“I’m gonna grab a coffee. Anybody want one?” I offer, spying an Airstream that’s been rehabilitated into a food truck of sorts.
“Please,” Emily breathes, and the candle vendor looks on the verge of doing anything Emily asks. I predict that she gets a discount on the candle, so she’ll buy two. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. She doesn’t take advantage of people. They just like to be in her orbit, soaking up her radiant positivity and genuine smiles.
Mom shakes her head, pressing a hand to her chest that lets me know her morning pot of coffee is already talking back to her. It gives her heartburn every time, but she never lets that stop her from pouring another cup.
The barista makes quick work of my order, handing me two large cups. One black, one almost the color of milk. Guess whose is whose? I drop a dollar in the pickle jar-turned-tip jar and turn back around to find Emily.
“One for you, one for me,” I say, handing her the pale coffee.
“Back atcha. One for you, one for me.” She wiggles her bag, and I chuckle that I was right. She bought two candles.
“Thanks.” I tell her, meaning it. She smiles back, and while I’d been expecting some weirdness from our conversation yesterday, it’s never materialized.
We’re just us. Emily and Erica. Sisters, as always.
“All right, let’s find some jerky for my jerky,” Mom says with a clap of her hands.
Emily and I groan in tandem. “Mom, don’t start with the Dad jokes. We’re begging you.”
“Pretty sure they’re Mom jokes if I’m the one telling them.” She smiles like that was funny too. “Ooh, let me look at these melons too. I’ve already got decent ones, but you can’t have too many.”
Mom shimmies her shoulders in a move I really wish her Zumba teacher hadn’t taught her and then scurries off, her sensible sneakers squeaking as she heads toward a fruit stand.
“Did Mom just make a tit joke?” I ask out of the side of my mouth, like saying it full out will make it so.
Emily nods, her face twisted in horror. “She did. She absolutely did.”
We meet eyes and simultaneously shudder. “Mom tits. Old lady tits. I can’t.”
“Promise me we’ll get boob jobs before ours go saggy.” Emily holds out her pinkie finger for me to shake on the idea, but I recoil.
“Absolutely not. Em, we barely even have any. We’re never gonna sag like . . .” I sigh before I say it. “Mom.”
“Right. No tits are better than old lady tits.” She’s trying to convince herself.
“Em? Stop saying tits, ’kay?”
She mimes locking her mouth and throwing away the key, and hesitantly, we follow Mom, scared of what puns and Dad jokes she’ll come up with next. God help us if eggplants are in season.
“Girls, come here! I found some jelly I want to get,” Mom calls out a few hours later. But now, Emily and I are giggling like pre-teen boys about everything Mom says, finding some degree of sexual innuendo in it, even when there’s absolutely none. But jelly is a pretty easy leap to something sordid.
“Sure, be right there.”
We come up behind Mom to see her holding a clear cut-glass jar of red jelly and chatting with the vendor. She’s a little younger than Em and me, with thick light brown hair that’s highlighted all around her face in that way salons always try to duplicate. Hers looks natural, though, like she got the lighter bits the same way she got the tan . . . being outside. She’s wearing cutoff shorts and a Kentucky Downs sweatshirt, and I’m pretty sure those boots have some shit mixed in with the dirt on them. She’s what a farmer’s market is all about, farm to market to table.
“We grow all the fruits and veggies ourselves. My brothers do most of the work there, though.” She makes a whipping noise, winking one eye and smiling widely. I instantly decide I like her. “After we harvest, I take over, making seasonal specialties throughout the year. Spring is mostly cherry jubilee jam and lemon curd. Though you can get my carrot cakes by special order or by the slice at the resort.”
Mom is enamored, and I predict that we’ll be taking home one of everything. “I’ve had cherries jubilee before, but how do you make it into a jam?”
The vendor smiles like she’s got a secret. “After you soak the cherries in the brandy, you light it on fire. Just a little bit, you know. I gotta keep it safe with the kids around these days. Set a good example, Shay.” She’s imitating someone, but I don’t know who. Honestly, she sounds wistful and sad about some bare-boned safety measures. “And then I smash it up and add the pectin. It’s a lotta fun, one of my favorites all year.” She laughs, her smile growing even wider.