Chapter 5
The farmer’s market was more like a tourist market that also had vegetables, but it was hosted in the remarkably expansive and very pretty shared courtyard between a local restaurant and bar. The stone paving took up nearly two-thirds of the walled-in space, with the final third boasting surprisingly green and well-kept grass.
“This is gorgeous,” Abigail said to Cleo as they stepped out of the restaurant’s backdoor. The only way to enter the courtyard was through one of the associated establishments or through a gate on the back wall.
“It really is; the walls keep the wind out, and those wires along the side? They’re my favorite thing—they’re the guidelines for a retractable roof. If it’s too hot to be sitting out here, they can lay out a shade roof or, if it’s raining, a proper one. Very clever. Very expensive. I think that’s why the market is running more often now—they need to recoup some of the costs.”
Abigail smiled. Cleo had always been the one with the nose for information.
“Is that why the back gate is closed, too? So people have to come in through the restaurant and get tempted by all the delicious smells?”
Laughing, Cleo gave an exaggerated shrug, “I dunno, that would be mighty cynical of them.”
The first aisle was mostly vegetables from micro-gardens around town that looked delicious, but Abigail had fallen into old habits and ordered a grocery delivery to her door—after all, she didn’t have a car in town and had no inclination to walk so far to the store and back.
They paused at a stall where a woman a little older than them was sketching quickly. Her stall was covered in paintings, drawings, and whatever that metal thing on the corner of the table that looked like it was melting towards the floor was. Abigail smiled as she took it in. Sid would love some of these—not the landscapes but the weirder and more abstract ones.
“Hey Bee,” Cleo said, “how’s it going?”
Bee glanced up and, recognizing Cleo, answered, “Ah, it’s all right. There were a couple of sales, but nothing big. One guy tried to get me to swap him a painting for a date. You might be seeing him later.”
“Uh...?” Abigail looked to Cleo for clarification.
“She’s joking. I’m on an ER shift tonight,” Cleo said, then she gave Abigail an odd look, “hey—random question, I was thinking about Jacob Givens the other day—”
“Hah!” Bee replied, “So typical of this town to have the most easily solvable mysterious disappearance be the most interesting thing to happen in a century.”
Abigail bristled. Newport wasn’t that boring, and it felt weird for this person to be so flippant about a person she’d obviously never met.
“Most easily solved? Then why’s it still unsolved?” Abagail asked.
The way Bee continued to look down at her sketch as she replied irritated Abigail even more than her tone had.
“Couldn’t tell ya,” she said, “but it seems obvious to me… now I’m not a cop, but I’ve dipped my toe into the odd true crime story here and there, you’ve got a kid out driving late at night with his girlfriend, their car ends up off the road and on its roof. She’s all cut up, bleeding out and dangling from her seatbelt unconscious, and he just disappears!? Nah, he ran off when he thought he’d killed her. Anyone who looks at it agrees; he’s at the bottom of a lake somewhere—”
“Bee!” Cleo exclaimed, making her look up, “jeez, do you have to be quite so vulgar?”
Coming from Cleo, that was something, but Abigail was diverted from saying anything because of the way Bee was looking at her.
“It’s fine, Cleo,” Abigail said quietly, “don’t worry about it.”
“It’s not fine,” her friend replied, “I know she can be... blunt, but she knows a lot about this kind of stuff.”
“You’re her,” Bee said, still staring, “you’re the chick he was with.”
A deep breath in, she turned her attention to the woman now staring at her.
“Yes,” she said, “the bleeding, dangling, unconscious one.”
At least she has the good grace to look sheepish,Abigail thought as Bee opened and closed her mouth a few times.
“Sorry, I guess it’s a bit of gallows humor...”
“So he hanged himself then, you think? Rather than walking into a lake like you just suggested?” Abigail said, more sharply than she intended.
Bee swallowed hard, “uh, I don’t know, sorry.”
“Come on, Abby,” Cleo said, “I was clearly wrong about Bee being able to help us out.”
The pair walked away and made their way down the second aisle of stalls. Abigail spotted bright yellow flowers and wanted to investigate.
“So, who else is still around from school?” she asked, picking up one of the crochet sunflowers from the pale blue gingham tablecloth.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the stallholder eyeing her up and down, as if she were searching for something.
