Chapter 14
Jasper
By the time we pulled up to the Maplewood Farmers’ Market, I already knew it wasn’t a real emergency. The radio dispatch had said Possible medical—female down, unknown cause.
But there were no crowds screaming, no frantic waving. Just the usual Saturday chaos: the scent of kettle corn, a banjo on the busker stage, and someone shouting about dairy ethics. Two cheese stalls faced off in the center aisle like rival gangs in matching gingham.
On one side: Curd Your Enthusiasm, manned by Basil Pelletier—neat hair, smug smile, and an apron ironed within an inch of its life.
Across the way: Cheddar Off Dead, where Lola Prentice was holding a cheese knife like she was ready to throw it.
And between them, dramatically sprawled on the pavement in a faint worthy of daytime television, lay Olive Foster—second in command of the Maple Street Mafia—fanning herself with a coupon flyer.
“Good Lord.” I stepped out of the ambulance and nodded to Chris, who grabbed the equipment bag. “Not another cheese war.”
“Think we need the stretcher?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Gimme a minute.”
Bitsy Bramble rushed toward us, wringing her hands. “We were this close to another 2019 incident, Jasper. I told Olive to faint before the wheels started rolling again.”
“Wheel—”
“She means actual wheels of cheese.” Marigold Shaw approached on her mobility scooter, only stopping when the front wheel hit my boot. “You remember.” She raised her heavily painted-on eyebrows.
I nodded. Everyone knew about the 2019 incident. It was still spoken about in hushed tones. The police department held an annual moment of silence in remembrance at their department cookout every summer.
I keyed my radio. “Dispatch, this is medic two. We’re on scene at the farmers’ market. No active emergency. Appears to be a fainting spell. I’ll update shortly.”
“Copy that, medic two,” came the dry reply.
I crouched beside Olive. “Olive, can you hear me?”
Her eyelids fluttered open like she was auditioning for community theater. “Oh, heavens. My heart simply couldn’t handle the tension. Basil accused Lola of temperature tampering.”
“I didn’t accuse; I observed,” Basil said, arms crossed. “Her cooler’s been unplugged since nine a.m.”
Lola slammed down her cheese knife. “Because someone tripped the extension cord running under his fancy Brie display.”
“Okay,” I said, checking Olive’s vitals just to look busy. “Pulse steady, respiration normal, dramatic flair elevated.”
Chris nodded, spreading his arms out to keep the onlookers back.
Lola jabbed a finger toward Basil’s stall. “He deliberately tilted his canopy so the sun melted my cheddar samples first. That’s predatory behavior.”
Basil sniffed. “Your ‘cheddar’ is more orange than a road cone, Lola. It deserves to melt.”
“Say that again, you pasteurized peacock—”
“Enough!” I shouted, kneeling beside Olive, who cracked one eye open.
“Oh, heavens.” She sighed, limp as overcooked spaghetti. “I saw tempers rising and my blood sugar fell in solidarity.”
“You’re fine,” I told her gently. “But maybe stay out of the line of dairy fire next time.”
Bitsy leaned in conspiratorially. “She’s faking, of course. Classic de-escalation strategy. It’s why she’s in charge of church bake sales.”
Meanwhile, Marigold had started spritzing Olive’s face using a sample bottle of Maple Mist toner from the skincare booth next door. “For hydration,” she declared.
Satisfied she wasn’t about to keel over, I stood and gave my report. “Dispatch, patient stable. No transport needed. We’ll clear the scene.”
I helped Olive up, got her a folding chair and a cold glass of lemonade, and tried to wrap my head around this latest lunacy. Once we had taken her vitals, established that she had not suffered any serious medical event, and was, in fact, in perfect health, we packed up.
“Please don’t tell my grandson,” Olive pleaded.
“He’s angry with me because we got a little rowdy while watching The Golden Bachelor this week.
I’ll get another lecture about misuse of community resources.
” She rolled her eyes. I would, in fact, be telling Nolan.
He’d cut a deal with Chief Ashburn a few years ago to keep tabs on his wild grandma, who was a known quantity to every first responder in town.
As I turned toward the rig, Lola called out, “Wait. You have to try my smoked maple cheddar. It’s the taste of Vermont in a bite. Aged six years.”
Basil snorted. “Please. Jasper and Evie are my close friends.” He glared at her. “I respect this man too much to expose him to your subpar curds.”
Bitsy shoved a toothpick stuck in a cube of Lola’s cheddar into my hand before Basil could object. “Just one bite, Jasper. Be diplomatic.”
I sighed, chewing as every set of eyes watched me like I was judging the Olympics. “It’s… good.”
Basil scoffed. “Good? Try this triple-cream Brie and then tell me if that’s good.” He slid over a wedge the size of my fist.
Before I knew it, I had three samples in my hands, and Sally Murphy was snapping photos for the town Facebook page which she would surely caption First Responder Chooses Sides in Cheese War II.
I swallowed and wiped my mouth. “All right, all right. Official verdict—cheese is amazing. You are both excellent at what you do. Now please go back to your businesses and resume your days.”
Olive, now sitting upright and sipping lemonade like a queen, beamed. “See? Peace through dairy diplomacy.”
As I headed back toward the rig, it was hard not to notice that the farmers’ market seemed less busy than usual. The line of kids for balloon animals was short and the bakery hadn’t even sold out of cinnamon rolls yet.
“Don’t worry, dear,” Bitsy said. “We can keep the peace from here on out. Sometimes you’ve just got to get dramatic to make sure no punches are thrown.”
