Crops and Robbers Read Online Free

jeans.
    “Yes,” Linda said.
    “I’m Delores Smitty. Nice to meet you.” She held a sample and tipped her fork at Linda. Delores’s petite figure was topped off with short dark hair and brown eyes that smiled even when her mouth didn’t. Without her saying much more than she had, I could tell I would like her. There was something about the confidence in her voice and in her stance that was immediately appealing. “Do you make any cream pies?”
    “No, actually, I don’t. Is that what you’re looking for?”
    “I’m looking for both. We need some desserts. My mother, God love the old woman, currently makes a couple dessert items, and even though she knows her way around a barbeque pit, she doesn’t seem to understand pie . . . or cake for that matter, or Jell-O, actually. But pie is what I’m looking for. I’ll definitely buy some of yours, but I’d be happy if you’d consider making some cream ones, too. If they’re half as good as these, I bet I could keep my customers for dessert instead of watching them escape to the ice cream shop across the street.”
    “I know someone who makes amazing cream pies,” Linda said. “She doesn’t work at Bailey’s, but I can get you her contact information.”
    “That’ll work.”
    Linda was talking about Mamma Maria, who worked at the Smithfield Market and who made the most amazing—and tall—cream pies on the planet. She also dated one of Bailey’s peach vendors, Carl Monroe. We all kept expecting an engagement announcement from them, but nothing so far. Mamma Maria was like one of the family. It was a good idea to suggest her.
    A couple of the other board members stepped forward to talk to Linda as Joan stepped toward my stall. My parents, who had been staying behind me, took another couple steps backward. I knew they wanted to be out of the way, but I was glad they were here to witness Bailey’s, and more specifically Allison’s, moment of glory. If Allison weren’t such a terrific market manager, none of this would be happening. They couldn’t have picked a better day to return to Monson.
    “Hello.” Joan extended her hand to me.
    “Hi, I’m Becca Robins, and I make and sell jams and preserves. Nice to meet you and nice to have all of you here. Please sample.” My display table was full of crackers and jams, jellies, and preserves even though I wasn’t expecting any of them to purchase my products for their restaurants. It was part of my team-player attitude.
    “I’d love to,” Joan said. “In fact, we’re looking for some preserves—some really good preserves.” Joan reached for the arm of a man who’d been trailing directly behind her. He was probably in his midtwenties, but it was hard to tell. He had short, dark curly hair that seemed like it wouldn’t behave no matter what sort of brush or comb was used on it. He wore frameless glasses that slightly magnified light brown eyes, which were naturally sad and puppy-dog-like. But his most distinguishing feature was his pale complexion. It was August, and I was used to seeing people with at least a little tan or burn. Market vendors might work under tents part-time, but we were outside almost every day. Even with sunscreen, we each had our own unique form of a farmer’s tan.
    Joan continued. “This is my son, Nobel Ashworth. He’s my recipe man”—she smiled proudly—“and makes a strawberry layer cake with a preserve filling in between the layers. I haven’t been happy with the preserves he’s been using. I’d love to find something fresh and new.” Nobel didn’t say a word but looked down at the ground as if he was taking her comments personally—as if he was lacking a skill for finding good preserves. Joan spooned some of my strawberry preserves onto a cracker and took a bite.
    “Here you go,” I said as I extended some crackers to Nobel. Even though I was as busy as I could be—or needed to be, for that matter—making a few extra jars of my preserves for cakes would be