Cleo made a non-committal noise, bringing Abigail’s attention back to her.
“What?”
“Oh, nothing,” Cleo said, “honestly I kind of fell out with most of that crowd after I came back from college. Most of the people we knew moved away. Keltie is still in town but I haven’t seen her in a while. Luke married some woman he met on a plane and moved to Canada, and Fern shipped off and out as soon as the ink was dry on her contract with a big fancy modeling company. The last time I saw her was on a billboard.”
Abigail nodded, replacing the sunflower carefully under the watchful glare of the stallholder.
“Right, I guess it’s hard to stay in touch when everyone’s so far apart.”
The look Cleo shot her wasn’t unfriendly, but it was definitely masking something. Abigail sighed and realized that she had subconsciously reached for her phone and was opening the group chat titled Keeping Mom Informed.
It had been three days since the girls landed in London and aside from an initial flurry of images, a hasty video-call tour of the townhouse on the second day, and a half-conscious conversation that morning, there had been a lot less communication than Abigail had been prepared for. She snapped a picture of the sunflower and attached it.
From Mom: hey girls, look what I found.
“You okay, Abby? Cleo asked, the look from before gone.
Abigail sighed, “Yeah... just, I’m a little sensitive to the whole ‘distance ruins even the closest relationships’ thing right now. The time difference isn’t even that big, but we always seem to be busy or asleep when the other wants to call.”
She swayed as Cleo bumped her shoulder into her. “They’re kids; they’ll always love you, even if you miss a few phone calls.”
“They’re teenagers,” Abigail countered, “they’ll hang on to every single detail of every time I can’t make it work for when they want something they know I won’t want to give.”
“They’re eleven!” Cleo laughed.
Raising her eyebrows, Abigail looked up from her phone screen and stared at Cleo, “Do you remember what we were like at eleven? We had a whole coded language to let each other know what we needed to say to convince our moms of something!”
That made Cleo laugh even harder. The phone chimed and Abigail’s attention snapped back to the conversation.
From Sid: ... cute. Is there a black one?
From Hannah: OMG! I want one!!
From Hannah: wait, if Sid gets a black one, I want a violet one.
From Dad: why would they have black and purple sunflowers?
From Hannah: Not purple!! Violet!
The stallholder was still staring at them as Abigail turned her attention to her.
“Excuse me, I know this will probably sound weird, but do you have any black sunflowers? Or violet ones?”
The stare turned darker, closer to a glare.
“They’re sunflowers... they’re not traditionally black or purple,” she said flatly.
Abigail forced herself to smile sweetly as she thought, well obviously, that’s why I said it might sound weird!
“I know, my daughters and I have a kind of shared love for sunflowers—but they’re turning into teenagers and so everything has to be uniquely theirs,” she said, hoping the woman had some maternal instincts to hit upon, “would I be able to commission some non-traditionally colored sunflowers?”
“I don’t usually take commissions, people always complain about the price and then don’t want to pay when they get the final result and suddenly it’s not quite the right shade of whatever,” she said warily, “besides, I’m very busy and they take a while, people don’t often like the turnaround time.”
“Hi, Mrs. Foggerty,” a male voice interrupted, “I wasn’t eavesdropping, I swear—”
“You never are, Byron,” the stallholder said with a broad grin, “because you’re always welcome in my shop.”
Gritting her teeth to keep up her smile, she turned to greet Byron as politely as she could manage. While she had to admit that his work on the house did seem to be impeccable, she still harbored a confusing mix of annoyance and embarrassment around the iced coffee incident. There was only so much dignity you could retain while fishing a piece of ice out of your bra.
“Hello, Byron,” she said stiffly, “how are you?”
“I’m great, Abby,” he replied with a smile before continuing to address Mrs. Foggarty, “She’s not a tourist, Mrs. Foggarty, she owns a house here and—”
“I know who she is,” Mrs. Foggarty said, “I might be old but I’m not senile.”
The older woman’s words rang in her ears as she tried to place the name—Foggarty, should she know that name!? Why was she so hostile?
“I’d never suggest such a thing,” Byron said with a charming smile, clearly trying to keep a hold of the situation, “I didn’t know if you two knew each other?”
