Page 6 of Butter You Up
It promptly falls over because the jam jars on the back rack are too heavy. Thank god the jars are tight in their box. I take the jam box off and set it on the ground, then carefully balance the bike until it’s somewhat stable against the wall.
When I walk in, the bell rings, and a man looks up from the computer at the counter. He’s a few years older than me, maybe, with unruly brown hair and a wide smile. “Ah, my first customer,” he says. “You’ve interrupted my game of solitaire.” He winks.
“Actually, Ethel sent me about a job.”
“Oooooh, and how is Ms. Ethel doing?”
“Um. Good? I don’t know her very well.”
The man stands up and comes around the counter. “Well, tell her Kit promises to come by soon and say hello. Now let’s see if I can find Alex.”
I follow Kit outside. He walks over to the nearby fence and puts his fists on his hips. He scans the pasture, which still has the cows in the far corner but no humans in sight. He puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles.
There’s an answering bark from far away.
“Well, that should do it. Alex isn’t very good about keeping his phone with him, so you gotta call Trixie.”
“Trixie?”
Kit grins. “You’ll see.” He leans on the fence. “How do you know Ethel?”
I explain about Vaniel and my living situation. Kit grows more and more amazed, which is not uncommon when people learn I live in a van. But then he glances up and then lifts his chin toward something behind me.
There’s a man striding down the driveway. He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, a seriously grim look on his face. He’s got a full, dark beard, and beside him trots a dog, a miniature Australian shepherd without a docked tail.
When he gets close enough, he sends an inquiring glance to Kit, who puts a hand on my shoulder. “Alex. This is…what was your name?”
“Molly Perkins.”
“Molly Perkins,” he repeats. “She’s here about the job. As much as I would prefer to stay inside and play solitaire all day, I figure you might be happier if I do some of the more fun stuff with you, like shoveling shit.”
Now that Alex is close, I can see that he’s a big guy. He has long legs and broad shoulders from tossing around hay bales all day. Do dairy farmers toss around hay bales? Probably not, but it’s my fantasy, so I roll with it. He’s also got that kind of rough-and-tumble cowboy vibe. They probably also don’t have horses here, but this is just another improbable extension of the fantasy.
Um, I like it. The man who is going to interview me for the job is a stone-cold hottie. Just my luck.
Alex nods politely, opens the door with precise movements, and steps inside, holding it open for me. The dog follows him in.
I bend down, picking up the jam jars and hoisting them against my chest. Kit is still leaning on the fence, his attention on his phone now that he has handed me over to Alex. Stepping inside, I take a better look around this time.
It’s kinda...disappointing. I was hoping for something like Rose Apothecary but it’s more 1990s closet with white-coated wire racks and a few stand-up fridges. Alex strides over to the counter, his boots leaving behind faint prints on the sealed cement floor. His dog settles into a dog bed in the corner. Alex stands at the computer, back ramrod straight, twines his hands together on the counter, and asks, “Do you have a resume?”
I almost respond, “Sir, yes, sir.” He has the posture of someone who was in the military and doesn’t know he’s gotten out. Instead, I heft the box of jam on the counter. “First, these are for you.”
“Thank you, but we aren’t in the habit of trading or selling products manufactured by strangers.”
“Oh, no, these are from Ethel.”
The man looks down at the jams. Back up at me. Back down at the jams.
“These jams? My gran made them?”
“Yes. You didn’t know she made jams?”
“No.”
I cast about for anything else to say and come up with a big fat zero, which is unusual for me.
“What am I supposed to do with all these jams?”
