Second Chance Rose, page 4
“What do you want?” she said.
“How about a coffee sometime? I need to—”
“Not a chance.”
“But if you’d just let me—”
“Nope.” She crossed her arms. She felt no compunction to fill the silence that followed.
My shoulders sagged. I was dejected but not surprised. I didn’t blame her; if I couldn’t forgive myself for the way I’d left, how could I expect her to? How had I managed to convince myself anyone on Orcas might welcome my presence here? I chuckled bitterly, wishing like hell I’d turned down the job on Shore Thing, told Sam and Noah it was impossible.
“This was a mistake.” I stood. “I came here to tell you I’m sorry. To apologize. To both of you. Hell, I probably owe this whole island an apology.” I scanned the tables around us, my cheeks burning. “But that doesn’t matter, does it. Thanks for the beer, Bluebell. I’ll keep out of your way while I’m here.” I spun around and weaved through the picnic tables, my leg aching.
I felt Rose’s eyes on my back, sure she was clocking the hitch in my step.
Before I was out of earshot, I heard Bluebell say, “Hey, what happened to hearing him out? At least give the guy a reason you won’t talk to him. He didn’t even get to finish his beer.”
Why was Bluebell taking my side? I couldn’t make out Rose’s reply.
“Go on, you can still catch him.”
Footsteps thudded behind me. I looked over my shoulder at Rose but didn’t stop.
“August. Auggie!” she called. She quickly caught up to me, although I kept moving toward the road that led to the van.
“I’m sorry you came all the way out here. Bluebell thought I was ready for it.” She slowed into pace alongside me, her blonde hair shiny in the sun. “I appreciate the thought—I do. But I just don’t trust you. Whatever explanation you have or story you want to tell—that won’t change my mind.”
I stopped and faced her. But before I could say a word, she held up a finger. “You’re here for work, right? So maybe we’ll bump into each other. Fine. But I have no room in my life for anything right now. Not a trip down memory lane, or some excuse or apology, or even a friendship. I have two priorities. Pappy and the farm. That’s it. You left. You have no idea how hard it’s been—how hard it is—to keep going, year after year. Season after season! I know everything looks rosy to you now. We’re coming up on summertime, and the hotel and Water Street are full of tourists and you film people, but come November, it’s a different game.”
“I remember—”
She interrupted me again. “Things change, as you said. Whatever you remember of Orcas, it’s different now. Back then we had nothing to worry about. Nothing real, anyway.”
I considered her words carefully. “Whatever you say,” I said quietly. I realized how asinine it was to imagine she might be open to an apology—a second chance at friendship. It was obvious she wasn’t. “We can agree to be civil.” I held out a hand.
“Civil,” she said. As her palm hit mine and my fingers curled around hers, a zing of electricity raced through me. I fought to keep my expression neutral but held on a second longer than the shake warranted. Recognition dawned in her eyes, too.
Leaving her standing there, I took the last steps to the van and climbed in, willing myself not to look back. Much as it killed me, I started the engine, backed out, and drove to the main road. So much for second chances.
CHAPTER 4
I cast a long shadow over the vegetable field in the early morning light as I pulled several rows of new potatoes from the ground and dusted the dirt from them. Next came the beets. Chioggias were popular at the market, with their cheerful candy-cane stripes. We also grew deep purple ones as well as orange and glowing cerise-pink, and this year we’d added an heirloom white variety that was crisp and sweet as sugar.
My thoughts were stuck on August. I dropped an overflowing crate close to the estate house and moved on to the neat rows of kale, their deep green leaves standing straight like soldiers in the soil. Where had he been for the past ten years? What was that scar from? I floated down each row deep in thought, grasping at the stems of outer leaves and pulling down and out, away from the new growth. It was important to leave a handful of leaves at the center of each plant so they could continue to produce. I liked using my fingers rather than gardening shears where I could, enjoying the connection that afforded me to the land.
