Chapter 6: Market Day

On Saturday we took the Clendenin apples to market, and the whole town came to look at me.

The farm market sets up on the green every week, around the Stone, and nobody pretends not to stare at the Stone.

Martha had made me wear the green sweater.

"If they're going to look," she said, "you give them something worth it."

I set up the stall in ten minutes and stood behind the scale.

Orson carried the crates.

He did it without being told, quietly, from the truck bed to the table, and nobody offered him a hand.

People kept a distance around him, and they kept their eyes on me.

A woman bought a peck of Cortlands and counted her change twice.

"Poor thing," she said, low, as she took the bag. "Such a shame. But you look so calm, dear. That's a blessing."

"It's not a blessing," I said. "It's a missing part."

She went a little pink and left.

Gillian appeared at my elbow with two cider donuts wrapped in wax paper.

"Eat," she said. "You'll taste it fine."

"I know. It tastes like sugar."

"Good. Eat it and tell me it's the best thing you've had all week."

I ate it.

"It's the best thing I've had all week," I said flatly.

"Liar."

"It's accurate. There hasn't been much."

Gillian laughed so loud that two people turned around.

The woman in the green dress from the Draper luncheon was working her way down the row of stalls, nodding to the vendors.

She stopped at ours.

"Miranda," she said, with great sweetness. "I'm so glad to see you out in the air. You mustn't mind what people say."

"What are they saying?"

"Only that you're taking it so well."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Of course it is."

"Then I'll say something nice back," I said. "You were wrong at lunch. It isn't better."

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