by Frost, Sosie
“Look, Quint…” My words wavered. Not sure why I practiced on the veggies. No chunk of broccoli could compare to this man. “There’s something I want to talk to you about…but I’m not sure how to start.”
He sat on the edge of the refrigerated cucumber display, just as cool as the vegetables. He wasn’t arrogant. Wasn’t detached. Only confident, enjoying the world, it’s chaos, and all the people in it. Carefree, and maybe a little careless, but he was the type who loved every bump—and hump—along the way.
“I get it.” Quint interrupted me. “I know exactly what you’re gonna say.”
“I don’t think you do—”
“I feel it too.”
My heart surged. My head turned fuzzy. My throat closed.
I couldn’t take much more of this.
I stared at him, eyes wide. “You feel it too?”
“Absolutely.” His silken smile caressed my skin. “Hard not to when we’re together.”
The words tumbled from my lips. “I never thought you’d understand.”
“Because I’m a Payne and you’re a Barlow?”
I should have sat down. Falling in love felt an awful lot like losing consciousness.
“It’s…” I nibbled my lip. “More than a little forbidden.”
“Yeah, especially with all that history. Hell, if it hadn’t been for our names, we might have been closer in high school.”
“Nothing stopping us now.”
My tummy bumbled up to my throat and back down again, but it didn’t bring the sweet words with it.
No force of nature in this world was more powerful than the most magical question any woman could whisper…
What if…
“You know how life can be so unpredictable?” I edged a little closer, wishing I could confess this during a romantic sunset or candlelight dinner. Anywhere but next to a produce shelf lined with lettuce and kale. “Some days you’re absolutely convinced you know exactly what you want…and then others you realize it was the stupidest idea in the world?”
He nodded. “Sure. All the time.”
“R—really?”
“Well, usually the earth shattering revelations come as a result of forgetting a dose of insulin.”
“Oh. I’m not talking about a diabetic coma.”
He crossed his fingers. “Me either, hopefully.”
“What I’m trying to say is…” I sucked in a breath. “I don’t know if it’s right or wrong, stupid or brilliant. Maybe I should just ignore it…or maybe it’s worth asking those questions. But…for a while now…I think I’ve had feel—”
“What the hell are you doing here?”
My brother’s voice boomed across the store.
Duke had amazing timing and a worse temper.
He rounded the corner, coming to a scandalized halt in the middle of the produce section. His snarl was as rotten as the apples we hid in the bottom of the bin.
Great. I’d been discovered with a Payne by my own brother. Even worse, Duke dragged the rest of the town behind him on the tour of the renovated store. Good thing Butterpond liked gossip. And fights. And law enforcement.
We’d have all three quicker than Duke could say Open for Business.
So much for my heartfelt confession. Hope suddenly felt a lot like foreplay—seemed to come just before getting screwed.
The market fell silent.
With his dark pressed suit and perpetual scowl, Duke looked more bouncer than grocer. He had style, no one denied that, but he also had the worst temper in the family. While I shared his darker skin, my sisters got everything else. They were tall, beautiful, and graceful. I got the baby fat, astigmatism, and the only reserve of patience.
If it were only Quint and Duke facing off by the potatoes, we might have escaped with our dignity intact. Unfortunately, as with most Payne/Barlow confrontations, we squared off in the middle of town. A curious whisper rose through the gaggle of patrons, eager to peek through the store and gawk at the refurbished floors, state-of-the-art bakery, and, Duke’s newest joy, the lobster tank.
Duke’s voice chilled the already nippy produce section. “What do you think you’re doing here, Payne?”
Quint took no offense to the question and extended his hand to shake. “Hey, Duke. You know I can’t go this long without seeing your beautiful smile.”
Oh no.
Duke refused the gesture, glancing toward Quint’s hand with a sneer, as if it were still covered with dirt from the farm. The slight didn’t go unnoticed by the crowd.