As a teenager I’d found real joy pitching in to help Pappy and my mom with chores. In those days I’d looked at everything with joy and wonder, oblivious to the stress and uncertainty that came with farm life. Pappy always made it look easy, never voicing a worry or doubt the farm would survive another year. It was a happy time in my life; we’d had no idea my mom was staring down the barrel of a cancer diagnosis, a year filled with appointments, needle jabs, and surgeries ahead of her.
My life had been interwoven with August’s since we were kids. Toby and Emma Quinn, his parents, had run Bayview Soil and Landscape, a feed and fertilizer business, and worked with Pappy and my mom practically their whole lives. Toby had made deliveries to Big Oak as a teenager working part-time, taking over the business when his own father retired. The progression was obvious: August would helm Bayview Soil one day, too. He hadn’t minded the idea. He’d loved being in nature and wanted to work outside as much as possible. Buried somewhere in all the anger I’d felt at him leaving, I knew it must have been hard for him to give up that dream.
No one had thought twice about trusting Toby Quinn when he’d approached a group of farmers in Winslow about a new tractor supplier with rock-bottom prices. At that time folks around here didn’t use the internet much—but even if they had, they wouldn’t have questioned Toby’s offer. They’d happily made cash payments toward new tillers, blades, utility tractors, and more, believing their equipment would arrive in two weeks’ time as Toby promised. But when two months went by, then four, without so much as a fence-post driver arriving on the island, Pappy and a few others knew something was wrong.
They’d confronted Toby one Friday night, cornering him in the dining room at the Driftwood Inn. Before the group could get the police involved, though, the Quinns disappeared. I’d never seen Pappy so angry.
Later, we’d learned Toby covered his tracks well. There was no trace of the money—and no signed agreements between him and the farmers. Without actual evidence of the crime, the police had no grounds to arrest him.
I continued filling my crate with flowery leaves as memories of August played in my mind. How one spring day, an afternoon like any other, I’d caught him watching me press seedlings into the soil and felt a lightness in my stomach I’d never noticed before. We were fifteen then, gangly and awkward, our bodies coursing with hormones. Later, after Pappy and my mom went to wash up, August wrapped a hand behind my head and kissed me under the big oak tree at the edge of the farm. I didn’t resist. I kissed him back, pressing against him, feeling his hot fingers around my waist. He moaned quietly as the wind rustled the leaves above us in the dusky light.
Crate brimming over, I stood from my knees and lifted it next to the beets and potatoes. Grabbing an empty one from the stack, I shook my head free of the memory. I had too much to do to be reminiscing about August Quinn.
I turned my attention to the kohlrabi. Along with the white beets this year, I’d convinced Pappy to give this unusual vegetable a try, hoping to differentiate Big Oak from our peers at the Saturday market. The first crop was crisp and tender, and I couldn’t wait to show off the Sputnik-shaped Brassicas this afternoon. I pulled shears from my apron and cut each root off at ground level, tossing the bulbs and stems in the crate.
In our journey to organic certification, Pappy and I had learned about the importance of making good “neighbors” for our plants. Mixed among the kohlrabi’s blue-green leaves was the ferny foliage of carrots that would be ready in the coming weeks. Pansies and wild roses dressed up the edges of each row, their flowers bright and cheerful. Also nearby was the start of Big Oak’s tomatoes. We’d learned that by the time the tomatoes needed more space, we’d be ready to pull the aging kohlrabi plants from the soil. At the left side of the plot, a thicket of raspberries grew next to the split-rail fence.
Eighteen-year-old me would never have imagined my life would one day revolve around carrots and kale. But after my mom died, Pappy had stepped in to care for me full-time. It couldn’t have been easy for a sixty-four-year-old farmer to take on a grieving, lost girl on the verge of womanhood, especially after August left. We’d stuck it out together, though. The work on the farm kept us just busy enough we didn’t drown in our grief.
