A Late Frost Page 6

  Once inside the building, she stopped for a moment to take in the scene. The tables were set up in a large rectangle around the perimeter of the gym, and she was standing at one of the short ends. Nicky and Brian were stationed at the far end, and Nicky waved when she saw Meg. From Monica’s floor plan Meg knew her table would be somewhere in the middle of the side to her right. About half the tables were already occupied, and people had opted for bright colors for their decorations, which in some cases were fairly elaborate. She was going to look like a plain Jane in comparison, so she’d have to let her pretty apples in their vintage baskets speak for her.

  Seth popped up beside her: he’d come early to help with the physical setup. “Need any help?”

  “There are two more baskets of apples in the car, if you really need something to do. It’s looking great so far. How long until you open the doors officially?”

  “Half an hour? I’ll go collect one basket—where’s your car?”

  “The far end of the lot. It’s not locked.”

  “You’re a trusting soul,” Seth told her.

  “Hey, this is Granford.”

  After Seth had left, Meg carried her basket over to her designated table and set it on the floor. She pulled out the table cover and smoothed it out over the tabletop. It was a nice simple pattern, so she had brought a quilted runner with an apple motif to lay down the center of the table. She’d been at a loss about how to display the apples, because the harvest baskets were simply too big and bulky. She’d finally decided on smaller replicas of those baskets, purchased at a party store, and she’d have to keep replenishing them. She laid out the mini-baskets filled with apples, stepped back to assess their placement, then tweaked one. Then she retrieved her labels and taped them to the oilcloth in front of each basket. And that was that.

  Seth arrived with one more basket, trailed by someone else Meg didn’t recognize, carrying the last one. “Hey, it looks good. Simple but effective.”

  “You don’t think it’s too plain?” Meg asked anxiously.

  “No. The apples will sell themselves.”

  “Who else is selling apples today?”

  “A couple of people have included apples along with other winter produce. There’s only one who’s selling just apples. That organic farmer I told you about—Ginny Morris.”

  “Oh, right. I still haven’t met that family.”

  “Maybe now’s a good time, since you look like you’ve finished here.”

  “Okay. Where are they?”

  “Across and up two tables.” Seth pointed. Meg saw a slender woman about her own age spreading a gingham tablecloth over her table. There were a few baskets of apples clustered around her feet.

  “Got it. Maybe I can offer to help. We’re all in this together, aren’t we? It’s not like we’re competing.”

  “You’re just being neighborly. You’ve got about half an hour, so go for it.”

  As Seth headed off to help someone else, Meg took a last look at her display and then walked across the space between the tables until she reached the other woman’s table. Up close, she looked older than Meg had guessed, and wiry rather than thin. Or maybe she was just worn down. When the woman glanced up, Meg said, “Hi! I’m Meg Corey, uh, Chapin. I’m surprised we haven’t met before now.”

  The woman straightened up and pushed her hair off her face. “I know who you are—you grow apples, on the south side of town, right? I’m Virginia Morris—Ginny.” She extended her hand, and Meg shook it. She almost laughed, since Ginny’s hand felt much like her own: calloused and strong.

  “I do. Not organic, though. I’d love to see what you’re doing at your place. Is it an older orchard?”

  “Yeah. We bought it three years ago, but it was a mess—it had been neglected for years. Last fall was the first time we had any sort of crop worth selling. What about you?”

  “I inherited the orchard, through some relatives on my mother’s side of the family. It’s not a new orchard, but I was lucky—the university had been managing it as kind of a teaching tool for several years, so it wasn’t in bad shape. Is your whole family involved?”

  “My husband is—the kids are still kind of young.”

  “Will he be here later?”

  Ginny shrugged. “If he can. You married?”

  “As of about two months ago, yes.”

  “Oh, right—you married Seth Chapin. You had the wedding up at Gran’s.”

  “We did. Do you know Nicky and Brian?”

  “Yeah, I introduced myself. They told me they used some of your apples. I was hoping they’d take some of mine.”

  “I’m sure Nicky would be happy to. Maybe we can compare lists of our varietals and see where you could fit. You know, I’d love to talk to you sometime about how the whole organic classification works. I was so clueless when I took over my orchard, I couldn’t even think about dealing with a lot of regulations. But you should have a good market for your apples around here.”

  “I think so, once I start getting a big enough crop.”

  Meg glanced around: most of the tables were ready for business. “Well, I should let you finish getting set up. Good to meet you, Ginny. Let’s get together before the orchard season gets busy.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks for stopping by.” Ginny bent down and picked up another basket of apples and started arranging them on her table, effectively turning her back on Meg. Meg meandered back to her own spot.

  She wondered if she’d regret not insisting that Larry take a shift at the table—it would be a good opportunity for him to get to know people in the town. But he’d turned her down fast when Meg had suggested the idea, and she had to admit he wasn’t exactly a crowd kind of person. Maybe Seth could cover for half an hour or so while she browsed the other tables. Not that she needed any more stuff at home, but there might be some good food products, and it would be nice to support her neighbors. And she should say hello to people, and introduce herself to the ones she didn’t know.

