Page 15

"Effective, though."

Noah walks into the kitchen.

"Are we going to the market?"

I point at him.

"You're involved in this conspiracy."

"No."

"You answered too quickly."

Mom hands him the canvas bag.

"Get your shoes."

Traitors.

The Oakridge Saturday Market has changed. I remember folding tables, homemade jam, and maybe three people selling zucchini. Now white tents line the square. There are flowers, bread, cheese, honey, soaps, produce, coffee, and enough cheerful conversation to make me reconsider leaving the house. Noah, meanwhile, seems to know everyone.

We've barely made it halfway down the first row when he spots two boys near a bakery stand. "Can I go?"

I follow his gaze.

"Stay where I can see you."

"I will."

He takes off. I continue toward the produce stalls. Someone passing me does a double take. I pretend not to notice.

Then I see the tomatoes. I stop. Oh. Now those are tomatoes. Deep red. Heavy. Slightly imperfect. Exactly the way tomatoes are supposed to look when someone has grown them for flavor instead of shelf life. I pick one up. Firm without being hard. I lift it toward my nose. The smell alone tells me everything.

"Beautiful."

"Can I help you?"

I look up. Oh, no. That's the man who was staring at me at Lily's funeral. Today there is no dark jacket, no solemn expression, no church full of mourners between us. Just jeans, work boots, a charcoal T-shirt, broad shoulders, and a face that seems naturally suspicious of the entire human race. Wonderful.

"These vegetables are incredible."

His eyebrows lift. "Glad you approve."

I glance at the basil. It's just as impressive.

"The quality is exceptional. Where do you get them?"

"Here."

I look at him.

"No, I mean who's the grower?"

"I am."

I laugh. He doesn't. My smile fades.

"You're serious."