Behind the register, Meg looks up from her iPad and smiles. “Tess? You’re flushed. Humidity is not your friend.” She returns her attention to the tablet and adds, “Lois had a family emergency – she left about an hour ago.”
Placing the envelope of labels and her polka-dotted clutch on the counter, Thessaly asks, “Is everything okay with Lois? I’m concerned.”
“I’m not sure, but she seemed really stressed.” With a devious smile, Meg strikes the screen of the tablet violently. “God, that Seth,” she mumbles. “He’s the most annoying child sometimes.”
“What’s up?” Thessaly asks, watching as the man with the ice cream cone picks up a jar of infused honey and holds it to the sunlight.
“He wants lunch and company. Do you need me here?” Meg snaps her fingers in the air and quips, “Earth to Tess?”
Thessaly pivots so that she’s face-to-face with Meg. The two women are pressed closely against each other, an image Seth would kill to see. “Look over my shoulder – discreetly!” she demands through an excited whisper.
Meg leans to the left and surveys the showroom. “Gray T-shirt?” she asks.
Thessaly nods.
“Da-yum!”
“What’s he doing?” whispers Thessaly.
“He’s carrying a shopping basket.” Meg pauses and lowers her voice. “He just placed a jar of jam – apricot, no peach – inside the basket. Nice forearms.” Another pause. “Okay, that’s hot, Tess, really sexy.” Meg’s eyes expand as her volume returns. “Holy hotness, he devoured a sugar cone in two bites. Shit!” Meg ducks behind Thessaly. “He’s looking over here!”
Leaving her friend exposed, Meg darts into the kitchen, the door flapping behind her from the hard push. Thessaly takes a deep breath and then spins around.
Bold, Tess, be bold, she chants.
“Hi. Is this your store?” He places a basket filled with random items on the counter and picks up a petri dish near the register.
“That’s raw honeycomb,” Thessaly asserts.
Placing the delicate object back in its place, the man leans against the counter and smiles. “I’m familiar.” His mouth curls slightly to the left, just enough to make him appear naughty. “Let’s start over. I’m Levi, and you must be Tessaly, or Shelby?”
Confused by Levi’s assumptions, Thessaly hesitates before replying. “It’s actually pronounced Thes-sa-lee, but everyone calls me Tess. My little brother is Shelby – how did you know our names?”
Raising his eyebrows and pointing over his shoulder to a family photograph, Levi adds, “That’s you, right – in the overalls and Doc Martens?”
Thessaly quietly whimpers as she realizes that the picture Levi’s referring to was taken during the unattractive phase of her adolescence. It’s a typical photo of farm life – Kip and Shelby standing in the bed of a pickup truck with crates and buckets. A cardboard sign leaning against the back bumper that reads: Sinclair Farm. Kip – President, Thessaly – Vice President, Shelby – Treasurer. Perched on a bucket near the sign, is a teenaged Thessaly, dressed in overalls, combat boots, and a face with enough angst to start a girl band. The only reason the photograph is hanging in her store is because she loves the field of sunflowers in the background.
“The tomboy with the scowl? Yep, that’s me.” She reaches into the wire basket and removes the jars of jam. “Good choice, peach is my favorite. I add a dash of cinnamon to the recipe,” she blurts without thinking.
Impressed, Levi confirms, “Wait, you make the jam and honey here?”
Relieved that he appears interested, Thessaly answers, “Most of it. I buy local fruit and prepare the jam in the kitchen. The honey comes from my family’s farm in Asheville, but sometimes I infuse seasonal fruits and herbs into the raw honey.” Thessaly pauses, studies Levi’s perfect smile, and fights a fit of nervous laughter. “It’s really simple.”
“Tess, can I be honest?”
“Maybe.”
“I really don’t need four jars of peach jam. And six jars of honey seems like a lot for a single guy.” Picking up the expensive set of sterling silver jam spreaders, Levi adds, “And what do I do with these fancy little knives?”
“Okay, we can put a few things back.” Thessaly lowers her head, slightly offended, but mostly embarrassed.
“Thing is, I followed you in here.”
“Oh?”
“Well, not like a creeper. You bumped into me – at the crosswalk. I almost dropped my cone.”
“I was distracted,” she defends.
Meg charges from behind the kitchen door, flashes a sly smile, and then bursts out in song. “This piggy is going to the market!”
With a high, crackly pitch, Thessaly shouts, “Um, have fun.”
As she passes Levi, Meg cranes her neck to check him out. Stopping at the screen door, she spins around and mouths, holy shit, that ass, before turning to leave the shop.
Wanting her undivided attention, Levi moves directly in front of Thessaly and clears his throat. He smiles, and she smiles, and then he repeats, “So, Tess, you bumped into me.”
“And I’m sorry! I can offer you something at a discount – but since you don’t need jam, would you be interested in a cookbook or a honeypot?”
“Yours?” he asks with a smirk.
Blushing, Thessaly sputters, “Le Creuset.”
“I meant the cookbook.”
“Oh,” she says.
Crossing his arms and showcasing his tan, muscular forearms, Levi asks, “How ’bout you go out with me and we call it even?”
“Oh, I um, have these new labels and cornbread . . .” Thessaly trails off.
Furrowing his brows and scratching his chin, Levi says, “Huh, I don’t know what that means.” Reaching for his wallet, he removes a business card and slaps it on the counter. “But cornbread has to be the best excuse a woman has ever used.”
Thessaly picks up the plain white card with a single green stripe and reads, “Levi Jones, Director and Managing Partner, Brooklyn Soil.” She glances at Levi and asks, “The rooftop farm?”
With hooded eyes and a velvety voice, he replies, “So you’ve heard of me?”
Fighting a smile, Thessaly deadpans, “Sure – most of the fruit I buy comes from your farm.” Testing the frisky banter, Thessaly adds, “And the name Levi Jones sounds familiar, too – like the leader of a religious cult.”
Leaning against the counter again, Levi whispers, “What if I told you my sister’s name is Dandelion?”
Thessaly leans toward him and matches his whisper. “I’d wonder if there were marijuana crops in your rooftop greenhouse.” Placing a jar of jam and the set of silver spreaders inside a small, brown shopping bag, Thessaly rasps, “Enjoy your peaches.”
Levi hugs the bag to his chest with an adorable smirk just as a customer approaches the counter.
“Is this honey kosher, dear?” asks the lady with brightly-patterned culottes.
Turning to the customer, Levi asserts, “Kosher honey is great for seasonal allergies.”
“Oh?” She beams.
“But you’ll need to buy a ton in order for it to work.” Nodding his head while turning back to Thessaly, he hums quietly, “Gonna eat me a lot of peaches, Tess.”
Arching an eyebrow, Thessaly places Levi’s business card in the slim pocket of her black pants and hooks the wire basket on her arm. She watches as Levi walks backwards out the door, clinging the paper bag to his chest, and mouthing, “All honey is kosher.”
Laughing, Thessaly leads the customer to the shelves near the kitchen and says, “This entire wall is kosher and gluten-free.” Replacing the remaining honey jars from Levi’s basket on the bottom row, she adds, “Let me know if you would like a sample.”
“Oh, yes, please. Try it before you buy it,” the customer sings.
“Right,” Thessaly mocks.
Leaving Ms. Culottes to read the ingredient labels, Thessaly wanders to the front of the store to replace the jars of unpurchased jam. As she organizes the shelves and hums, “Movin’ to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches,” there’s a knock on the large window.