Three dozen of Butterpond’s most influential, affluent, and elderly patrons clustered in a tight circle, their voices hushed and eyes wide. While Barlow’s Market usually only delighted them with double coupons and scratch-off lottery tickets, today they received a shopping cart full of gossip for free.
“Haven’t the Paynes done enough damage to this store?” Duke asked.
I nudged my brother’s elbow. “Let’s not do this now.”
Duke ignored me. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Quint searched the crowd for any friendly faces. He wouldn’t find many. The feud had polarized the town, worse than the time Lou’s Burgers started topping their patties with cheddar cheese and sweet pickles.
“I wanted to be part of the excitement,” Quint said.
“And now you’re the cause of it.”
He grinned. “Can’t help it if I light up a room.”
“At least you managed without lighting fireworks.”
The crowd hissed. This wasn’t going to end well.
“Come on, Duke…” I tried to tug him away. “Why don’t we give away those free seafood dinners to the lucky customer who can hold the most un-rubberbanded lobsters—”
Duke disagreed. “No. It’s time we settled this.”
Quint never backed down from a bad decision. “No time like the present.”
I flashed a nervous wave toward the shifting, whispering crowds. It wouldn’t be the first time our families came to blows in front of the mayor.
“Maybe in private then?” I asked.
“Sounds good…” Duke nodded. “Why don’t we talk outside by the dumpsters his family torched?”
Quint lost his smile, and I hated to see it go. “We told you. It wasn’t Spence who lit those fireworks.”
“And why would I trust the word of a Payne?”
The clanging of a walker silenced both men. Alice Mahoney, the town’s oldest resident, swiped a handful of hard candies from a nearby display and tucked them into her purse. She nudged the elderly gentleman next to her, startling him from his nap.
“What was that?” She poked him with a gnarled finger. “What’d he say?”
Roy Jenkins gave a snort. He was a man of considerable money…and age. He patted Alice’s hand with a familiarity that perturbed Grandma—especially after the death of Alice’s fourth husband.
“He says he can't lust because he’s abstained,” Roy said.
Alice hooted. “Don’t waste it while you got it, sonny! If you’re in love with that fine young man, enjoy your time together before those wedding bells turn into blue pills.”
Great. I couldn’t even tell Quint I liked him, but my brother got to second base.
Duke scowled. “I can do better than Quint Payne.”
“I’ve got good reviews,” Quint said.
“Your phone number scratched into a bathroom wall isn’t a review.”
“Good thing I give the girls your number.”
No, no, no. Quint took things from bad to worse. I ducked between him and Duke before my brother did anything stupid.
“Save it for the lawyers, Payne,” Duke said.
Quint shrugged. “Look, Duke. I’ve got a reputation to maintain here. Can’t have you bad mouthing my family all over town. What would the ladies say?”
“What would it matter?” he asked. “Word on the street is that you’ve already banged every pre-menopausal woman in Butterpond.”
“I neve
r discriminate based on age.”
“I’m shocked you’ve managed to crawl out of the bedroom.”
“What’d he say?” Alice asked.
Roy gave her a shrug. “Said they have to talk because he doesn’t have a womb.”
Alice squinted through decades of glaucoma to inspect my brother. “Oh, hush now. You can always adopt.”
Quint winked at her. “Maybe when the time is right.”
Duke fumed. “Get the hell out.”
“And miss the fun?” Quint nearly allowed himself to get serious. “Look, I wanted to come, do a peace offering or something.”
Duke pointed to the floor. “Some peace offering. You just busted five dollars’ worth of watermelon.”
“Five dollars? That’s highway robbery. We’ve got a couple dozen of those things growing on your farm.”
“Then you’re free to destroy all the watermelon you like on your farm.”
Tempers flared, the crowd grew anxious, and our display of grapes wouldn’t survive the encroaching wave of grazing senior citizens. I raised my voice, separating the two.
“It’s my fault,” I said. “I dropped the melon.”
Alice drew her attention away from the peach she’d squeezed until it bruised. “Eh? What’s that?”
