Page 40 of Man Cuffed
“What if she says no?” Aubrey whispers. “That will be so embarrassing. Besides, I need her to say yes. This wedding gig would be huge. His family owns the Groovy Brewery. They’re loaded and the beer is really good.”
“It’ll work,” I say. It has to work. Because my whole psyche is betting on it. That big thing I felt like was happening to me? It kind of hinges on this event. “She won’t say no,” I promise. The flower seller is in love with the cheesemonger. I know because I’m half in love with him myself. He makes homemade cheese, for fuck’s sake. What’s not to love about that?
Lydia takes the roses she’s purchased and places them in a basket she wears over her arm. And it’s time to cue the rest of my people. Quickly, I raise both of my arms in the air and wave them, as if landing a plane. And here comes the plane!
Not an actual plane, obviously. I don’t have the budget for that. But I do have the budget for singers. Lydia steps back and sings the opening line from my favorite song from our old high-school musical,Oliver.“Who will buy these sweet red roses?”
Her voice is so beautiful. It’s the kind of voice that’s so clear and clean that you feel like there’s hope somewhere in the world.
Our flower seller cocks her head, listening. A little smile plays on her face. She’s not accustomed to her customers serenading her. But Lydia has such confidence that it almost doesn’t seem weird.
Almost.
I get goosebumps as our friend Edward steps up beside Lydia and takes the next line of the song. He has a great voice, too. In another high-school production, Edward played Tony to my Maria.
The flower seller doesn’t know that, though. At this point, Edward and Lydia might just be the kind of kooky couple who breaks into song at the farmers’ market.
And my goosebumps double, because heads are starting to turn. It’s thrilling. I’ve always thought of theater as something you have to walk into willingly. You buy a ticket and sit down and wait to be entertained.
But this is a different kind of magical brew. As curious customers lift their chins to the sound of my two friends harmonizing, they become part of the performance that’s unfolding around them.
Two booths over, my friend Yashi gets up from where she’s seated on a barrel. She lifts a quart of perfect strawberries into the air and sings a haunting line, asking, “Who will buy?”
Our flower seller’s eyes widen. And then a hint of recognition dawns in her smile. She’s starting to understand that something special is happening. But she still has no idea that it’s all happening for her!
Even my goosebumps have goosebumps.
More singers join in. They’re carrying baskets of roses—white and yellow ones. The crowd gapes. The song builds to a dozen singers. My performers walk the length of the market in a loop, before coming to stand in front of the flower seller.
And then you can see it on her face—the certainty that something wonderful is unfolding, and she’s at the center of it. Her man has slipped out from behind his cheeses and moves to stand beside her.
That’s when the violin comes in. It will be followed by more violins, and a mandolin, a harmonica, and even a cello. My friends are rocking it! This will be a story the couple will tell for years to come.
I have to admit that my eyes get a little misty. Maybe it’s the beautiful music and the smile on her face. There’s no time for crying though. I can’t even spare a second to wonder why I’m never the girl in the middle of the circle. Because my bit part is coming up next. I slip between two market stalls and head for the flower seller.
11Good Pipes
Maguire
“Why are we stopping here?” Lance asks from the passenger’s seat as the cruiser approaches the farmers’ market.
“Well…” That’s a question not easily answered. Meg has a pull on me. It’s sort of like what I imagine being pulled into the Bermuda Triangle is like. You just can’t resist.
“I thought we were taking those photos of the bank lobby for the sergeant?”
“Snacks first,” I grunt. Because Lance is always up for a snack.
“Righteous idea,” he agrees. “But here?”
I pull into a parking spot. “They sell food here.”
“They sellkale,” Lance snorts. “That’s not food. That’s what food eats.”
“Dunno how you survive on burgers and peanut butter.” I open the door and step out. “Look. Organic pastries. You’re a cop. Go buy a donut.”
“I hope they’re nothealthy.” He shudders and then stomps off.
At least he didn’t ask mewhyI chose this stop. I’m not sure what answer I’d give him. The truth is that Meg is here somewhere. And when it comes to her, I have poor impulse control.
