Chapter 12 Calluses Where Pride Used to Be
YSABEL
The appointment is simple and brief. Gia drives me to a small office on the far side of town, waits in the car, and I go in alone.
The doctor confirms what I already knew, asks a few questions, gives me a few instructions, and schedules a follow-up for later.
I walk out into the afternoon sun feeling both more certain and more overwhelmed than when I walked in.
Gia reads my face when I get back in the car.
"Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine. Normal. Healthy." I buckle my seatbelt and look out the window. "I just have to figure out what to do with that information."
"You don't have to figure it out today."
"I know. But it feels more real now. Before, it was just a test and some symptoms. Now there's a file somewhere with my name on it."
Gia starts the car. "Do you want to stop for something before we go back? Tea, or food, or just a few more minutes away?"
"No. I should get back before anyone wonders where I've been."
We drive in comfortable silence through the hills. When Gia drops me at the farm gate, she squeezes my hand.
"Call me if you need anything. Anything at all."
"I will. Thank you, Gia."
I watch her drive away, then turn toward the house. Leon's car is in the usual spot near the barn. He's been here all morning, then, working whatever task my father assigned him. I told him last night he could come back, and he did.
That's four days now.
Four days of him showing up, working without complaint, leaving at dusk. I keep waiting for the pattern to break, for him to make an excuse or lose patience or reveal that this has all been performance.
But he keeps coming back.
That evening, before Leon leaves, my mother asks about the market the next morning.
"The almonds are ready," she says as we finish putting away the almond trays. "The first batch, anyway. And we've got olive oil to move, and there will be milk for the regular orders. Your father's back has been bothering him, so I could use extra hands."
She looks at me. Then she looks at Leon.
"Both of you, if you're willing."
I glance at Leon. He's already nodding, his expression careful, waiting to see if I object.
"I can help," I say. "What time do we need to leave?"
"Early. The good spots go fast."
Leon clears his throat. "What would you need me to do?"
"Carry things, mostly. Set up the table, arrange the stock, help with customers if you can manage not to scare them off." My mother's voice is dry. "Think you can handle that?"
"I'll do my best."
"Good. We leave at five tomorrow. We'll take the truck together."
***
The market is held in the town square, the same square where I used to come with my mother when I was small, back when she and my father still worked at the estate and market days were a rare treat.
The stalls are set up in rows, farmers and craftspeople selling everything from vegetables to pottery to fresh cheese.
We arrive early enough to get a decent spot near the fountain. Leon carries the heavy crates from the truck while my father directs him, and my mother and I set up the table with its cloth and hand-lettered signs.
"Almonds here," my mother says, arranging the bags. "Oil in the back where it won't get knocked over. Milk in the cooler, and don't forget to keep the lid closed between customers."
The goat milk is in glass bottles, chilled in an insulated box my father rigged up years ago. It sells well to the families who prefer it, though we never have enough to satisfy everyone.
"What about these?" Leon holds up a small basket. Inside are almond crescents from the small batch I baked last night after we agreed to come.
This time I remembered to rotate the tray before the back row browned too much. My mother suggested we bring a few for people to try.
"Those are just samples," I say. "To give people a taste of what the almonds can do."
"They're good," Leon says. "I had one before we left."
"You had three," my mother corrects. "I counted."
Leon doesn't deny it. He just sets the basket on the corner of the table where customers can reach it.
The market fills slowly as the morning brightens. Families with children, old women with shopping baskets, young couples comparing prices. I fall into the rhythm of it easily enough, greeting customers, answering questions, making change from the metal box my mother keeps locked under the table.
Leon is less certain at first. He stands back, watching, trying to learn the flow of transactions without getting in the way.
But after the first hour, he starts to relax.
He helps a woman carry her purchases to her car.
He refills the sample basket when it gets low.
He learns to quote prices without looking at the signs.
"The oil," a man says, pointing. "Is it from this year's press?"
"Last season's," Leon says. "The new harvest isn't ready yet. But this is good stock, stored properly."
The man nods and buys two bottles.
I watch Leon hand over the change, his movements still a little awkward but competent. He's not trying to take over. He's just filling the gaps, doing what needs to be done.