But four years ago, when it became impossible to ignore our dwindling savings while the cost of everything climbed, we started the process of organic certification. We threw ourselves into it as though our lives depended on it; in so many ways they did. Lucky for us, our customers had started to ask about it, too. The more I learned, the more passionate I became about reducing the farm’s impact on the environment and improving the health of our soil. It had been a long road. National Organic Program standards dictated organic crops be grown on land free from pesticides and synthetic fertilizers for at least three years before it could produce organic growth. This was the year we hoped to complete certification.
I still lay awake at night, worrying over past-due bills, but today I let myself feel proud. I stood from the kohlrabi and surveyed the crates of colorful vegetables piled at the edge of the garden. We were doing good work here.
“I’ll pick the strawberries,” Pappy called from the little porch at the front of the cottage.
I shielded my eyes from the sun to see his wiry body bounding toward the raised beds of berries. He’d filled a dozen cardboard pints three days earlier and stored them in the cool of the estate house. This time of year I knew we could pick another dozen this morning.
Two hours later, after another of Pappy’s big breakfasts and a cool shower to wash away the dust of the morning, I arrived at Grange Hall and parked in my usual spot, under the cover of a chestnut tree bursting with leaves the color of moss. I began hauling crates out of the back of the van, then the folding table and canopy tent. In mid June the weather was usually mild, but today was sweltering. Though the tent was a pain to haul around and set up, I knew I’d be grateful for the shade.
I dragged each of its spidery legs into place as Ida Pease arrived to take the spot beside me. It was a badge of honor to be next to her every week. Pies & Otherwise had been a staple on Orcas Island for nearly fifty years. Though the eighty-one-year-old had eased back production from what I remembered as a kid, Ida still baked for all the local restaurants, plus a few on the mainland, and did a roaring business every Saturday.
I left my spot to help her get organized, a routine we’d established a few years ago as she found it harder to move around. Together we unloaded a dozen pies made with Big Oak rhubarb and strawberries, six loaves of sourdough bread and six whole wheat, and five dozen thumbprint cookies filled with her legendary raspberry jam.
“No tent today?” I asked as we displayed the pies on her table. Usually Ida’s husband, Bob, loaded a tent similar to mine into her Ford Explorer.
“Nah. Bob’s back is out again. I’ll be fine.” She shooed away my concern and pointed at the crates of produce set on the ground under my tent. “Haven’t you got some work to do?”
“Don’t I always.” There was always work to do.
Ida wrapped an arm around my shoulder, pulling me in for a hug. “Go on. I’m fine here.”
I looked around, taking in the vendors setting up their stalls in neat rows, the impossibly blue sky, the happy sounds of friends and neighbors greeting one another. “We have everything we need here, don’t we? And the weather is perfect.” Sun dappled through the arms of the chestnut tree.
“Bit hot for my liking. But you’re right—I’ll never tire of this. Now, stop wasting time with this old lady. Get to work.”
Locals always arrived at the market early, eager to stock up on everything on their list and escape the crowds that appeared in the afternoon. Soon the field was bustling with activity, folks weaving between the stalls set up in three long rows. There was Mount Constitution Sausage Company, named for the highest peak in the San Juan Islands; Winslow Soap, run by a couple new to the area; produce stands filled with fruits and vegetables from neighboring farms; pear and apple brandies from Orcas Island Distillery; meat from Morning Glory Farm; tables filled with homemade crafts; a coffee truck run by Grind House; and even a tarot card reader.
At a break in the crowd, I refilled the display baskets on my table and brought out another six pints of strawberries. It really was a good day. I glanced to my right to check on Ida, concerned to see her flagging a little, her shoulders drooping, her brow wet. I didn’t blame her. It had to be—what?—seventy-five degrees?
“Can I get you some water?” I called across to her. Without waiting for an answer, I grabbed the gallon jug from under my table and hurried to her side.
“You’re a love,” she said as I filled her empty bottle. “I swear I don’t know how I managed to drink mine so fast.” Her complexion was pale, her silver hair damp with perspiration.
“Why don’t you sit? I’ll bring you my stool.” Before she could protest, I whipped away and returned with it. “Look, see? It’s high enough you can deal with your customers and everything.”