  Without any fanfare, the double doors at one end of the gym were thrown open, and people started streaming in. WinterFare had begun.

  The people kept coming throughout the day. Meg smiled until her face hurt, selling apples, making change. She made a mental note that if this event was repeated, she should bring some recipe cards along as well. She kept an eye on her supply of apples, hoping it would last until the end of the day, not that she’d mind if she sold out early. Nicky and Brian had been smart to bring in new food in shifts. Meg wasn’t sure if each of their loads included different recipes—she’d hate to miss anything that Nicky made, because she was a terrific cook. They both looked happy as well as busy.

  At one point she looked up from counting the apples under the table to see Art Preston, Granford’s chief of police, standing in front of the table, grinning. “Hi, Art!” she greeted him enthusiastically. “I don’t think we’ve seen you since the wedding!”

  “You’d be right—the missus and I decided to take a winter vacation since the weather kind of discourages crime around here.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “North Carolina. Pretty beaches, not too many people. Very peaceful. I hear your honeymoon got a little complicated.”

  “Did Seth tell you? Yes, my father had some problems that kind of grew out of a case he handled a long time ago. Funny how the past keeps intruding. And, yes, there was a body. And Seth and I are still married. Want some apples?”

  “Sure. I’m not here in any official capacity—I just thought I’d see how things were going.”

  “Have you met Monica yet?”

  “I have not had that pleasure, since I left before all this WinterFare stuff came up. But I’m sure she’ll find me. What’s your take on her?”

  “Energetic! But look around—she gets things done. She’s made all this happen, and in a short time. And that’s about
all I can tell you. Any particular apples you prefer?”

  “Nah, you can pick.”

  Meg filled a bag with two of each variety and handed it to Art. “There you go.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Or am I supposed to call you ‘missus’ now? What do I owe you?”

  “Meg will do fine. And it’s on the house.”

  Art drew himself up. “Are you attempting to bribe an officer of the law?”

  Meg grinned at him. “Maybe. Is it working?”

  “I’ll take it under consideration. Good to see you, Meg!”

  She watched as Art strolled off, looking relaxed, and then she spied Monica making the rounds: she’d worn an all-red outfit, which made her easy to find. She looked bouncy and bubbly and . . . Meg was running out of adjectives. How did she do it? She never seemed to slow down. Monica had started along the left side of the rectangle, so it was a while before she arrived at Meg’s table.

  “Oh, this looks so pretty!” Monica said when she greeted Meg. “I’m not sure I’ve heard of all these varieties—what can you tell me about them?”

  Monica actually held still and paid attention while Meg explained about ripening schedules and heirloom varieties. Then Monica said, “And you didn’t know any of this when you arrived in Granford? I’m so impressed. And that husband of yours is wonderful. Sometimes he seems to know what I need before I even ask him. And he knows everybody! I don’t think all this could have happened without him. You are a lucky woman!”

  “I think so,” Meg said, smiling. “Everything seems to be going really well! Is your husband here? I don’t think I’ve met him yet.”

  Monica waved her hand. “Douglas. He doesn’t like crowds. He’s perfectly happy at home with a book. But I’m sure you’ll meet him sometime soon. Save me a couple of those apples, will you?” Monica pointed at the Northern Spy variety. “I’ll pick ’em up later.”

  “Good choice. I’ll do that.” Meg watched as Monica moved on to the next table, then placed half a dozen apples in a bag and stuck it under the table, out of the way.

  When she stood up, Seth was standing in front of her table. “You need a break?” he asked.

  “I won’t say no. I’d like to see what everyone else is doing. By the way, Monica said nice things about you.”

  “It’s nice that she’s appreciative. You go take a walk. How’re you pricing these?” He waved at the baskets of apples on the table.

  “Two bucks for a bag of six, all varieties at the same price. There are more under the table—but don’t sell the ones in the paper bag because Monica asked me to save those for her. Here’s the envelope with the change. I promise I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time,” Seth said, then turned to a family with a small child as they approached the table.

  Meg enjoyed the opportunity to stretch her legs. She started out going counterclockwise, because she realized she was hungry, and stopped in front of the Gran’s restaurant table. “You look like you’re doing a booming business,” she said during a brief lull.

  “Oh, we are. It’s great. You want something to eat?”

  “What’ve you got?”

  “There’s this incredible carrot soup, and it’s really good with corn bread. Interested? If you don’t think you can juggle both while standing up, you can go sit on the bleachers to eat.”

  “It’s a deal.” Nicky handed her a cylindrical container of soup, a spoon, a piece of corn bread wrapped in a napkin, along with a few extra napkins. Meg balanced them carefully as she walked over to the partially open bleachers and sat down, only then realizing she’d been standing for the last three hours. She carefully pulled the lid off the heavy paper container of soup and almost burst out laughing. Carrots were still orange, weren’t they? Well, this carrot soup was a flaming scarlet—and tasted wonderful, once she dug into it. Definitely a keeper recipe, and great for winter.