Roy’s shocked, gaping mouth nearly lost his dentures. “Why! Lady Barlow says she’s committed assault! She’s a felon!”
The only thing that spread through Butterpond faster than Mr. Clement’s infamous Chili Con E.Coli was gossip—especially if it was fake. It took only a few seconds before the news of my apparent arrest spread through the crowd.
Alice gave a resigned sigh. “Oh, and she’s such a nice girl. What will her grandmother say?”
Duke silenced the whispers with a sharp whistle, blown between two fingers. “Listen here. Lady is no felon. It’s the Paynes who cause all the trouble in this town—and, if no one else will stop them, it’s up to me.” He thrust a finger into Quint’s face. “If your brat nephew comes forward, admits he set off the fireworks that nearly burned my store to the ground, and agrees to work off the damages he caused, then we’ll welcome your family back to Barlow’s Market.”
“Get fucked,” Quint said. “Spence is innocent.”
Duke had an amazingly handsome smile when he didn’t use it for evil. “Then neither him nor your family will be permitted to step foot on our property.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“You can’t be serious,” Quint said.
“From this moment forward, you are banned from the market.” Duke arched an eyebrow. “Leave before I call Sheriff Samson.”
Butterpond politics were brutal enough, but even this stunned the most influential, connected, and geriatric in the crowd.
A few of the more prominent members of the community stepped forward. Raymond Adamski spoke only after he took a swig from his flask and hoisted his pants halfway to his chin.
“Now…wait a minute…” Raymond hiccupped and slurred his words. “Just what are you sayin’?”
Duke stared only at Quint. “I’m banning each and every Payne from this market.”
Raymond grunted. “Why are you gonna do a stupid thing like that? You got a great thing going here, Duke. Nice store. No fires. And those little chicken samples out front—what are they again?”
“Taquitos,” my brother said.
“With that sour cream? That’s real good.”
“Stock only the best here—and the boxes are buy one get one this weekend.”
“Well, I’ll be damned—”
Quint elbowed Raymond. “Christ, man. Are you defending me or the appetizers?”
“Right, right. Look, Duke. Just let him buy his melons. Town’s got enough hard-asses. Ain’t that right, Mayor?”
Raymond slapped a hand against Mayor Desmond’s suit, sloshing the drink from his flask. The amber liquid immediately stained Desmond’s white shirt. Fortunately, it was an election year. In lieu of a lawsuit, Desmond brushed Raymond away and re-buttoned his coat, grinning that slimy, campaign-trail grimace that promised all the things Butterpond never wanted—new residential condos, big box stores, and an end to our agricultural culture that had kept the town small in all the best ways.
“This is a private business, my friend.” Desmond stuck a campaign sticker on Raymond’s flask. “Duke has a right to ensure the safety of his customers by creating a safe environment.”
Quint peeked behind him before pointing to himself. “Wait. Me? I’m some sort of danger?”
Desmond nodded. “Given the circumstances…”
“Damn. I’m flattered.” Quint saw the best in everything.
“It’s…not a compliment.”
Desmond bristled, but he had no time to scold the man before a brand-new cart careened through the produce department and crashed into a display of cabbages.
The vegetables teetered, tottered, and then avalanched upon the crowd in a flurry of heads, stems, and leaves.
The woman wielding the cart shouted, but she righted herself and patted every pocket searching for the thick-rimmed glasses she had tucked on top of her head.
“You tell him, Mayor!” Doris Ewing usually reserved her squabbles for the days she attempted to return opened boxes of AA batteries. “The Paynes have always been a danger to his community!”
Raymond swore. “Danger? Christ, Doris, the only danger ‘round here is you behind the wheel—any kind of wheel! You do enough damage trying to park that junk Chrysler of yours, don’t wreck the new grocery buggies!”
Doris ignored Raymond, as sisters normally did. “The Paynes are menaces!”
“That is not true!” The walking, talking platinum perm of Regina Gutterfield bobbled through the crowd. Her hands opened to the Heavens, and she called to Jesus for strength. “Oh, Merciful savior, deliver some whoop ass upon this child.”
