Chapter 10: Market Day

By Monday morning the comments under the wedding video had turned.

Knew it.

There's always another man.

She played the victim and the internet fell for it.

Somebody found the farm on a map and left forty one-star reviews before breakfast.

Worst pie in Michigan. Homewrecker.

A man in a pickup slowed down at the stand and yelled the same word out his window and gunned it.

Gran stood at the counter with her arms crossed and watched him go.

"I know that truck," she said. "I know his mother, too."

Monday was slow.

Tuesday was slower.

On Tuesday afternoon a Chicago food blogger who'd booked a U-pick tour for her followers canceled by email.

Luke read it over my shoulder.

"That's my fault," he said.

"You didn't take the picture."

"I opened the door."

"I knocked on it."

"I should go back to Chicago. It would help."

"It would look like you ran."

"It would look like you won."

I turned around.

He was standing too close again, in Grandpa's boots, with a smear of cherry juice on his collar.

"Don't do anything to help me," I said. "I mean it. Every time a man helps me, I end up with a forged signature."

He took that.

He didn't argue.

He nodded once and went back out to the shaker.

On Wednesday I loaded the truck with forty lugs of sweets and drove into Traverse City for the farmers market.

Megan came with me.

"You know she'll be there," Megan said.

"I know."

Kelsey's salon has had a booth at the Wednesday market every summer for six years.

Braids, hair glitter, beach waves for tourists, and her own shampoo in little bottles with a pink label.

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