Mrs. Foggarty snorted. “Well, she clearly doesn’t remember me.”
“Uh... well, that might be—” Cleo said awkwardly, raising a finger, but Abigail shot her a look, and she stumbled, “because, you know, it’s been twenty years...”
The four of them fell quiet for a beat, and Abigail wondered if she should have let Cleo blab about her memory issues. It wasn’t that she was hiding her condition, but she’d always hated the conversations around it—the awkwardness and intrusive questions.
“All I was going to say, Mrs. Foggarty, was that she’s been a contract of mine for nearly a decade—never missed a payment, never complained, never so much as asked me to send photographic evidence of a job completion.”
Jeez, when he puts it like that,Abigail thought, makes me sound like an idiot getting scammed.
Mrs. Foggarty’s frown twitched and she refocused on Abigail. She had a choice: say something to try and win this crotchety old woman over or shut up while she made her deliberations.
“I’m sorry, I will say I can’t place you in my memory. It has been a long time since I was home,” Abigail said, “And as for the commission—I’d be happy to pay upfront. I’d never dream of trying to scam an artist.”
“Oh really?” Mrs. Foggarty said, making Abigail wonder if shutting up would have been the better choice.
“Yes,” Abigail said, “I know how often fiber artists get messed around by people who don’t understand what goes into even a smaller piece like these—which is already three times the size of the only thing I’ve ever tried to make!”
She narrowed her eyes, but when she spoke next, Mrs. Foggarty’s voice did seem softer.
“Hm, well, if you’re a client of Byron’s and he doesn’t hate you…” she said, glancing at a rapidly nodding Byron, “Fine, but there’s an extra fifteen dollars on top of the marked price—I’ll have to make a special trip to go and buy purple yarn.”
“Of course!” Abigail said quickly, retrieving her purse from her handbag. “One violet, one black, and I’ll have one of these traditional ones. I can send you some examples of my daughter’s favorite violets… I trust your judgment in choosing the best color match for yarn.”
Abigail hadn’t expected the three sunflowers to be quite as pricey as they ended up being but as she walked away with her so-called traditional sunflower in hand with Cleo and Byron next to her, she texted to let her daughters know what had happened and was flooded with emojis and gifs of love hearts in return. Her stomach flipped with the happiness she always felt when she had successfully made her twins smile.
“So, can I buy you ladies an afternoon drink?” Byron asked, gesturing to the restaurant door.
Abigail winced, “Uh, maybe another time. I feel like I should be going.”
“Sure, of course,” Byron said, glancing at Cleo. “What about you?”
Cleo smiled. “Sounds perfect, Abby—I’ll catch you later?”
Nodding at her old friend and… her gardener? Was that what Byron was? Well… No because he didn’t really garden. ‘Maintenance guy’ didn’t really roll off the tongue, she thought as she wandered back towards the very first stall she had seen when they walked in. Caretaker, maybe? For some reason, that made her think of a haunted house horror movie, so that was off the table…
“You married or something?” the small blonde woman behind the stall table asked, her voice abrupt and high-pitched.
“Excuse me?” Abigail replied, thinking she must have misheard.
“Turning down a drink from Byron, even being married wouldn’t stop most people,” the woman replied.
“Oh… really?” Abigail said, turning to look at the spot where he had been standing, “I mean… I guess he’s good-looking enough.”
The woman made a scoffing sound, “Oh sure, you guess. I’m Claire, nice to meet you...?”
“Abigail. So, do you know Byron?”
She scoffed again. “Most people do. He’s the local heartbreaker. I wouldn’t mind though.”
It would have been almost creepy if it hadn’t been for the wide, playful smile on the woman’s face, and an exaggerated wink made Abigail laugh.
“Right, well, no—I’m not married, but I’m also not interested,” Abigail said, “In him, anyway. I am, on the other hand, interested in your plants—can you tell me what these are?”
As Claire grinned and launched into her sales pitch, Abigail couldn’t help but try and fit the ‘heartbreaker’ moniker to the man she’d been conversing with over email and the brief in-person encounters she’d had with him. She couldn’t quite see it, but it was worth knowing—getting picked up and dumped was the absolute last thing she needed.