Chapter 8
ERICA
“Remind me again how I let myself get talked into this?” I grumble, holding Em’s bags while she browses.
“Because you love your sister, you’re a glutton for punishment, and I think you secretly like to be forced to do things that don’t involve testosterone and beer.” My mom’s right, as always.
“And so, here we are,” Emily summarizes, stopping to sniff at a candle from one of the vendors’ booths.
We’ve been to the farmer’s market on the Great Falls side of the mountain a few times, and despite my current show of fake grumpiness, I always enjoy it. It’s just so early, and I have so much work to do at the shop, but Emily’s invitation had taken priority and Reed can handle the garage today.
I look at Mom, watching her happily shop with Emily.
We are an interesting family from the outside looking in.
Emily and I have tawny skin, freckles, a dark curtain of thick, straight hair, and deep brown eyes, while Mom and Dad are picture-perfect Americana, with blond hair, blue eyes, and an affection for baseball and the ‘old days,’ which are apparently the 70s.
Mom says it’s because things were simpler then.
Dad says it’s because they were high all the time.
But I’ve never known anything different since Keith and Janice Cole adopted Emily and me when we were barely even two.
My earliest memories are of Mom and Dad dancing around the kitchen with dinner cooking on the stovetop.
I’m glad I only have happy memories, and neither Emily nor I have ever felt called to find out ‘where we came from’ because we already know.
We came from Mom and Dad’s heart, just like they always told us when we were kids, and you can tell by the way Mom looks on fondly while Emily flits here and there.
“Are you sure there’s no beer here? Seems like they might have some craft brews somewhere . . .” I look around, only half kidding.
Mom pushes her black-framed glasses up her nose so she can glare at me properly. “It’s not even noon, Rix.”
I wrap my arm around her shoulder, squeezing her tightly. “I know, Mom. I’ll take it home for later. Promise.”
She lifts one arm, patting my cheek softly.
“You’ll have to help me pick out a bottle or two for Keith too.
But none of that high alcohol content stuff like you got him for Christmas.
Good Lord, he was drunker than a sailor on shore leave!
I had to put him to bed before he passed out in his recliner.
” Her pat turns more slap with that informational tidbit, even though it wasn’t my fault . . . mostly.
Still makes me laugh. “Well, I didn’t mean for Dad to drink it like he does Budweiser.
That was Bourbon County Coffee Stout, his two favorite things in one .
. . beer and coffee. And fifteen dollars a bottle.
It was supposed to be for something special, not to crack open while he watched a rerun of his favorite game. ”
“Game five, 1956 World Series. Don Larsen pitched a perfect game. Never seen nothing like it.” We say it together, Mom and me, having heard Dad say the exact thing more times than can be counted.
“Well, he enjoyed it all right. Maybe a bit too much. I think I’ll skip getting him any more beer this time,” she says thoughtfully. “Maybe just find him some beef jerky instead.”
“I’m gonna grab a coffee. Anybody want one?” I offer, spying an Airstream that’s been rehabilitated into a food truck of sorts.
“Please,” Emily breathes, and the candle vendor looks on the verge of doing anything Emily asks.
I predict that she gets a discount on the candle, so she’ll buy two.
I’ve seen it happen time and time again.
She doesn’t take advantage of people. They just like to be in her orbit, soaking up her radiant positivity and genuine smiles.
Mom shakes her head, pressing a hand to her chest that lets me know her morning pot of coffee is already talking back to her. It gives her heartburn every time, but she never lets that stop her from pouring another cup.
The barista makes quick work of my order, handing me two large cups. One black, one almost the color of milk. Guess whose is whose? I drop a dollar in the pickle jar-turned-tip jar and turn back around to find Emily.
“One for you, one for me,” I say, handing her the pale coffee.
“Back atcha. One for you, one for me.” She wiggles her bag, and I chuckle that I was right. She bought two candles.
“Thanks.” I tell her, meaning it. She smiles back, and while I’d been expecting some weirdness from our conversation yesterday, it’s never materialized.
We’re just us. Emily and Erica. Sisters, as always.
“All right, let’s find some jerky for my jerky,” Mom says with a clap of her hands.
Emily and I groan in tandem. “Mom, don’t start with the Dad jokes. We’re begging you.”
“Pretty sure they’re Mom jokes if I’m the one telling them.” She smiles like that was funny too. “Ooh, let me look at these melons too. I’ve already got decent ones, but you can’t have too many.”
