Chapter 21
Every Saturday in Newfield, there is a farmers’ market.
Apparently, this is a centuries-old tradition.
I imagine when it was first conceived, it was solely dedicated to local farmers selling meats, eggs, and produce.
But now about half is composed of local artisans selling soaps, watercolors, stained glass, knitted hats.
Isabelle invited me to join her, showing up on my doorstep early this morning in a pale pink polo shirt and matching visor.
If she weren’t eighty, she’d look like she was going to play tennis.
I’m glad I said yes. That last nightmare really messed with my head.
I can’t remember ever having nightmares before, and now I’ve had two that have literally ripped me from my sleep.
What’s strange about them is that when I was in them, I felt like I not only traversed the dreamworld, but also traversed time.
Like I was in another century and had to crawl my way back to wake up.
But thankfully, the cheerfulness of the farmers’ market is infectious, and I feel my mood lighten.
The fresh air is also doing wonders for the migraine I woke up with, likely caused by the poor sleep.
Here at the farmers’ market, my head feels lighter, physically, and mentally.
Families walk around, waving to one another, the children eating giant chocolate chip cookies and raspberries straight from the carton.
Today it will go up to ninety but right now a pleasant coolness from last night’s rainfall lingers.
We walk around the market, with Isabelle pointing out which stalls sell the best sweet corn, which farmers go back generations in Vermont, and which are transplants.
She seems to know everyone, and everyone knows her.
First, we check in on the Cold Brook Wool and Cashmere stall, manned by an attractive young woman.
“How are sales?” asks Isabelle.
“Great!” beams the girl. “Selling like hotcakes, even in the summer!”
She gestures to the display in front of her, organized stacks of cashmere scarves and sweaters, in a beautiful gradient of earth tones.
I gently touch one, as though it were alive.
The fabric is silky and luxurious, and when I discreetly flip over the price tag, it takes real effort to not recoil my hand in shock. Five hundred dollars for a scarf??
I notice, next, a printout from @TheRealMadelineBrook’s Instagram profile.
The featured photo shows Gwyneth Paltrow and Zoe Kravitz sporting hooded scarves, posing in front of an old western-style building, mountain peaks beyond against a dusky sky.
The caption reads: Look who we found at the Aspen Film Festival? ?
“Wow, impressive,” I say and Isabelle looks pleased.
Next we buy tomatoes and watermelon from a stall, and the vendor, a woman with short, cropped hair and Carhartt overalls, slips in a large slice of strawberry rhubarb crumble.
“Good to see you, Mayor,” she says with a wink.
“When you are as old as dirt, you become the unofficial mayor,” Isabelle explains, seeing my face.
“She’s being modest. She saved our farm. We almost certainly would have gone under last year after the late frost killed our berry crop. The Brooks kept us afloat.”
Isabelle shakes her head and waves off the compliment, but her eyes show an amused sort of pride.
“You’ve all been so nice. Madeline and John, especially.” I pop a cherry tomato into my mouth. It tastes like summer and dirt, which isn’t displeasing. “They seem like a really happy couple. He seems to adore her.”
Isabelle pauses a moment, looks almost wistful. “Yes, he’s a good man. They are well matched. It’s a shame that . . .”
She trails off, and I wait for her to go on, but she doesn’t. She shakes her head and rearranges her face into a smile.
“It’s lovely that Julian and Topher have hit it off so well too,” she says, taking my hand for a moment, and patting it.
I’m a little confused. “Sorry, you mean that they hit it off at the dinner?”
Now she looks at me, confused. “No, I thought they met up for a beer once or twice. On Topher’s afternoon off.”
I scan my memory. I don’t remember Topher mentioning anything. I thought I knew his every move. There were a couple of times he ran out in the afternoon for some errands, which took longer than expected. But why wouldn’t he tell me?
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Sorry, baby brain.” Lying seems easier than admitting I didn’t know, but I’m not sure how many more times I can use this “baby brain” excuse around the Brooks without seeming concerningly forgetful.
But Isabelle just smiles, like that makes perfect sense.
“Let’s go investigate the flowers.” She waves for me to follow her, and I hold back a moment, watching as she hobbles through the crowd that parts before her.
The flower stall is beautiful. Deep, almost neon pink dahlias; coastal blue hydrangeas that remind me of the beach; snapdragons in pinks, yellows, and white; fuchsia and pale pink peonies; and countless others I don’t know the names of.
The scent is uplifting. A young mother, with a baby girl strapped to her front, peruses the goods.
She picks up a bouquet of peonies and holds it for her baby to investigate.
Her chubby hands swat at the delicate petals.
I realize that I’m staring openly and smiling. The mother notices. “When are you due?” she asks.
“January.” It feels distant and imminent. And like I’ve done nothing to prepare. “Your baby is beautiful.”
“Thanks. How are you doing? Excited or terrified?”
“Both,” I say smiling.
The mother laughs knowingly and continues on with her shopping.
I pick up a potted hydrangea and am musing over where I could plant it.
It is then that I feel, rather than see, the weight of a person’s eyes on me.
Isabelle is talking to me, explaining how I should scatter old coffee grounds at the base of the plant, and I nod agreeably while I try to sneak glances around the crowd.
Nothing stands out, at first. There is movement everywhere.
Families herding children, friends bumping into each other, waving hello.
But then I notice a person standing several stalls over.
The day is starting to heat up, but the person is still wearing a rain jacket, with the hood pulled up.
They have a tall, solid build, and I can’t tell if it’s a man or a woman.
Unlike the rest of the marketgoers, the figure stands still, arms crossed, staring in our direction. I squint trying to get a better look.
“Did you catch that?” Isabelle is asking.
“No. Yes. Sorry.” I pull my eyes back to Isabelle. “Add acid periodically.”
I turn back toward the figure, but they’ve disappeared back into the crowd. I realize, with an unsettling feeling that I’m not sure who the person was staring at. Me or Isabelle.