Page 14 of Trick or Tease

GARRETT

I pulled on the flannel I borrowed from Billy, already regretting my decision to do this damn farmer’s market. It was a little chilly but I knew it would be warm by the afternoon.

I heard a horn honking and shook my head. That had to be Sabrina.

I went downstairs and climbed into the truck.

“Good morning!” she chirped.

I grunted in response.

“Uh-oh, someone needs coffee. Lucky for you, I brought a thermos.”

“How about a coffee shop?” I said.

She waved her hand. “There’s coffee at the market.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Sabrina bounced around our little booth like an over-caffeinated squirrel.

She arranged and rearranged jars of Granny Mae’s apple butter and the candy we’d made yesterday.

She’d insisted I wear “normal people clothes” today.

I had a pair of old boots in the closet of my bedroom that hadn’t been touched in years.

It had been a time capsule, but it was also nice that my parents left all my stuff in there.

“Stop fidgeting,” Sabrina said without looking up from stacking the candy boxes. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

“I’m not fidgeting.” I shoved my hands in my pockets to prove it.

She finally glanced up. “Uh huh. You’re twitchy as a whore in church. Maybe caffeine was a bad idea.”

I scowled at the folks already milling about the town square, setting up their own booths. The smell of fresh bread and apples hung in the air, mixing with the earthy scent of pumpkins and hay bales someone had arranged as decorations. It was all so aggressively rustic.

My stomach twisted as I recognized faces from high school, old neighbors, people who’d watched me grow up. They would all have questions. They would all have opinions about the life I’d built away from here.

“Why do I care what these people think?” I muttered.

Sabrina paused in her arranging. “Because they’re your people, Garrett. Whether you like it or not.”

Before I could argue, one of the women from the church choir spotted me and came barreling over like a freight train in a floral dress. “Garrett Hogan! My stars, look how handsome you’ve grown!”

I forced a smile as she pulled me into a suffocating hug that smelled like mothballs and peppermint. And my god, that floral perfume that made me feel like I was suffocating. Too many times I’d been hotboxed by my mother’s perfume in the car on the way to church.

To this day I couldn’t stand the smell of flowers.

“It’s good to see you,” I said, doing my best to breathe through my mouth and not my nose.

She held me at arm’s length, studying me like a bug under glass. “Still in that big city, I hear? Must be so dangerous there. My niece visited last year and saw a man peeing right on the sidewalk!”

Sabrina coughed to cover a laugh.

“It’s not all bad,” I said through gritted teeth. “The paychecks help.”

“Money isn’t everything, dear. Your poor mother misses you terribly.”

The guilt landed exactly as intended. I opened my mouth to respond, but Sabrina smoothly cut in. “You have to try Granny’s new apple butter recipe. I’ll give you a sample if you promise to tell all your friends about our booth.”

Blessedly distracted, the woman wandered off with a tiny cup of apple butter and a promise to spread the word.

“You’re welcome,” Sabrina said under her breath.

I exhaled sharply. “This is going to be a long morning.”

“It’s for a good cause.”

I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling exposed. It was like one of those nightmares where I showed up to school naked. “I don’t know why I care what anyone thinks here,” I admitted, surprising myself with how honest that sounded. “But I do, apparently, and I can’t help it.”

Sabrina looked up from the jars she was arranging, her expression softening. “That’s normal, you know. This is where you grew up. These people knew you when you were just a kid with scraped knees and big dreams.”

“Yeah, well, now they look at me like I’m some kind of traitor for having the audacity to leave.” I watched as a couple of my mom’s friends shot me a pointed look from across the square. “Like success is something I should apologize for.”

“Not all of them think that way.”

“Enough of them do.”

Sabrina stepped closer. “Look, I’m not going anywhere, okay? I’ll stay right here with you all morning. If anyone gets too annoying or starts giving you grief, I’ll steer them away just like I did at the retirement party.”

I couldn’t help but crack a smile at that. “Oh, a little girl like you is going to protect me? What are you, five-foot-nothing? I think I outweigh you by about eighty pounds.”

She put her hands on her hips and gave me a look that could have melted steel. “This little girl has been handling pushy customers and nosy neighbors her whole life. I’ve got skills you city boys know nothing about.”

“Like what?”

“Like the ability to compliment someone’s haircut while simultaneously changing the subject and steering them toward buying apple butter. It’s an art form.” She grinned, and for the first time all morning, I felt myself actually relax a little. “Trust me, I’ve got your back.”

It had been a long time since anyone had offered to have my back without wanting something in return. In the city, every relationship was transactional. Every favor came with strings attached. The people I worked with weren’t friends. It was all about “I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine.”

“Thanks,” I said, and meant it. “I appreciate that.”

“Besides, if all else fails, I can always start telling embarrassing stories about you from when we were kids. That usually shuts people up pretty quickly.”

“Don’t you dare.”

“Oh, I’ve got some good ones. Remember the time you got your head stuck in the fence behind the church?”

I groaned. “I was eight.”

“And crying like a baby until your dad came with the bolt cutters.”

“I was not crying.”