  She finished the soup and started on the corn bread as she looked around the room. Everybody looked happy. How rare was that? Ages ranged from babies through octogenarians, and most of the people old enough to hold something were carrying bags filled with one thing or another. She waved to the alpaca ladies at their table, almost regretting that none of their herd had escaped lately and wandered onto her property. She’d gotten kind of fond of the alpacas.

  After throwing away her trash (neatly, in the recycling container), Meg continued her circuit around the rectangle of tables until she arrived back at her own. Seth had been keeping busy, and the apple supply was dwindling fast. “Did you get lunch?” Seth asked.

  “I did. I can definitely recommend Nicky’s soup. How much longer will this go on?”

  “Until three. We figured it would be getting dark not long after that, and a lot of us will be exhausted.”

  “Two more hours, then. I hope the apples hold out. It’s really gone well, hasn’t it?”

  “It has,” Seth said. “I haven’t heard any complaints, except that people wanted more. Great idea, well carried out.”

  “And it was Monica’s inspiration. Isn’t it great when things like this happen?”

  “It is. Look, I’d better get back to my own chores. Let me know if you need help breaking down your stuff.”

  “Seth, I think I can handle a couple of empty baskets. If I don’t see you again, I’ll see you at home. Do I need to take anything with me?”

  “Nope, we’re good. See you later!” He gave her a quick kiss and took off across the gym.

  Meg stayed until all her apples were gone, and then stacked the empty baskets. Granford was a nice town, and after two years she was truly beginning to feel at home there. And to think it had happened more or less by accident. If her septic tank hadn’t backed up when it did, she might never have met Seth. She might have sold the house and headed back to Boston, where she’d worked before, or maybe chosen someplace entirely new. Or traveled for a bit. So many choices, and yet, here she was—and she was happy about it.

  The empty baskets were light, so she waved to Seth before she picked them up, and pointed toward the door. He nodded: message received. Then she headed home.

  8

  Meg was staring at the contents of the refrigerator when Seth came home. He dropped heavily into a chair. “That was great. It was also a lot of work. Remind me to delegate some of it next time.”

  “Will there be a next time?” Meg asked, opening a plastic container of something that had turned green a while ago.

  “I don’t see why not. February is a pretty dull month for most people, even if they’re not farmers. This was a nice break.”

  “What, you don’t take Groundhog Day seriously?” Meg joked.

  “I’ll leave that to Pennsylvania. And much as I admire Washington and Lincoln, it’s hard to party on their behalf, plus a lot of people take the long weekend off to go skiing or something. Have I missed anything?”

  “Not that I can remember. Oh, but there’s always Saint Brigid’s day—she’s the female equivalent of Saint Patrick for Ireland, but her day is earlier than his, not that anyone notices. What do you want to eat?”

  “Surprise me.”

  “Don’t say that—you might end up with freezer-burned chicken coated with raspberry jam and cookie crumbs, or whatever spice I grab out of a dark cabinet.”

  “Have I complained about anything you’ve set in front of me?”

  “No. You are a hero. And you’re not a bad cook yourself. I will miss some of Bree’s Jamaican dishes, though. At least she left her spices behind, so maybe I’ll experiment.”

  “Can we take the easy route and have breakfast for dinner?”

  “You mean bacon and eggs? Sure, why not? We don’t have to tell our mothers.”

  They’d almost finished their sketchy dinner when Seth’s cell phone rang. He’d left it in the dining room, so he rose stiffly from his chair and went to retrieve it. Who
calls on Saturday night? Meg wondered idly, as she ate the last of her toast. Note to self: make a bunch of muffins and freeze some for nights like this.

  Seth was back in less than a minute, but his expression was grim. “That was Tom Moody. Monica is in the hospital with severe gastroenteritis. They think it may be food poisoning.”

  “Oh no!” Meg said. “How awful. Does anyone else seem to have it?”

  “Tom didn’t say, or maybe he doesn’t know.”

  “Is someone official supposed to do something?” Meg asked.

  “Not with just one case, and that diagnosis isn’t firm. But if more people show signs, then the health department has to get involved.”

  “It can’t be Nicky’s fault—she’s careful, and she’s had all the inspections. Her kitchen is certified.”

  “I know—I rebuilt the kitchen there, remember? But if there’s an official investigation, they’ll have to look at her food.”

  “I had the soup, and I’m fine. What did you have?”

  “Some kind of wrap thing. I’m fine, too. But food poisoning can be tricky, and sometimes it takes a while to show up. I guess we just wait and see.”

  “Poor Monica. After all her hard work, this has to happen.”

  “I know—she didn’t get much of a chance to enjoy her success. Hey, I’ll do the dishes if you’ll walk Max.”

  “Deal. But you’re getting off light—there’s only a skillet and a couple of plates.”

  Meg put on a warm jacket and jingled the dog’s leash, which brought Max running. “Come on, Max—fresh air! Exercise!”

  Outside it was very dark, with the only light coming from the kitchen window. She and Seth had talked about installing outside lights, but she’d been reluctant because either they’d never be on when they needed them and they’d have to stumble around in the dark to turn them on, or if they installed the kind with automatic sensors, Meg worried that every passing squirrel or raccoon would trigger them. Which was why she kept a flashlight in her jacket pocket, in case she needed one.