“Good morning,” I shoot back. I save this tone for people who are entirely too pleased with themselves. “You brought… supplies.”
“Yep.” They maneuver the dolly through the aisle, zero hesitation, already moving. “Market opens at eight-thirty, but the good spots go fast. Figure we should get a jump on it.”
“We have a spot,” I remind them. “We sponsored. We’re on the map.”
“Which is why we don’t want to look like amateurs.” Jordan lifts the crate onto the counter, starts unpacking instantly. No “should I?” No waiting for approval. Just doing.
I cross my arms, plant myself there, determined not to enjoy this. Jordan glances up and, for half a second, I can see they’re enjoying every minute.
“Relax, Weiz. It’s a farmers market, not a hostage crisis.”
“It’s the first day of your month-long campaign to convince me I belong in a town I’m not sure I want to call home.”
Jordan’s hands pause, tote bags in midair, and those eyes settle on me. Steady, a little too perceptive.
“A campaign?” they repeat.
“It’s your word.”
“I said a month. Campaign is all you, Picasso. Maybe dig into that, see where it comes from.” They stack tote bags, lined up perfect. “Sounds a little defensive.”
My mouth opens, then closes. There are things I could say, but none of them would help, so I just grab a stack of fan decks and follow Jordan out into the July morning, refusing to examine any framing, metaphorical or otherwise.
Still—the note stays in my pocket, and I can’t ignore the flicker of something, warm and stubborn, under all my armor. Maybe worse than regret; maybe not.
Sleighbell Springs Farmers’ Market is a July tradition: white canvas tents standing guard, hand-chalked signs at playful angles, buckets of sunflowers saluting the entrance. The air is thick with fresh bread, hot coffee, just-mown grass, and sunscreen—a cocktail of summer, Vermont-style. Our booth is at the end of the row, right next to the tool-lending library tent, which feels like either a sick joke or a cosmic test. Or both.
“Tote bags face out,” I say, lining up the stack for what’s probably the third time. “Logo visible. No one wants to dig through a mystery pile.”
Jordan, hefting a crate of promotional gear that’s heavier than it looks, puts it down exactly where I point. Their forearm flexes. Ink shifts along the wrist—a mountain range perhaps, though I’m never sure, never let myself look too long.
I fuss with our sign, which is already straight. I know it isn’t crooked. I rearrange it anyway, pretending my attention isn’t stuck on the way Jordan moves, the easy strength, the knowing competence that could probably toss me over their shoulder and carry me up Main Street without breaking stride.
The market crowds quickly. By nine-thirty, the whole green is alive: parents with reusable bags, tourists with phones, kids with melting ice cream. I take my spot behind the table, customer-service smile in place, bracing for the usual: polite nods, sympathy, pity reserved for the widow who runs the store.
But Ruthann Kowalski from the garden club is first, all silver bob and laser focus, grabbing my hand before I can say a word.
“That sage green—the one for my sunroom? Maddie, you changed my life. My book club won’t quit talking about it. Dorothy—you know Dorothy, Elaine’s mother-in-law? She begged for the color code, but I told her only you have the magic touch.”
I blink, caught off guard. “I’m glad it worked for you.”
“Worked? It’s a miracle, honey.” She pats my hand and disappears into the paint samples.
Then Mr. Okafor, the retired English teacher, with his gentle cane and crinkled smile.
“The theater held up through spring. Not a chip on that arch you patched, even after those maniacs in the cast gave it hell. You’re a magician with that paint.”
I pause. “I worried about the finish, with the lights.”
He waves it away. “Kids were thrilled. You’ll do workshops again? My granddaughter’s restless.”
Before I can answer, he’s gone, swept off toward berries and sunshine, leaving me a little dazed and a little grateful.
Next, a woman I vaguely know (bank? pharmacy?), picks up a paint chip. “Your holiday window last year—the tools arranged like a Christmas tree? Made me cry. In a good way.” She glances up, sheepish but sincere. “My dad was a carpenter. He’d have loved it.”
I find myself smiling, the honest kind, not the one I put on for strangers. “Thank you,” I manage, and I mean it.
A teenager, bold in a Sleigh Queen crop top, flanked by pals, leans in. “Are you running the workshops again? I want to redo our bathroom backsplash but Mom says I need to actually know how. YouTube isn’t helpful.”
