A Second Bite at the Apple by Dana Bate Read Free Book Online Page B

says.
    I nod. “You too. Stay warm.”
    He lingers for a moment, but other customers are waiting for me to take their orders, so I smile quickly and turn to a young couple standing behind the basket of French boules. As they rattle off their order, I can’t shake the idea that I’ve seen the man in the vest before, but when I glance back over my shoulder to take another look, he is gone.
    I bag up a bunch of pumpkin muffins and molasses cookies for the young couple, and as I grab their money to make change, a young woman approaches me from the other end of the table.
    â€œThe last guy you waited on left this for you,” she says. She holds out a folded-up piece of bakery tissue paper.
    â€œFor me? What is it?”
    â€œNo idea. But he left it on the table and said to make sure you got it.”
    I take it from her hands and unfold it. Inside, in barely legible writing, are his phone number and a brief message:

    Sorry again about last night. I’d like to make it up to you. Call me some time.
    â€”Jeremy

    I stare at the message for a few seconds, wondering if I should call him, at least to apologize for giving him such a hard time. But then I remember Zach, and how horribly wrong all of that went, and how I promised myself I’d never let anyone hurt me like that again. I crumple up the tissue paper and toss it into the trash bin.
    â€œWhat did it say?” the girl asks.
    I take a deep breath and consider my answer. Then I shrug. “Nothing important,” I say, and then I wait on the next customer.
    Â 
    â€œWake up, sugar,” Rick says, slapping my ass. “Time to pack up.”
    I look up from my perch behind the basket of walnut spelt bread, trying to ignore the fact that Rick’s hand just made contact with my backside, as the market manager rings the cowbell at the far end of the market.
    â€œIt’s over? Already?”
    Rick waddles over to the cash table. “No, the chick in the parka is ringing a cowbell for kicks.”
    I follow Rick to the cash table and begin bagging up the leftover half loaves and samples, which he plans to donate to a local soup kitchen. Given my rocky start and my initial disinterest in being here, I’m surprised at how quickly the morning has passed. Last time I looked at my watch, it was 10:15, and now it’s already noon. Aside from the fact that I have lost all feeling in my face and feet, I actually had . . . fun? More fun than I had standing in the snow with Charles, at least. Rick may be nuts, but he bakes some of the best bread I’ve ever eaten. One bite of his light, feathery brioche, and I swear I heard angels singing.
    â€œWhere else do you sell your stuff?” I ask as I box up the leftover pumpkin muffins.
    â€œOther farmers’ markets—Dupont, Penn Quarter, Annapolis, Crystal City.”
    â€œAny retail shops?”
    â€œNah. We do a little wholesale here and there. But that’s about it.”
    â€œHave you ever thought of opening your own store?”
    â€œToo much overhead. Don’t need the hassle.” He stacks two crates on top of one another and toddles through the snow to the truck.
    â€œI wonder if one of the specialty markets around here would be interested in selling some of your stuff. I bet—”
    â€œYou aren’t here to bet,” he says, heaving the crates onto the truck. “You’re here to help me pack up this truck, and at this rate, we’ll be here until September.”
    â€œSorry.”
    â€œThey always are . . .”
    I help Rick finish loading the truck and fold up the tables and tent, and as I gather my things together and prepare to leave, Rick digs into his pocket.
    â€œNormally I pay a hundred dollars a market, but since this is your first day, and we didn’t do much business, I’m only giving you sixty.” He reaches for a paper bag. “Oh, and here are two loaves of walnut spelt bread. Those puppies