Page 32 of Where the Music Grows

“Didn’t know Aggie was having live music,” Dad says.

“Me neither.” I take another bite of the Granny Smith apple. “You two haven’t heard anything?”

Mom shakes her head. “You know we don’t go to The Hollow Log.”

Right. My parents’ idea of a wild night is a new knitting pattern and herbal tea.

“I should visit her,” I say. “It’s been too long.”

Mom’s face lights up. “Take some vegetables from the garden. And that lavender soap I made.”

Dad pushes back from the table. “I’ll pack a box before you go.”

This is how it always goes. It’s not like they live across town from one another. But that’s how reclusive my parents are. They were perfectly happy not seeing other people for weeks at a time. They are cool with their farming and various crafts. They are very ‘earthy’ people, pretty much self-sustainable. They grow most of their own food and trade for things like grass-fed beef. My mom loves to sew her own clothes and make her own pottery.

I scrape the last bit of oatmeal from my bowl, savoring the sweetness of the honey. Across the table, Mom flips through a worn notebook, her reading glasses perched on her nose. Dad’s sipping his tea, his brow furrowed as he studies the crossword puzzle in front of him.

“What are you doing?” I ask Mom.

“We need to finalize the list for farmer’s market next weekend.”

I glance over at her notebook. There’s a running list of inventory she’ll be taking along with things like signs and whatnot. My parents take their market booth seriously, and every year it’s a marathon of preparation.

“What’s left to do?” I ask.

Mom taps her pen against the page. “The soap needs to cure a bit more, so I’ll wrap those tonight. And I need to finish glazing the mugs I made last week.” She looks up at me, her eyes bright with excitement. “Do you think we should bring some of that elderberry syrup this year? It was a hit last time.”

“Definitely,” I say. “People love that stuff.”

Dad chimes in without looking up from his crossword. “And don’t forget the garlic. We’ve got a bumper crop this year.”

“Already on it,” Mom says, scribbling something down. “We’ll bundle them in threes like last time.” She pauses, tapping her pen against her chin.

I wait for her to ask me to help out. Normally, I do, but with all the extra hours at the bakery, I just don’t know how I’m going to swing it.

“You should come by if you get off work early enough,” Mom says.

“I’m sorry I can’t do more to help you guys,” I say.

Dad finally looks up from his crossword. “You do plenty, kiddo. Between the bakery and helping us around here, you’re keeping busy enough.”

“How is the bakery business?” Mom asks.

“Busy.” I smile. “Just the way I like it.”

Mom gets to her feet. “I’ll get some stuff together for Aggie. I need to get over there, but it always feels like there’s something that needs to be done.”

“I’m sure she understands,” I say.

As they bustle around, gathering gifts, I watch them with a familiar ache in my chest. They’re so good. So steady. They’ve built this quiet, intentional life away from the noise of the world.

And here I am, their daughter, keeping secrets.

I could tell them, I think. Right now.

But Mom hands me a jar of blackberry jam with a smile, and the moment passes.

“That one is for you,” she says. “Those are the blackberries we picked a couple of weeks ago.”