Page 3 of The Rebound Play
And a big part of me has always wondered if that person is Keira. She still lives in our hometown. That much I know.
Spending a full six weeks in Maple Falls might just give me the answer.
CHAPTER 2
KEIRA
The market is a riot of early fall colors. The lush greens and bright hues of summer are fading, replaced with oranges and rusts and reds, not only in the changing leaves on the surrounding trees, but in the produce in the market stalls: gourds and pumpkins and butternuts everywhere.
It’s my favorite time of year here in Maple Falls, so named for the maple trees planted here by the town’s founders, that well over 200 years later still reach majestically toward the sky. Their foliage provides shelter from the hot sun and rain clouds in the summer, and a veritable tapestry of rust and red and orange now in the fall.
I chew on my lip as I eye the empty stall, nestled between the Maple Falls Meats and Callie’s Cupcakes. Where once Willy Watson sold his caramel walnut fudge now stands an empty counter, surrounded by the same cream canvas of all the Maple Falls Farmers’ Market stalls.
It’s only been empty for a week, but that’s seven days too long in my books. I know. I’ve been running the Maple Falls Farmers’ Market for the past four or so years, and the rent on these stalls is vital to its overall success. Busy stalls equal greater cashflow, and I need the market to make a healthy profit. I love this job and the last thing I want to do is let down my employer, Geoffrey Goldblatt and his son, Martin. I’m really hoping the Maple Fest gives the coffers of both the Farmers’ Market and the city the boost we need.
“You’re looking pretty serious there, Ms. Keira Johnson,” Brian says, pulling my attention from the empty stall. Brian’s the proprietor of Maple Falls Meats. He has a store on Maple Road and a stall here at the farmers’ market each weekend. He’s a hardworking, burly, friendly guy, commonly found wearing a white apron over his round, plaid flannel-clad belly.
I smile. “I’m working out who we’re gonna put in this stall now that Willy’s retired.”
Willy Watson was a farmers’ market fixture, kind of a Maple Falls local legend. It was he and his wife, Nancy, who first suggested expanding the Maple Falls Farmers’ Market from simply selling fresh produce, flowers, and plants to include items from local businesses, such as baked goods, coffee, and ice cream. The waffle stand is particularly popular, and I can’t say I’m adverse to the treat, smothered in cream and strawberries, at the end of a long day. Willy brought in local bands that lend a relaxed and fun atmosphere to the market, and people can be found wandering around each weekend morning, clutching their coffees and hot chocolates, munching on bacon sandwiches and pastries, folk music filling the air.
Did I mention I love my job? Where else can you work in such idyllic surrounds?
After graduating college in Seattle and coming back to Maple Falls, I worked at the coffeehouse in the bookstore my friend Emmy runs, until this job came up. Although I was tempted to do what my college friends were doing—moving to big cities to pursue exciting careers—I knew I needed to be back home. My sister, Clara, and I lost our parents in a car wreck when I was a freshman at college. And then, disaster struck again when she got so sick with chronic fatigue syndrome, aka CFS, that she could barely get out of bed, and her scum of a husband left her and her two young kids for another woman.
She needed family. I was all she had.
Of course I wanted to try out a different life, at least for a while. But it wasn’t in the cards. So here I am, twenty-seven years old, living in my hometown, with no plans to ever leave.
Don’t get me wrong: I love living back here. The place has got heart, just like a small town, only with some of the amenities of a much bigger place. I mean, what small town has an ice arena? Other than Maple Falls, that is.
It’s so picturesque here, and many a tourist can be spotted at this time of year, lapping up the local scenery and snapping shots of the pretty leaves. And attending the Maple Falls Farmers’ Market if I’ve done my job right.
“Those sure are some big shoes to fill, Keira,” Brian comments, bringing my wandering mind back to the market. “Willy was an integral part of the fabric of this place.”
I pull my lips into a line, feeling the pressure. “I’ve had a few applications, so I’m trying to work out what fits best between Callie’s and your stalls.”
Let’s face it, raw meat and freshly baked cupcakes aren’t exactly a match made in heaven. The applications I’ve received so far have been from a butcher from a neighboring town, which Brian will spit tacks at; a local florist, just starting out; a small local olive oil business; and someone who wants to sell those little rubber things people clip onto their Crocs.
“I’m sure you’ll make the right call, just as Willy and Nancy always did before. You got this.” Brian beams at me before his attention is diverted to a customer.
That is my cue to leave and take a mental note to offer the stall to the olive oil business first. That ought to provide a decent oily buffer between meat and cupcakes, if you’ll excuse the pun.
It’s almost closing time for the Saturday market, and I’ve got to ensure all the vendors are fully packed up before my team and I can secure the stalls, ready for an early start come Sunday morning.
Saturdays are always a rush for me because I need to get my eight-year-old niece, Hannah, to her figure skating lesson across town. I take her six-year-old brother, Benny, along with me, too. Even though he gets bored sitting in the bleachers watching his sister and her classmates skate, it’s the perfect time for Clara to get some peace and quiet. Clara’s juggling a lot with the CFS and being a mom, so I do everything I can to help her out, which includes a lot of running around after my niece and nephew.
That’s what families do for each other.
Just over an hour later, the vendors have all left for the day, the market has been packed up, and I get home to the house we grew up in with just enough time to herd Hannah and Benny out of the house for Hannah’s lesson.
Balancing two bags of groceries from the fresh produce stalls—and a half dozen cinnamon rolls from Maple Grounds Bakery, because life’s too short not to eat cinnamon rolls—I let myself inside, turning a blind eye to the exterior walls’ peeling paint, and the fact that one of the porch steps still needs fixing. Both are in the “too hard” basket for now—along with too many things to mention. I’ll get to them. Someday.
The curtains are still drawn when I make my way down the hall into the living room, and I can tell Clara had a bad morning. She was still asleep when I left earlier, and I always say a little prayer on my drive back home that this day is a better day than the last.
I find my sister lying on the sofa, a crocheted blanket our mom made draped across her slim body. She opens her eyes and blinks at me a couple times before she pulls her lips into a smile.
“Hey, Kiki. All done for the day?” she asks as she begins to push herself up.