As we pulled away, I glanced in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t wait to tell Evie about this latest ridiculousness. Just thinking about her made me grin. Even as I wrote up the incident report for the unhinged bullshit that went down at the farmer’s market, my mood couldn’t be dampened.
As I stepped inside, I was engulfed in the scents of coffee and baby lotion. The combination was familiar and cozy, if not a little chaotic.
Immediately, I was stunned stupid by the view.
Evie sat on the couch, laptop perched on the coffee table, wearing a purple blouse and makeup.
With earbuds in place, she spoke assertively, her focus fixed on the computer’s built-in camera.
Next to the laptop was a half-empty cup of coffee and a stack of files and pens.
She talked quickly, her hand grazing a binder filled with color-coded tabs.
She looked brighter and more energized than I’d seen her since that night a year ago. It was hard not to stare.
That familiar rock settled in my stomach. The want that hit me when she was near.
I’d never experienced this with anyone else. I was a simple guy; if I wanted something, I either went for it or got distracted by the next shiny thing and moved on. But this ache was endless. Every night I slept out in my tent, chest tight, knowing she was so close and yet so far away.
Dad, I’d think, staring up at the highest point of my tent, I feel this. This feels right. I want things I’ve never wanted before.
He wouldn’t respond, but I’d close my eyes and pretend he was there, telling me the story of how he and my mom met.
I’d grown up in a house filled with love and chaos. But mostly love. Most days, my dad would pick wildflowers for my mom and present them with a flourish when he came in for dinner. And Mom fussed over him, always so proud of him and of us.
Our time here was limited. They’d proven that, so I’d done my best to have fun and stay away from all the hard, heavy stuff.
But I was drawn to all of Evie. The fun parts and the parts that brought up my fears.
The smiles and the sass, but also the hurt and the pain.
I wanted more. I wanted everything.
Instead, I’d settle for the small scraps she’d give me.
Because Evie had made one thing clear. She did not want more.
I waved at her, and she gave me a nod, then used her foot to rock Vincent in his play chair without missing a beat.
I propped myself up against the doorframe, taking my time unzipping my hoodie so I could watch her. The calm authority in her voice was magnetic.
“Let’s be clear,” she chirped. “If Costmart isn’t satisfied with the transparency statement, then we need to dig deeper internally. The integrity of our product is our brand. End of story.”
The confident statement was followed by an incredulous laugh, as if the person behind the other screen had pushed back.
“No,” she said. “We’re not fucking around with labeling and supplementation. If we’re using something new, then I need the full composition data before we print another label. I don’t care what Evergreen provides. We verify and compile our own data.”
She turned away and made a silly face at Vincent. She was multitasking like it was a competitive sport.
“No, Dave.” Her tone was firmer. “I had a baby. I didn’t lose my ability to spot PR landmines. And this is one. So get me the data, and we’ll update. But I’m taking your word for it. Please.”
When she scoffed, I cheered internally. I had no idea who Dave was, but he was getting a verbal ass-kicking.
After she ended the meeting, she quickly lowered the laptop screen, then jumped up and scooped Vincent into her arms, peppering his little face with kisses.
As he squirmed, I noticed a Post-it stuck to his butt. The words Q4 targets were written on it.
My heart clenched. Evie looked exhausted but unstoppable. Like a woman who’d been running on fumes for months and still refused to fail.
Her steely resolve was admirable, but it only made me feel like I should be doing more for her.
I wandered closer and peeled the Post-it off his butt.
“You sounded like a boss,” I said proudly.
She passed Vincent to me, eyes brighter than they had been recently. “I like it,” she said. “Being back, doing something I’m good at. And the place is a mess without me.”
She said that last part with an eye roll, like she was annoyed, though the way her lips tipped up told me she was secretly pleased.
“Of course they are.” I blew a raspberry into Vincent’s tummy. “Mama is the smartest. And she absolutely handed Dave his ass.” I lowered my little guy and cradled him to my chest. “Who is Dave?”
She was standing in front of the mirror by the front door, putting her hair up into a ponytail.
“The procurement lead. We’re midway through an environmental audit, and there are label concerns.
So I asked for the BGX data files, but they’re archived for internal use only.
And that’s bullshit. We can’t legally claim sustainability and maintain organic certification without—”
“Why does that sound familiar?” I asked. “BGX?”
She waved a hand. “It’s a tree supplement thing. The farmers are using it. Totally legal, but we have to know what’s in our product so we can be transparent about it, and it’s Dave’s job to make sure that happens.”
I’d have to ask Josh if he’d heard of it. We used a variety of management methods on our trees, including supplementation when necessary. But he was the science guy. I just did the labor.
She picked up her coffee and took a sip, immediately wincing. She must have finished the cold brew I sent Elijah over with this morning. Before I could offer to warm it up for her, Vincent fussed in my arms.
“I know, buddy,” she cooed. “It’s past lunchtime. Let me get changed, and then you can eat.”
She strode down the hall, using one thumb to tap at her phone screen while she used her other hand to unbutton her blouse.
Damn. It hit me then. The weight of the expectations she was carrying.
She was navigating motherhood while kicking ass at her job.
She’d mentioned once that her family was unsupportive, and I certainly hadn’t seen them in town to help.
That meant she was doing everything but the few things I forced her to let me help with.
Because this woman would rather walk through fire than ask for help.
When she returned and took Vincent out of my arms, I held her gaze. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
She let out a dry laugh, patting Vincent’s back. “Course I do. That’s the only way it gets done.”