Chapter 12 Calluses Where Pride Used to Be #2
She picks up a bag, weighing it in her hand. "My grandmother used to make biscuits with almonds like these. I've been trying to find the right ones."
"What kind of biscuits?"
"Little crescents, with powdered sugar. She never wrote down the recipe."
I feel something twist in my chest. "I know the kind. My family makes them too."
"Do you sell them? The biscuits?"
"Not yet." The words come out before I think about them. "Maybe someday. If I ever get around to it."
The woman smiles. "Well, if you do, let me know. I'd be first in line." She buys two bags of almonds and tucks them into her basket. "Good luck with whatever you decide."
I watch her disappear into the crowd, and for a moment I let myself imagine it. A table with biscuits arranged in neat rows, customers asking for my recipes, something that belongs to me.
Leon appears at my elbow. "That seemed like it went well."
"She bought almonds."
"She also asked about biscuits."
"She was just making conversation."
"Maybe." He's quiet for a moment. "You're good at this. Talking to people, figuring out what they want. You make it look easy."
"It is easy. You just have to listen."
"I'm learning that." He gestures toward the oil bottles. "A man earlier wanted a mixed order put aside for next week. I nearly promised it before I thought to ask your mother how much she has available."
"That's not a bad strategy."
"I'm used to knowing how much stock there is. I need to remember this isn't my stock to promise."
I look at him. "You're asking."
"What?"
"You're asking questions instead of assuming you know. That's new."
He meets my eyes. "I'm trying."
A vendor from the next stall over, a woman selling preserves, leans around her display. "Excuse me. I hate to interrupt, but my husband's gone to get the truck and I need to shift some crates. Would you have a spare pair of hands?"
Leon glances at me. "Is that all right?"
I nod. "Go ahead. We're fine here."
He follows the woman to her stall, and I watch him lift the heavy crates she points to, stacking them where she directs. When he's done, she thanks him and presses a jar of fig preserves into his hands. He tries to refuse, but she insists.
"Your husband's a good worker," my mother says, appearing at my side. "For a man who's never done this before."
"He's learning."
"He is." She straightens a row of oil bottles that doesn't need straightening. "Your father's checking on the truck. Says the back door latch was sticking earlier."
"Do you need anything?"
"A cup of water would be nice. My throat's getting dry."
I pour water from the jug we brought and hand it to her. She drinks slowly, watching the market, watching me.
"That woman who asked about biscuits," she says. "What did you tell her?"
"That I don't sell them. Not yet."
"Not yet." My mother sets down the cup. "That's different from never."
"I know."
"Good."
Leon returns with the jar of preserves and a slightly bewildered expression. "She wouldn't let me leave without it."
"That's Signora Ferraro," my mother says. "She does that. Just accept it gracefully."
"I tried." He sets the jar on the table. "What else needs doing?"
I hand him a cloth. "The table could use a wipe. And the sample basket is almost empty again."
He takes the cloth and starts cleaning, working around the display without disturbing it. I refill the basket with the last of the crescents, the ones I baked in my mother's uneven oven, and set it back in its spot.
A family stops to look at the almonds. The father asks about bulk pricing, and Leon defers to my mother, who quotes him a fair rate. They haggle briefly, politely, and settle on a number that works for both of them.
"You grow these yourself?" the man asks while my mother counts out the bags.
"My husband does most of the growing," she says. "I do the selling."
"Ysabel made the samples," Leon adds, nodding toward me. "Her family's recipe."
The man tries a crescent. "These are excellent. Do you sell them separately?"
"Not yet," I say again. "But maybe someday."
"Well, when you do." He takes his bags and nods to us. "Good family operation you've got here."
The afternoon wears on. We sell another dozen bags of almonds, a few more bottles of oil. The milk is long gone, the regular customers having claimed their shares early. By the time the crowd starts thinning, we're down to scraps and samples.
I start gathering the empty baskets, stacking them for transport. Leon helps without being asked, folding the cloth we used for display, collecting the scattered price signs.
"Here," he says, holding out a piece of bread. "You haven't eaten since lunch."
I take it without thinking, our fingers brushing for just a moment. The touch is nothing, incidental, the kind of contact that happens a dozen times a day between people working in close quarters.
But I feel it anyway. The warmth of his hand, the familiarity of it.
I pull back, focusing on the bread, on chewing, on anything except the way my skin is still tingling where he touched me.
"We should finish packing," I say.
"Right." He turns back to the table, and we work in silence until everything is ready to go.
By four o'clock, we're packed and ready to go. Leon loads the empty crates while my father checks the money box and my mother folds the tablecloth. The drive back to the farm is quiet, everyone tired in the good way that comes from useful work.
Leon's car is still parked by the barn when we arrive. He helps unload, carrying crates to the storage shed, putting things back where they belong. When everything is done, he stands in the yard looking like he's not sure what comes next.
"There's water by the pump if you want to wash up," my mother says. "You've earned it."
"Thank you."
He walks to the side of the house where the old hand pump stands next to a basin. I'm crossing the yard with an empty basket, heading toward the kitchen, when I see him stop by the fence.
He unbuttons his shirt slowly, pulls it free of his trousers, and drapes it over the fence post. Then he picks up the tin dipper that hangs beside the pump and works the handle until water flows.
I should keep walking. I should go inside and help my mother with dinner and pretend I didn't notice.
But my feet have stopped moving, and I'm watching him fill the dipper and pour water over one shoulder, then the other.
The late sun catches the droplets as they run down his back, his chest, the body I know as well as my own.
He's Leon, familiar and solid, doing something as ordinary as washing off the day's dust.
He tips his head back and pours water over his face, his hair, letting it stream down his neck. Then he shakes the water from his eyes and looks up.
He sees me watching.
For a moment neither of us moves. Then he smiles, not smug or knowing, just warm. Surprised, maybe, that I'm still standing here.
I feel the heat flood my face. I turn away so fast I nearly drop the basket, and I walk the rest of the way to the kitchen without looking back.
Inside, my mother is at the counter paring vegetables. She glances up when I come in.
"You look flushed. Too much sun?"
"Something like that."
I set the basket down and press my hands against my cheeks, willing the color to fade. It's the pregnancy, I tell myself. Hormones making everything sharper, more intense. That's all this is.
But I can still feel his eyes on me. I can still see the water running down his skin.
I pick up a knife and start helping with the vegetables, and I don't let myself look out the window again.