just never been very good at it. Not like Mom, at least. Do you like to cook, Mark?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but Candace spoke again before I got the chance. “Can I call you Mark? I’m sorry, I should have asked before. Do you prefer to go by Mercer now?”
Now.
Maybe parts of high school were coming back to her after all. Ihadgone by Mark back then. Most people just called me Mercer now. I couldn’t pinpoint a reason or particular moment when things shifted, but the Judds all called me Mercer, so that was what I answered to.
I cleared my throat. “You can call me Mark. That’s fine.” Then I glanced in her direction to find her watching me. “And you prefer Candace now?”
Her smile was small but appreciative. “Yeah.”
We finished our coffees and pastries in comfortable quiet. Then Candace pulled out what appeared to be a stack of flyers and placed them neatly on the table, using an apple on top as a paperweight.
“I thought it would be good to advertise that it’s the orchard’s opening weekend,” she offered, almost shyly, as I scanned the bright green paper.
It featured a coupon at the bottom for a free turn on the farm’s giant bounce pillow. We typically sold wristbands for kids to enjoy it, and usually whoeverwas working behind the counter at the Apple House kept an eye on who was going in and out of the gate. It was a pretty low-maintenance attraction.
Offering the coupon here at the farmers’ market would advertise as well as entice families with kids to visit the orchard. “This is great,” I said, holding up the sheet of paper I’d snagged from the stack. “It’ll let people know we’re open for the season and get tourists to the orchard to hopefully buy some apples.”
“That’s the plan,” Candace replied with a grin, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
Main Street was blocked off until 2:00 p.m., and the market crowd picked up as folks visited the booths lining the road. Candace let me take the lead with customers while she diligently bagged up their apples and I accepted their money.
“We should really set up PayPal or Venmo for the farm and offer those forms of payment,” she said when there was a break in customers. “Some people don’t always carry cash.”
I nodded. “I’m sure your parents would go for that if you walked them through it.”
We’d just settled into our chairs for a brief lull in foot traffic when I noticed Hilda Branson and Rose Brentwood strolling a few feet from our booth. Unease made its way along the muscles of my back, making everything tight with awareness.
There was a chance they’d pass right by. I took a breath and attempted to ignore the tension coiling within, but I was hyper-aware of the women’s shuffling steps.
They were close friends of the reverend and Mrs. Price and regular parishioners down at Kirby Falls Baptist Church. I remembered them from my days as a member and all the various church events and picnics the Prices hosted.
Now, the two older women eyed me with a fair bit of contempt. This wasn’t unheard of behavior. In fact, it was pretty typical. I was used to it by now and could usually ignore the glares and glances.
But something told me things would be a little more complicated today with Candace at my side. I rolled my shoulders back and tried to force away the anxiety that was slowly taking hold.
The women strolled a bit closer. Mrs. Brentwood, with her cane in hand, said, “Hilda, didn’t you need some apples to make your pies for the bake sale?”
“Oh, yes. I do,” Mrs. Branson replied, loud enough to be heard. “But I prefer to buy from the Clarks. They’re all good Christian farmers.” With a pointed look in my direction, she added, “Especially considering those present here today.”
Mrs. Brentwood’s gaze found her way back to our table and to me, sitting there quietly. “Oh, of course!”
