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I muster a half-nodded “Yep.”
“You’re sure?” she asks, because she knows me well enough to know I’m not telling her everything.
I glance over at her. “I’m sure. Invite him. Throw him a party. Let’s make tomorrow Owen Larrabee Day! I’ll show up with a big cutout sign of his face on a stick.”
“You are impossible.”
I shake my head. “Honestly, Mom. I’m fine. Invite him. Really.”
“Okay. I just wanted to make sure.”
We arrive at the Harvest Hollow Farmer’s Market, which is in a downtown pavilion one block over from Maple Street. Years ago, it was held in the parking lot of the United Methodist Church, but it got so big, the city raised money for the Harvest Market Pavilion to be built. It’s not completely weatherproof, but it’s been known to keep heads dry in the rain—if the rain falls straight down.
Now that it’s autumn, the posts of the pavilion are decorated with corn stalks, tied on by handmade yellow, red and orange bows. There are hay bales and pumpkins on display, adding to the festive colors of the vendors who set up in rows underneath the pavilion.
There’s a crisp chill in the North Carolina mountain air, making it the perfect time to bring out the pumpkin spice samples and apple crisp cups. For Book Smart, the market isn’t as much a money maker as it is a conversation starter—and I firmly believe it’s good to be involved in the community.
I love being out here every Saturday. It reminds me that I’m a part of something. And that I’m not alone.
I park on the street and make my way over to our little corner of the market, greeting the other familiar business owners as I do. Heather from Cataloochee Mountain Coffee waves from her end of the market. Since I serve her coffee and she serves my baked goods, we take opposite ends. On market days, I only serve plain coffee and Heather does fancy drinks and bagels. Maybe we should look at each other as competitors but we don’t, and somehow it works for us. And people seem happy to support both of our businesses.
Mom stops to chat with some of her friends from work, and I spot Reagan over in front of the Book Smart book wagon.
The wagon, which is actually a refurbished VW van, is parked behind our booth. I had a local auto body place retrofit the side so it lifts up, like an awning, with fun rustic shelves and a woodsy interior. Just like at the shop, people can peruse books, order coffee, or purchase a pastry.
If I’m lucky, they’ll do all three.
When I walk up, Regan stops setting up and looks at me. “That news lady was not happy with you yesterday.”
I make a face. “I’m really broken up about that.”
She chuckles. “Yeah, I can tell.”
I shrug. “They did just fine without me.”
Mom and Dad found Lindsay’s interview last night and recorded it on the DVR, and even though I opted out, my shop was on TV, and Mom told me that Owen mentioned it twice.
It was thoughtful. Again. What in the world am I supposed to do with that?
“Did you watch it?” Reagan goes back to unloading the pastries my nighttime baker, Jenny, packed up. Jenny always comes in on Fridays to get ready for the market. Usually, I stay around to help her because baking is relaxing for me, but last night I left her high and dry.
Because that’s the kind of coward I am.
“Nope,” I say.
“Talk about tense.”
Tense? There was tension? Between who?
I pause and look at her, then lean on the table, a little closer to her, and say, “Like . . .sexually tense?”
She laughs. “Why did you whisper that? No one’s around. You can say the word ‘sexually.’ You are an adult.”
Reagan is younger than me, but she’s a whole lot more experienced. And she likes to say whatever she thinks, appropriate or not.
“And no, I mean, I think they were in a fight.”
My ears perk up at this, but my mom walks into the booth, so I strike my most nonchalant pose.