Mom shimmies her shoulders in a move I really wish her Zumba teacher hadn’t taught her and then scurries off, her sensible sneakers squeaking as she heads toward a fruit stand.
“Did Mom just make a tit joke?” I ask out of the side of my mouth, like saying it full out will make it so.
Emily nods, her face twisted in horror. “She did. She absolutely did.”
We meet eyes and simultaneously shudder. “Mom tits. Old lady tits. I can’t.”
“Promise me we’ll get boob jobs before ours go saggy.” Emily holds out her pinkie finger for me to shake on the idea, but I recoil.
“Absolutely not. Em, we barely even have any. We’re never gonna sag like . . .” I sigh before I say it. “Mom.”
“Right. No tits are better than old lady tits.” She’s trying to convince herself.
“Em? Stop saying tits, ’kay?”
She mimes locking her mouth and throwing away the key, and hesitantly, we follow Mom, scared of what puns and Dad jokes she’ll come up with next. God help us if eggplants are in season.
“Girls, come here! I found some jelly I want to get,” Mom calls out a few hours later.
But now, Emily and I are giggling like pre-teen boys about everything Mom says, finding some degree of sexual innuendo in it, even when there’s absolutely none.
But jelly is a pretty easy leap to something sordid.
“Sure, be right there.”
We come up behind Mom to see her holding a clear cut-glass jar of red jelly and chatting with the vendor.
She’s a little younger than Em and me, with thick light brown hair that’s highlighted all around her face in that way salons always try to duplicate.
Hers looks natural, though, like she got the lighter bits the same way she got the tan .
. . being outside. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and a Kentucky Downs sweatshirt, and I’m pretty sure those boots have some shit mixed in with the dirt on them.
She’s what a farmer’s market is all about, farm to market to table.
“We grow all the fruits and veggies ourselves. My brothers do most of the work there, though.” She makes a whipping noise, winking one eye and smiling widely.
I instantly decide I like her. “After we harvest, I take over, making seasonal specialties throughout the year. Spring is mostly cherry jubilee jam and lemon curd. Though you can get my carrot cakes by special order or by the slice at the resort.”
Mom is enamored, and I predict that we’ll be taking home one of everything. “I’ve had cherries jubilee before, but how do you make it into a jam?”
The vendor smiles like she’s got a secret.
“After you soak the cherries in the brandy, you light it on fire. Just a little bit, you know. I gotta keep it safe with the kids around these days. Set a good example, Shay.” She’s imitating someone, but I don’t know who.
Honestly, she sounds wistful and sad about some bare-boned safety measures.
“And then I smash it up and add the pectin. It’s a lotta fun, one of my favorites all year.
” She laughs, her smile growing even wider.
I can’t help but smile back. Her excitement over jelly is contagious enough that I think I’ll buy one too.
“Couldn’t stay away from me, could you, Lil Bit?”
Out of nowhere, Brody’s voice rumbles right in my ear, making me jump like one of those cats that just spotted a cucumber.
I know I’m blushing from the surprise of his being here, but I calm my features before I turn around, not letting him see how good he got me.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cowboy.
I’m just here doing a little shopping.” I hold up a jar of lemon curd as proof.
“Seems like you’re the one stalking me. Should I be worried?
I’ve got a Taser in my purse and my fists are registered weapons. ”
He runs his hand down from his chest to his abs. “You could hit me if you want to. I’d do just about anything to have your hands on me.” The words are low, meant just for me, but Emily, Mom, and the vendor all hear too.
“Brody Michael Tannen! I will wash your mouth out with soap and not let you have any carrot cake tonight if you don’t apologize to my customer right the hell now!
” I’ve never actually met someone full of piss and vinegar before, but I can’t say that now because the woman is riled up something fierce as she comes to my aid with an actual stomp of her booted foot.
It’s sweet. Unnecessary, but sweet.
If Brody wasn’t damn near trying to crawl inside my skin right here in front of God and the whole town, it might occur to me to be jealous of this unknown woman who knows his middle name when I didn’t even know his last one until just now. Still, I have to smirk. “Brody Michael Tannen?”
He chuckles, not at all embarrassed and also not apologizing in the least. “You only have to scream out Brody. If you can get my whole name out, I’m not doing my job.” Still talking like it’s just me and him, he lifts his chin toward the vendor. “So that’s my sister, Shayanne.”