“We’re good, Daddy.” Iris hated that she had to lie.
But there was no time to elaborate. Millie directed her away. “We need to get back to the customers. Iris, I’m putting you on strawberry duty with Naomi.”
Naomi turned out to be an intern from UNH with short, spiky hair. And a nose ring, Iris noted with bemusement—someone whose look her mother normally wouldn’t tolerate, let alone employ. She was thrilled to see that the tips of the girl’s hair were dyed purple. All morning Iris did her best to shadow Naomi as the customers came; she filled bags, counted change, and struggled to keep up. Before she knew it her stomach was growling and her head felt light. Couldn’t she just sneak down to the house for a quick shower? She was relieved when her mother finally called for a break and handed her a bagged lunch.
“Your sister loved working the stand,” Naomi said, taking a seat beside Iris in the shade. “We’ve missed her this season.”
Iris turned. “You know Leah?”
“Sure. Leah took me under her wing last summer when I first got here. Was a hoot to work with.”
Iris stared into her sandwich, wondering how much of a hoot she’d been to work with so far. Probably not much. And as far as wings went, hers stretched in the opposite direction, from here to Massachusetts.
“Last year was our fledgling summer, but your mom and Leah got the farm up and running. They taught me a lot.” She took a swig from her thermos. “I’m happy for Leah, but I still can’t believe she moved out to Seattle with Stephen. This farm was her baby.”
“I can’t believe she’s getting married,” Iris allowed now, wondering if Naomi knew much about Stephen. Hoping the girl would offer up some information.
“Yeah,” Naomi said. “It isn’t the same around here without her. But Stephen’s good for her.” She paused, contemplating her iced tea. “She’s better now.”
It struck Iris as a strange choice of words. “Better?”
Naomi shrugged. “He balances her, you know?”
Iris did not know. She wanted to ask more. But then Millie pulled up in the truck and beeped.
“Picking time,” Naomi said, hopping up. “Got to replenish before the afternoon crowd.”
Iris shoved the last bit of sandwich into her mouth. Naomi eyed her as she held open the truck door. “You’ve picked before, right?”
“Plenty,” Iris said, climbing into the cab. Iris had picked vegetables in her mother’s small backyard plot when she and Leah were kids. How hard could it be?
• • •
Two hours later, squatting beside a row of hydroponic tomato containers, Iris had her answer. Millie regarded her warily. “You look awfully red, dear. Did you put on any sunscreen?”
Iris had. But only about an hour before, when her shoulders started to sting with exposure. Now, under a tattered straw hat that Naomi had insisted she wear, she wiped the salty trails of perspiration that ran down either side of her nose. She was pretty sure her mascara had melted. At best, she probably resembled a rabid raccoon.
“Why don’t you take a break,” Millie said.
“No, no,” Iris protested. “I’m fine.” She sensed, hopefully, that Millie appreciated her effort, however rusty her gardening skills. And that wasn’t something Iris was about to surrender.
When they finally climbed back into the air-conditioned cab of the truck, it was all she could do not to cry out “Shotgun!” and press her forehead to the dashboard vents.
“Can I go up to the house and shower now?” Iris asked hopefully.
In reply, Millie turned the truck back to the stand. “You didn’t forget about the afternoon shift, did you?”
It was more than she’d bargained for. Back at the stand, as the customers approached with their cloth bags, Iris glared at Ernesto’s and Naomi’s tanned skin—thick, seemingly impervious to the heat—and at her mother’s own peachy complexion. Not the sickly red that Iris imagined her own to be. As Iris weighed boxes of berries, she tried not to hate the steady stream of cars that pulled up by the farm’s “Welcome!” sign. Oh, if only Iris had a brush in hand. Black would be her color of choice. In just a few fell strokes she’d paint a little message of her own: “Closed for the Day!” Or better yet, “Pick Your Own Damn Fruit!” The heat was getting to her, she knew. Right now the kids would be home from camp, with Paul, relaxing in the cool shade of their backyard.
“Hey, how much for the lettuce?” a woman with a thick Long Island accent asked. Iris couldn’t help but notice her tacky gold sandals. Heels, no less.
Iris pointed to the sign and forced a smile.
“Three fifty?” The woman chucked the lettuce back into its bin.
