Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
After three days of enforced rest, Andrea’s sprained ankle was feeling better, but her mental state was quickly circling the drain.
“That’s the fifth batch of cupcakes you’ve thrown away today,” Phantom observed from his perch on the kitchen counter. “How a professional can make so many critical errors is beyond me. Marren would never pitch a grimoire in the bin over a pockmark in the leather or a dog-eared page.”
Andrea shot the opinionated cat a withering look as she finished sweeping another tray of disappointing cupcakes into the trash. “Don’t you have anything better to do? A spider to terrorize? Or some yoga to do?”
“Oh, I’m quite entertained right where I am,” Phantom replied, before rising and stretching, his black coat making him the epitome of the perfect Halloween cat. “Although a snack wouldn’t hurt. What do you say? Tuna time?”
Andrea ignored him and turned her attention to the sink, where several mixing bowls sat, waiting to be scrubbed. Her ankle was already nagging her to take a break, as she’d been hobbling back and forth across the kitchen all morning.
It didn’t help matters that construction was back underway next door. Wes and his crew were installing the drywall and while it wasn’t as loud as the days of demolition, it was far from quiet.
Andrea dropped the empty cupcake pan into the sink with more force than necessary and exhaled. Maybe a break would do her some good. But not here. She needed to get out. Away. To look at something besides the four walls of Marren’s kitchen.
The buzzing sound of an electric saw started up next door and Andrea scowled at the wall.
“That’s it,” she said, already reaching for her phone.
Since the accident, Wes had texted a few times to check in on her, but she hadn’t heard from him that morning.
Not that she was counting.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard, willing her to type out a scathing complaint about the noise, but she stopped herself and turned off the screen. The noise wasn’t the real reason behind her creative block, and she knew it. Neither was Phantom’s running commentary.
It was Martina’s latest email and voicemail—both ignored.
It was her mother’s text message asking her if she’d asked for William’s forgiveness and a chance to try again.
That text had also gone unanswered. Paige was giving vague, one-word replies to Andrea’s queries, and she’d finally broken down and checked the spreadsheet of Christmas orders.
Several cancellations remained highlighted in red, and each one felt like a stab in the gut.
Everything was falling down around her and she’d been trapped on a sofa, with an ice pack and a bottle of ibuprofen.
“Maybe you should go to the farmer’s market,” Phantom suggested.
Andrea glanced at him. “Let me guess, they have a fish stall and you want me to pick up something smoked or canned?”
“Well, I won’t stop you, but that wasn’t actually why I suggested it. In truth, you look like you’re ready to shoot laser beams from your eyeballs, and Marren’s homeowner’s insurance policy is rather paltry.”
Despite her frustration, Andrea found herself snorting a dry laugh. “I see.”
“The market is all indoors, so you won’t have to practice your ice-skating routine, which is for the best, I think we can all agree,” Phantom continued.
“Marren goes every week. In the warmer months they host it outdoors, in the town square, and I go with her sometimes. I have to walk on a leash, or people get judgmental, but if I’m a good kitty, Marren buys me a chicken kebob or fish fillet sandwich from the food vendors. ”
Andrea considered it as she walked out to the living room, not holding back or hobbling, in an attempt to test and see how sore her ankle was.
A farmer’s market might be nice. And in a town the size of Maple Crossing, she doubted it would take her long to cruise through and see everything.
It wouldn’t be like the outdoor markets in LA or even inside Hecate’s Kitchen.
“All right,” she said, turning toward Phantom, who followed in her wake. “I’ll make you a deal.”
Phantom’s ears perked out to the sides, a grin forming on his feline face. “Yes…?” he purred.
Andrea crossed to turn off the gas fireplace, but gestured at Crumpet, who lay sleeping before it, atop a crumpled blanket he’d spent nearly ten minutes arranging for himself. “I’ll bring home a tasty surprise for you—”
Phantom’s green eyes glowed bright with the possibilities.
“But you have to behave yourself while I’m gone,” Andrea continued, her voice stern. “No messing with Crumpet.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it!” Phantom replied with feigned shock.
Andrea arched an eyebrow and hit the switch, instantly snuffing the crackling flames.
After her night out at the pub the week before, she’d arrived home to a quiet house, and had to go searching for Crumpet, only to find him sleeping under the bed.