“Oh, stop your fussing,” she protested, but she was grateful to sit. “It’s just I didn’t eat breakfast this morning, that’s all. Pass me that lunch bag, will you?” She indicated a blue bag in the back of her open SUV.
I grabbed it, peeking inside on my return. Seeing an apple, a sandwich, and a little zippie bag of almonds, relief washed over me. “Here it is. People won’t mind if you munch while they browse.”
A line of customers had formed at my stand, so I scurried back to help them. And it kept on going. It was another hour before I lifted my head to look around again.
When I did, I was a little stunned to see August approaching, flanked by the two men from the hotel the other night, one tall, the other small and fit with impeccable posture. My heart skipped beat, and my fingers felt clammy against my sides. As my vision tunneled at the sight of them, emotions flooded me. Was I angry they were here? Or proud August wanted to show off Orcas Island to his Hollywood friends—colleagues—whatever they were?
“Hello.”
“August. What can I do for you?” I jammed my fists in the pockets of my shorts, suddenly hyperaware that I was leaning side to side, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
“Thought I’d show these guys around while we have a break.” He waved to where his buddies stood slightly behind him. They weren’t paying attention to August and me, just peering around, taking it all in. They probably weren’t used to small-town events like this one. Likely talking about how podunk it all seemed. “Listen, I—”
He stopped talking when a customer next to him picked up a kohlrabi and began turning it over in her hand, confusion on her face. “It’s called kohlrabi,” I told the woman, focusing my attention to her. “Isn’t it cool?”
“Funny-looking,” the woman said. “Feels like a baseball. What the heck do you do with it?”
“Pretty much anything. Boil it, steam it, roast it, fry it, toss it on a salad. You can even eat the leaves.”
She didn’t look convinced.
“Think of it as a cross between broccoli, radish, and apple. Crunchy. Fresh. A bit peppery.” Her eyes brightened a bit. “Sounds interesting, doesn’t it? Worth a try?”
I continued serving her without another glance at August, feeling my heart resume its usual steady pace. A few other customers had lined up behind as well. When I looked up again, he was retreating toward his friends. He could take a hint, at least.
Rose was busy. Which was a good thing, I reminded myself. But I was determined to speak with her, even if it meant crashing her afternoon at the farmers market. She deserved to know why things happened the way they did—why I never contacted her after I left.
For now, I rejoined Sam and Noah, who’d discovered the Orcas Island Distillery tent. As we sipped on apple brandy, I realized what the nagging sensation I’d felt in my gut since we arrived at the market grounds was: pride. My heart swelled seeing how the island had evolved and grown. To know I’d ruined my chance to be part of it left me feeling tender. They had it all here: strong community, togetherness, inclusion, respect for the land. A lifetime had passed since I’d belonged to a community like this. That was the old August, the boy who didn’t know he was about to be yanked from this paradise and forced to confront who he really was: a man who could turn his back on everything he loved.
Familiar faces emerged from the river of marketgoers streaming past us: Forest Russo, arm-in-arm with his new wife, Domino West. Juniper Eliot and Poppy Willoughby. Poppy’s mom, Georgia. Leo Wolff. River Black, arms full of brown-paper bags overflowing with produce. Writer Angela Fletcher, whose mystery novels I’d seen for sale in almost every country I’d visited with the FBI. She looked at me with interest, her eyes wide, her head tilted in thought. I nodded politely, and she nodded back.
The noise of the event roared in my ears, and I felt the sudden urge to disappear. “Hey, guys, I need a coffee. I’ll be back,” I told Sam and Noah.
I headed to where the crowds thinned out and wandered into Grange Hall, the traditional post-and-beam building that’d held agricultural fairs and community gatherings when I was a kid—and long before. It had housed the farmers market in fall and winter when the weather turned, I remembered. The old floors creaked under my feet as I took in the rough-hewn beams and wavy glass windows. Standing at the center of the old space, the dust and age of the place filling my senses, I took strength from the fact it had stood here, strong and mighty, while decades of people came and went, through rain and snow, sunshine and wind.
