Page 187 of Always Meant for You
Chapter Thirty-Six
MABEL
“Hey, lady in the big hat! You looking for heirloom tomatoes? You won’t find better than these beauties,” a man calls. His New York accent cuts through the humid air like a clanging bell.
Clouds have rolled in, taking the edge off the heat. A rare breeze stirs through the narrow streets, carrying the scent of fresh basil, ripening fruit, and warm pavement.
I’ve paired a pink tank top with a cream-colored vintage Givenchy A-line skirt, pleated and airy. It was one of my first finds in the city. And my mother’s boots.
Last time I was here, I wanted to leave everything behind—Elverna, the farm, all of it. Now, I carry it with me.
I tilt my cream-colored, wide-brimmed hat—the same one I wore that first day back in Elverna—and turn toward the voice.
Two men sit behind a table piled with cucumbers and tomatoes. The older one has a broad chest and skin weathered by years in the field. The younger wears a crooked grin, his cap pushed high on a mess of blond curls.Vamosi Farmis stitched across the front in green thread. His posture straightens the moment our eyes meet.
“Your produce looks beautiful,” I say. “But I’m just out for a walk.”
The younger one elbows the older. “Dad—that’s Mabel. From Eat Elverna.”
“You’ve heard of my town?” I ask as a couple passes by and takes a picture of me. Weird.
“We have,” the father says, standing. “What you and your town are doing is helping farmers. Especially us smaller ones. My guess is half the vendors here know your name. Probably more.”
The younger man holds up his phone. “Would you mind a photo?”
My cheeks warm. “I’d be honored.”
“I’m Russ Vamosi,” the father says. “This is my son, Ricky.”
“Nice to meet you both.”
“Would you hold this in the picture?” Russ asks, picking up a tomato.
“Sure.” I take it, the skin warm against my palm.
Ricky hesitates before snapping the photo. His gaze lifts past me, searching the crowd. “Is Cal with you?”
These folks know quite a bit about me.
“Um, no. He’s back in Elverna.”
Another person walks by, holds up their cell, and takes my picture.
“Oh.” Ricky frowns, eyes narrowing. “That’s strange. I thought I saw him earlier.”
My grip tightens on the tomato. “No. He’s home.”
The man holds up his cell phone and takes the shot.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Russ says, tipping his cap. “You can keep that tomato.”
“Would it be okay if we tag you online?” Ricky asks.
“Of course.”
“I never put too much stock into the internet,” the old farmer says, “but you’ve changed my mind. Ricky started a social media account for our farm, and we’ve seen results.”
I manage a smile. “Thank you. That means everything.”