Phantom insisted he didn’t know why the quote-unquote mangy mutt had opted to sleep there, but she didn’t buy that for a minute.
“Okay, fine, I would,” Phantom caved, “But I won’t! Cat’s honor!”
Andrea snorted. “I’m not convinced that means much, but hey, the choice is yours. And while Crumpet can’t talk, we’ve been together for the better part of six years now, and have our own language.”
“Yes, yes, you’re practically Mrs. Doolittle,” Phantom muttered. “Now, about my reward—”
Andrea laughed softly and headed for the stairs, Phantom following in her wake, rattling off a list of suggestions and requests.
Within ten minutes, she was dressed and had popped a few pain pills to banish the dull ache, at least for a little while, then she bundled up in her coat and boots, said goodbye to the still-sleeping Crumpet, and made an “I’m watching you” gesture at Phantom before slipping out into the cold.
The winter farmer’s market was housed inside the town hall building, not far from the square, with its gazebo and small park space.
The building’s stone facade was dusted with snow and illuminated with tiny white and red Christmas lights.
Two large wreaths hung on the double wooden doors, dotted with colorful ornaments and faux poinsettias.
A steady stream of visitors was coming and going from the building, in small groups or pairs, their hands filled with shopping bags and cloth totes, and unbranded paper cups.
Several passersby munched on treats packed inside white parchment bags, and the scents of kettle corn and sugared pecans wafted out to greet her as she stepped inside the warm building.
The interior was bursting with cheer and charm as the mouthwatering scents mingled with an upbeat Christmas tune, playing through a handful of speakers mounted near the peaked eaves of the large open hall.
A couple dozen vendor booths lined the main hall, their tables draped in festive colors or adorned with evergreen boughs.
It didn’t take long for Andrea to forget about the subtle twinge in her ankle as she found her place in the flow of traffic and wandered past displays of hand-knitted scarves, artisanal cheeses, and homemade preserves.
The market had the unhurried pace she was learning to associate with Vermont—so different from the farmer’s markets in LA, where everyone moved with purpose and vendors competed to catch the eye of passersby.
At the far end of the hall stood an enormous Christmas tree, its white lights casting a gentle glow over the entire space. Beneath it, wooden benches offered respite to shoppers, and a dedicated play space stood off to one side, where a handful of children played with wooden toys.
She quickly filled a basket with trinkets and goodies, hoping she had enough room in her luggage to take it all home.
With everything going on, she hadn’t really made a start on her Christmas shopping.
She always spoiled her friends, Lainey in particular, and then there was Paige and the employees at Sunset Sweets.
She begrudgingly picked out a pair of earrings she knew her mother would like, and let the vendor upsell her on the matching necklace to make it a proper set.
She was considering some jams and preserves when she spotted a vendor selling gourmet maple syrup and maple candies, and knew they would make for excellent staff gifts.
“Good afternoon!” the vendor greeted her at her approach. He was a man in his sixties with a graying beard and a lined face that spoke to a lifetime spent working outdoors. He wore a thick wool sweater and a knit cap, despite the almost stifling heat in the building.
“Afternoon,” Andrea replied. “This all looks amazing,” she added, gesturing at the array of goods.
Dozens of glass bottles in various sizes lined wooden risers and filled large woven baskets, each filled with golden liquid ranging from pale amber to deep bronze.
Hand-lettered signs identified them: “Grade A Light Amber,” “Grade A Medium Amber,” “Grade A Dark Robust.” Smaller jars held what looked like maple candy, and a few bottles were labeled “Bourbon Barrel Aged.”
“Thank you, my dear,” the man replied. “Would you like to sample anything?”
Andrea’s eyes lit up. “I can do that?”
The man chuckled. “Of course! The name is Sonny Hewitt and I make the best maple syrup in Vermont, and I’m not afraid to prove it!”
Andrea laughed softly. “Is that so?”
“My family has been making maple syrup going back four generations! My great-grandfather started the sugar house back in 1924.” Sonny’s chest puffed with evident pride. “We tap about eight hundred trees across forty acres. Been doing it the old way—wood-fired evaporator, no shortcuts.”
“What’s the difference between the grades?”
Sonny’s face lit up like she’d asked his favorite question. “Come here, try some.” He produced a cup of small plastic spoons and opened one of the bottles. “This is Grade A Light Amber—what we call ‘fancy’ grade. Delicate flavor, perfect for pancakes.”