The Next Mrs Russo

“No, no,” I say. “I can handle it. No problem. I’ll see you later. At the shop. With Bethany. Your daughter.”

And then I bolt into the house before I can add any additional partial sentences to my witty repertoire.

Chapter Twenty

I don’t actually have anywhere that I need to go, but there is one errand I can run that is nearly guaranteed to cheer me up.

The farmers’ market.

It’s like a nightclub that only opens once a week, but during the day, for people who don’t like nightclubs and probably aren’t cool enough to hang out at one anyway.

Basically.

Anyway, the one in Washington Park is my favorite and it’s held on Saturday mornings, so I grab Duke and head out. I have no idea if Duke likes farmers’ markets, but I’ve always sort of wished I could borrow someone’s dog to take with me so I’d have a market buddy.

Do not tell Gary.

In my defense, the pet psychic said Duke was feeling left out and this seems like the perfect opportunity for a little one-on-one time. I think she’s right because Duke is beside himself with joy when I snap the leash to his collar and he prances like he just won the lotto the entire walk over.

Once at the market we make the rounds at all my favorite booths. An iced coffee from the coffee vendor. A cinnamon roll from my favorite baker. And because Duke is with me, I make a stop at the Jerky Hunt tent, just for him.

Which goes over really, really well. I think our relationship status is now official. Mine and Duke’s, not mine and Warren’s.

I buy a couple of apples from one of the produce vendors before I make my way to my favorite and last stop.

The flower guy.

The flower guy always, without fail, improves my mood.

Buckets and buckets of flowers and green stuff you’re supposed to stuff in with flowers. I’m not a florist, obviously, since I don’t even know the correct terminology for the green stuff, but I like putting together my own bouquets. A flower shop doesn’t let you dig around in the coolers and do it yourself. But the flower guy at the farmers’ market does.

It speaks to my creative heart, because it’s a bit like design, only instead of fabric I just grab every flower that captures my attention and then hope for the best when I get home with a vase.

The flower tent is manned by an old grouch named Frank. I adore him. He’s an old New Yorker through and through. He’s got the accent, the attitude and the charm you can only find in a New York lifer. He’s approximately five and a half feet tall, wears big thick black-rimmed glasses and what’s left of his hair is silvery white.

“Dress girl,” he greets me. “It’s been a while.”

“I’ve been busy,” I tell him. “You know how it is.”

“Still buying for yourself?” Frank asks, in the charmingly aggressive way only old people can get away with. “No boyfriend?”

“Just a fake one. Or just a fake guy I’m seeing. Not a boyfriend.”

“He should be buying you flowers,” Frank grumbles.

“Now, Frank,” I say. “We’ve been over this. Telling someone they shouldn’t buy what you’re selling is a really bad way to sell anything. Also, I do not need a man to buy me flowers. It’s the twenty-first century. Or the millennium or whatever.”

Frank grumbles and shuffles off to wrap another customer’s bundle. I’m left to peruse the buckets. I loop Duke’s leash over my wrist so I have my hands free and start my selection. A peach rose. And a pink one. And a yellow one. A few white things that are not roses. A few of the green berry twig things. A handful of green leaf things. I eye the buckets carefully. My strategy is joy. Anything that sparks joy makes it into the bouquet.

I nab a sunflower. Make that two, they’re looking especially joyful. A couple of hot pink roses and a spray of purple things. I skip the lilies out of habit, since they’re toxic to cats. I’m going to bring these to the store and Gary’s at the mansion but any flower capable of killing my cat does not spark any joy so they’re a big pass.

I hand the bundle over to Frank and he wraps them up right there in brown craft paper and honestly this is the very best part of the farmers’ market. Even better than the cinnamon rolls, which is saying something.

After that, I walk Duke back to his house and then head into work with a spring in my step and my farmers’ market loot in my arms. Since it’s Saturday, I’ve got several appointments scheduled and besides that, I’m feeling very creative today.

It’s probably from the sex.

Speaking of, what if I slip up and tell Bethany I slept with her dad? Obviously no normal person would make that kind of slip-up, but I spent the morning sitting on a concrete patio trying to make amends with a chipmunk who may or may not have even been the correct chipmunk, so clearly I have every right to be concerned with my potential to fuck today up and send the governor’s daughter into years of therapy.