Page 46 of Apple of My Eye
‘It sounds like something only rich people say.’
‘Nick isn’t rich,’ I say quickly.
Evan raises his eyebrows at me. ‘Coming to his defense pretty quick for someone you have such mixed feelings about.’
‘All I’m saying is he has a point about the business is business thing. We probably need to have some sort of truce while we each try our best.’
‘Business just happens to also be your family,’ Evan reminds me, like there’s any chance I could forget. ‘But I guess if that’ll work for you guys—’ he elbows me ‘—and leaves things open.’
‘It’s already feeling messy without opening up that can of worms, no matter how much I want to. Plus, it’s not like he’ll actually accomplish anything. He’ll leave, and I’ll get what I want.’
‘That’s the confidence I’ve been wanting to see!’ Evan fist pumps into the air.
I can’t help but smile as we near our tent. The chilly early morning turned into a balmy afternoon. The sun is high in the sky, but the air is dry and a gentle breeze ruffles the row of white tents. The whole place smells like fall—fried food, apples, and fruit. I reach around Evan’s shoulders and give him a hug. I’m happy he’s here to see this, a larger version of the farmers’ market where I’ll spend my weekends all through September.
I spot my mom sitting at the front of our tent, fiddling with the brim of her hat, her twin braids thrown over her shoulders. She’s in our farmers’ market uniform—a loose pair of denim overalls over a white branded T-shirt. Mom and I upgraded a few years back after Lily convinced us to ‘capitalize on the hippie moms.’ It worked. We instantly sold more apple butter and apple marmalade. Women in pigtails and with long braids flocked to our stall.
Evan and I pass Dahlia, whose stall is next to ours, and I have to tug on his elbow gently to keep him from stopping. Dahlia tries a new thing every year. Last year it was crystals, the year before it was essential oils. One year she sold soap, the next she sold jewelry. This year, it seems, she’s doing candles. And she’ll talk anyone’s ear off. If I let Evan linger, he’ll be there for hours.
‘You’re back!’ Mom says excitedly. ‘It’s gotten really .?.?.’
‘Crowded,’ I finish for her, looking around. It’s markedly different than it was when Evan and I left an hour ago. Snippets of conversation float in the air towards us. I see various groups of young adults I don’t recognize, most of them women, and the street is congested with people.
Mom and I are still looking at each other, confused, when a young woman approaches our booth, glances at the sign and squeals, ‘Apples!’ before she asks happily ‘Are you guys the Parker farm?’
We shake our heads. The girl apologizes and leaves, exiting the shade of the tent and returning to her cluster of friends. I watch as she communicates the news and they move on.
Mom and I look at each other. She eases herself out of her chair and stands in front of our tent to crane her neck down the street. Something she sees makes her go completely still. ‘Lou,’ she says, ‘come see this.’
I’m by her side in seconds. My jaw drops.
There is a line snaking from our tent down about two blocks, ending at a dinky, off-white tent at the end of the farmers’ market. In all my years at the market I have never seen a line so long.
‘You have to go see.’ Mom elbows me sharply in the side.
‘Ow!’ I cry out. But I obey. I can’t help myself. I’m being pulled towards the line like I’m magnetized, Evan following hesitantly behind me. I’m beginning to realize the mass of people all look to be about the same age. Younger than me, late teens, early twenties, dressed like they googled farm chic beforehand. About half are in overalls. One girl is in cutoff jean shorts that show the goosebumps dotting her legs. Impatiently, I weave around them. I know what I’ll see beyond the line but I’m unprepared anyway. At the very front, manning the helm of the Parkers’ tent, preoccupied with helping a teenage girl get a selfie with a pig, smiling from ear to ear, is Nick Russo. Beside him, Betsy is beaming.
My stomach drops. ‘I’m going to kill him,’ I seethe.
‘Lou?’ Evan says slowly. ‘What happened to business is business?’
Chapter Twenty
Nick
I have only seen Betsy this happy the time Joe pulled her into an impromptu dance across the scratched wooden floor in the kitchen, somehow making their farmhouse look more romantic than any scene inThe Notebook. The spin around the room lasted less than a minute and Betsy smiled from ear to ear for days. The next morning, she came downstairs with curled hair and blushed when Joe said good morning. For some reason it made me think of my mamma. All she wants is for me to have a love like that. All I want for her is to be loved that way.
Today, Betsy is just as happy, her smile practically splitting her face in two. It overtakes me as well; I can’t help but feel as elated as she does.
‘I can’t believe this,’ she whispers breathlessly to me as we unpack the last of the crates we tucked under the table. ‘This is our stock for half of the year. It’s gone.’ Her eyes are wet when she looks up at me.
‘This is just the beginning,’ I say.
‘I know, I know,’ she mutters, busying herself by unpacking the apple butter. ‘I won’t get ahead of myself.’
I was actually trying to tell her to get more excited, but I don’t correct her. The last thing I want to do is overpromise and underdeliver. I still have to run the numbers to determine how much profit we’ve made and I need to model out the rest of the year. How much product can Besty and Joe produce, their paths to expansion, how can they continue to advertise. I need to walk Joe through all those things. Betsy keeps muttering about how much Joe will hate that it was the pig that finally made their business work—I didn’t learn until today that Betsy’s soft heart is the reason they have all the pigs to begin with.
Everyone’s been asking me where Princess Peach is, so I jot down a note to remember to bring her next time. Almost half of the people who stand in line to take a photo end up buying something from Betsy. Her hit rate for people who buy the apple butter after trying it is almost one hundred percent. Our problem now is that we’ve run out of crackers for them to try it on. Another thing I make note of.