A woman approaches the table with two children in tow. She looks at the almonds, then at Leon, and her eyes widen slightly.
"Don Rosciano?"
Leon straightens. "Yes."
"I didn't expect to see you here." She looks around, as if searching for cameras or some explanation. "At the market."
"I'm helping my wife's family today." He gestures toward me. "Ysabel, this is Signora Benedetti. Her husband manages one of the orchards near the eastern border."
I nod politely. The woman is still staring at Leon like he's grown a second head.
"Your wife," she repeats.
"Yes. The almonds are from her parents' farm. The Cabrals. You should try them."
He picks up one of the crescents and offers it to her. She takes it automatically, still looking between Leon and me like she's trying to solve a puzzle.
"These are delicious," she says after a bite. "Did you make them?"
"I did," I say. "Family recipe."
"They're wonderful. I'll take a bag of the almonds. And some oil, if you have it."
I make the sale while Leon bags the almonds. When the woman leaves, still glancing back at us, I feel something shift in my chest.
He called me his wife. In public, to someone who knows him, without hesitation or qualification. It's such a small thing. It shouldn't matter as much as it does.
But it matters.
The rush of customers slows for a moment, and I find myself standing beside Leon behind the stall, both of us folding the paper bags we use for smaller purchases. The repetitive motion gives my hands something to do while my mind turns over what just happened.
"You didn't hesitate," I say quietly. "When she asked."
Leon creases a bag along its fold line. "I shouldn't have ever made it difficult. Saying you're my wife shouldn't require thought."
"It did, though. For two years, it did."
"I know." He sets the folded bag on the stack and reaches for another. "I'm not asking you to forget that. I'm just trying to do better now."
"Don't turn today into proof that everything is fixed."
"I'm not." He looks at me, and there's something careful in his expression, something that expects nothing. "One market day doesn't undo anything. I know that."
I want to say more, but a woman approaches the table with a bag of almonds in her hand.
"Excuse me. Are these shelled or unshelled? The sign doesn't say."
"Unshelled," I tell her. "They keep better that way. If you need a particular amount for baking, remember to allow for the shells."
She nods and decides to take two bags. Leon reaches for the paper without being asked and holds it open while I slip her two packets inside. We move around each other easily, handing off the bag, making change, thanking the customer.
When she's gone, I stand there feeling the ache of it. How natural that was. How much it felt like what we could have been all along.
***
The morning passes quickly. By midday, we've sold most of the almonds and half the oil. My mother checks her list of milk orders against the bottles left in the cooler.
"Don Silvano takes the fresh milk for his children," she tells Leon as he helps her count. "Picky about it, too."
"Then we'd better keep your labels straight," he says, turning a bottle so she can read it.
She checks it off and closes the lid. A customer waiting for oil clears his throat, and Leon turns to serve him.
We break for lunch around one, eating bread and cheese in the shade of the truck while the market thins out for the hottest part of the day. Leon sits on an overturned crate, his hat pushed back on his head, looking more relaxed than I've seen him since he started coming to the farm.
"This is different," he says.
"Different from what?"
"From how I usually spend my days." He looks around at the market, at the other vendors packing up or resting, at the families still wandering between stalls.
"I know numbers. I know contracts and logistics and which buyers want what terms. But I've never done this.
Stood behind a table and sold things directly to people. "
"Is it terrible?"
"No. It's..." He searches for the word. "Honest. You make something, you bring it here, people buy it or they don't. There's no politics in it."
"There's always politics," my mother says. "You just don't know where to look yet."
Leon laughs. It's a real laugh, surprised out of him, and I find myself smiling before I can stop it.
I look away before he can see.
***
The afternoon is slower but steady.
I rearrange the almond bags on the table, grouping the smaller portions at the front where they catch the eye, the larger ones behind for serious buyers.
My mother showed me where to put them this morning.
I move the remaining bags forward so people can see the sizes without having to reach over the display.
A young woman stops at our stall, studying the display. "These are local?"
"From our farm," I say. "Just outside town. We dry them ourselves."