“You absolutely were. Tears and snot everywhere.” She laughed. “It was actually kind of sweet. You were so embarrassed, but your dad just scooped you up afterward and bought you ice cream.”

I remembered that day, actually. I remembered her and Billy doing their best to save me. If I was eight, she had been five. Even back then she tried to protect me.

It meant a lot.

Within minutes, people started trickling over to our booth, drawn by the bright display of candy and preserves. I braced myself for the inevitable interrogation.

“Garrett! Look at you!” I wasn’t great with names. But I knew she worked at the post office. “I heard you’re some big shot lawyer now. Making millions, I bet!”

I opened my mouth to correct her when Sabrina jumped in smoothly.

“He’s been so generous helping us get ready for our Grand Opening next weekend,” she said, handing the woman a sample of candy. “The Hogan’s Hill Farm Fall Festival is going to be incredible this year. You should bring your grandkids!”

Her eyes lit up. “Yeah?”

“Pumpkin chunkin’, corn maze, hot cider,” Sabrina rattled off enthusiastically. “And the best part—we’re doing a haunted hayride up to the old Hogan house on the hill. It’s going to be perfect for families.”

I wasn’t aware that last bit had been approved, but then again, I didn’t know much about any of it.

“Oh my stars, the grandkids would love that! When did you say it was?”

I watched in amazement as Sabrina expertly steered the conversation away from my personal life and toward the farm event. Within five minutes, the woman had bought three jars of apple butter and promised to bring her entire family.

The pattern repeated itself over and over. Someone would approach with questions about my fancy city life, and Sabrina was right there.

Around eleven, other vendors started making the rounds to our booth, carrying plates and baskets like some kind of impromptu potluck was breaking out.

George from the bakery booth brought over a plate of his famous cinnamon rolls, still warm from whatever portable oven setup he had going. “For the hardworking young people,” he said with a wink, setting them down next to our candy display.

I bit into one and nearly groaned with pleasure. The cinnamon and sugar melted on my tongue, and the dough was so soft it practically dissolved in my mouth. “These are incredible,” I said.

“Secret ingredient,” he whispered conspiratorially. “Cream cheese in the dough.”

Someone from the honey stand wandered over with a jar of something golden and thick. “Thought you might want to try this year’s clover honey,” he said, unscrewing the lid. “Best batch I’ve had in years.”

I dipped the little wooden stick he offered into the honey and tasted it. It was nothing like the processed stuff from the grocery store. His variety had layers of flavor, floral and complex and somehow tasting exactly like summer smelled.

“That’s amazing,” I said, genuinely impressed. “The difference is incredible.”

He beamed. “That’s what happens when you don’t filter all the good stuff out. Your dad always said I made the best honey in three counties.”

Before I knew it, I’d sampled half the market. Maple cookies from the woman who ran the yarn shop, some kind of spiced apple bread from the church booth, and a slice of pumpkin pie that was so good I actually closed my eyes when I tasted it.

“Jesus,” I muttered around a mouthful of pie. “This is incredible.”

“She’s been making that same recipe for forty years,” Sabrina said, watching me with amusement. “She won the county fair with it six years running.”

I polished off the slice and immediately felt guilty. “I’m going to have to run an extra five miles when I get back to the city just to work off this morning.”

“Oh no,” Sabrina said with mock concern. “You ate some delicious homemade food. How terrible. Your eight-pack abs will only be a six-pack.”

She noticed my body. I liked that.

“I’m serious. Do you have any idea how many calories I just consumed?” I gestured at the empty plates scattered around our booth. “That cinnamon roll alone was probably six hundred calories.”

“And worth every single one.”

I had to admit she was right. Everything I’d tasted was better than anything I could get in the city, even at the expensive restaurants I frequented.

The flavors were deeper, more complex. You could taste the care that went into each recipe.

When she talked about love being the secret ingredient, I got it.

There was just something different about the food I kept getting served.

“You know what?” I said, my business brain kicking into gear. “You people could make a killing if you marketed this stuff properly. I mean, artisanal honey, small-batch preserves, handmade pastries. City people pay premium prices for exactly this kind of thing.”

Sabrina’s smile faltered slightly. “We do just fine selling the way we are.”

“But think about the potential,” I pressed on, my mind spinning with possibilities. “Online sales, specialty food stores, maybe even a subscription box service. You could scale this up, create real distribution channels. Not everything has to stay small-time forever.”

Her expression cooled considerably. “Not everything has to be squeezed for every last drop of profit, Garrett.”

The words hit me like a slap. I’d done it again. I had taken something genuine and tried to turn it into a business opportunity. Reduced their passion and tradition to dollar signs and market share.

And I pissed her off.

I seemed to be really good at that.

“I didn’t mean?—”

“Yes, you did.” She turned away from me, busying herself with straightening jars that were already perfectly arranged. “You can’t help yourself. You see something good and your first instinct is to figure out how to exploit it for maximum profit.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but she was right. That was exactly what I had done. It was so automatic I hadn’t even realized I was doing it.

The easy camaraderie we had built over the morning evaporated. Sabrina threw herself into helping customers with forced enthusiasm and pretended I didn’t exist. I stood there feeling like an ass, watching her smile brightly at everyone except me.