“Who are you calling a child?” Doris snapped.
“And who are you to call the good Pastor Varius Payne a threat? Are you gonna stand there before God and besmirch his name?
“No. I’m gonna stand here before this drunk old fool and tell God what he already knows.” Doris poked Raymond. “And I say Varius Payne might have been as bad as the rest of the lot had he not gone back to the ministry.”
“But he did,” Regina said.
“And now he’s involved with that…woman.”
A seemingly normal word that had scandalized the crowd with its implications. Doris ignored the outraged mumbling.
“It’s indecent,” she said. “Glory’s unfit to be a minister’s wife.”
“You know what they say about casting the first stone, don’t you?” Regina asked.
Quint snickered. “Yeah. You better have good aim.”
Another woman joined the fray, silencing the argument by clanking her oxygen canister into the child’s seat of her cart.
“I worked the county fair with Julian Payne and his lovely wife,” she said. “They’re wonderful people!”
“Wonderful?” Peter Thompson jingled as he shuffled in front of the crowd. The quarters he used to pay for everything clattered in his pockets. “Do you remember that fair, Cecilia? No music! Three electrical fires! And I hear stories that Mr. Wilcox’s prized sheep is still traumatized after being mounted by that goat!”
The crowd began to shout, calling insults over colliding shopping carts, a life savings in quarters, and Alice and Roy attempting to decipher the ruckus.
“What about Marius Payne?” A man shouted from the potatoes. “That man gave his leg serving this country. You gonna say he’s a menace? A man who now wants to serve this community as mayor?”
“Marius Payne pledged to reinstitute liquor into this community.” Doris’s lips puckered as if she’d taken a swig from an illegal bottle. “It’s scandalous.”
Regina finally found common ground. “I heard he parks in handicapped spaces!”
Raymond rolled his eyes. “He is handicapped!”
Alic
e cupped a hand over her ear. “What’d he say?”
Roy was already on the move, calling for the sheriff. “Says Marius Payne’s been kidnapped!”
Alice gasped. “This is the way democracy dies!”
“The lot of them is better than Tidus Payne!” A woman yelled, her voice nearly indistinguishable in the midst of the argument. “Off corrupting that pretty young girl with the barbeque truck. What’s her name? Sugar?”
It was Honey. I’d already heard the news of Tidus’s miraculous sobriety and the amazing barbeque truck that had cut into our family’s prepared foods profits.
“He gets it from that Remington Marshall boy,” Doris said. “The whole Marshall family is no good. Just like the Paynes. At least he’s marrying their Cassi. Keeps that trash contained.”
Raymond frowned. “That Marshall boy is raising his two nieces all on his own. And if Cassi likes him, then we should too. She’s the best one to come out of that family.”
“Because she’s not a Payne,” Doris said. “She’s adopted!”
Neighbor shouted at neighbor, insults echoed across the store, and all hope of a peaceful, normal tour of our renovated store was lost as a wayward cherry was lobbed through the air.
The fruit tumbled across the produce section and splattered against Mayor Desmond’s perfect suit. It exploded into bits and stuck to the silk for a long moment before slipping over his lapel to leave a trail of sticky juice.
“Mr. Mayor!” Raymond seized his opportunity and slammed Desmond in the gut with his shoulder. “Get down!”
All hell broke loose…which was a trick, because hell so often descended upon Butterpond that even Grandma claimed that the devil himself couldn’t tolerate all the shenanigans.
Within seconds, the patrons went wild, transforming our market into a weaponized fruit salad.
A peach soared through the air, striking a hanging scale before exploding over the linoleum floor. The pit slung out and cracked an old lady in the knee.
Retaliation came quickly in the form of a kumquat—the citrus projectile pelted Old Man Washington in the eye—the one without the eye patch.
Heads of cabbage cracked. The raspberries ruptured. The bananas burst.
Then someone launched the grapes, darkening the store with suppressing fire.