“It’s organic.”
“It’s outrageous,” the woman replied. She laughed too loudly to her friend, and coughed. Probably a smoker as well. “We pay half that in the city. Where there aren’t even any farms!”
Iris swiped at her sticky brow. “Because it’s probably shipped a thousand miles from South America shellacked with pesticide. And tastes like cardboard.”
The woman scowled. “Screw you, lady.”
In an instant Millie was beside her.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. Iris closed her eyes. It was happening all over again. Just like the day at the soccer field with Sadie.
“I’m sorry,” she grumbled, yanking the straw hat off her matted hair.
“Why don’t you work the register.” It wasn’t a request.
Iris slumped on the stool behind the ancient register and eyed the tip bucket with loathing. One more hour, she told herself. She opened the till and began counting the bills inside, summoning the cool slap of lake water on her bare feet. Yes, she’d focus on that image. Not the pressing crowd or the suffocating smell of exhaust emanating from the blacktop. Or the faces that loomed too close as they thrust bills at her. Like the man beside her, who she now realized was studying her, and not the baskets of tomatoes. What was the matter with him anyway?
“May I help you?” she snapped, turning to face him.
“Iris Standish?”
Cooper Woods flashed the very same smile of his high school yearbook photo, the one in which he stood in the back row of the lacrosse team with the other tall, broad-shouldered boys. His skin was browned by summer and his handsome features had sharpened at the edges by the years, but his eyes still crinkled with boyish laughter.
“Cooper?” And before she could bring a hand to her melted mascara or wipe away another trickle of sweat, she closed her eyes, slipped off her stool, and slid indecorously into a display of Better Boy tomatoes.
• • •
Iris blinked, pushing herself up onto her elbows. “The light . . . make it stop.”
Bill Standish straddled his daughter, brandishing a large black Maglite, which he aimed directly into Iris’s pupils. “They’re not dilated!” he exclaimed to the small crowd of onlookers.
Then came her mother’s firm hands, pressing her back down against the cold dirt floor. “For goodness’ sake, lie down,” Millie commanded. “Or you’ll faint again.”
Was that what had happened? Iris opened her eyes and found herself wedged between the shelves of fruit, the smell of crushed tomato acrid in her nose. The loud voices disoriented her.
“I need to sit up,” she mumbled, feeling her head. It seemed intact, though her hair was all sticky.
“Oh, not my Better Boys!” Millie clucked as Iris pulled a clump of crushed tomato from her hair.
Before she could object, a bottle of water was thrust against her lips, and a rush flooded Iris’s mouth, choking her.
“You must rehydrate,” Millie said.
Iris sputtered.
And then, suddenly, there was another set of hands pulling her up onto her feet. Large, warm hands that squeezed her own.
“Let’s get you up.”
&nb
sp; It was him.
“Cooper.” Iris stood shakily, gazing up at the last thing she remembered.
“You okay?”
From the unfamiliar safety of Cooper Woods’s grasp Iris surveyed the view. Her father, still clutching his flashlight like a misguided paramedic; her mother, whose crossed arms left no mistaking her exasperation; and the small group of produce-wielding strangers who’d congregated for a better look. As it all came into painful focus, Iris wanted nothing more than to turn and run.
Cooper leaned in. “Figured I’d better get you up before they drowned you, next,” he whispered.
“I knew you’d do this,” Millie said, wagging her head. “I kept telling you to take a rest.”
Do this. As though heatstroke were a choice.
“Mom, I just got a little overheated,” Iris groaned, swiping tomato bits from her hair.
Naomi appeared with a chair, and to her embarrassment, they guided her to a shady corner and made her sit.
“I’m okay,” Iris insisted. But she wasn’t. Not by a long shot. Propped up like a rag doll in a plastic chair, she didn’t dare to think what her face looked like, all blotchy and melted. Her rear end was soaked in tomato juice.
“Well,” Millie said, “back to work, then.” She clapped her hands, dispersing the onlookers like a ringmaster sending off the clowns, before turning abruptly to Cooper. “Thank you,” she said warmly. “I’m surprised to see you on your day off.”
Day off?
Cooper shook his head. “I was driving down to the lake, so I figured I’d drop off some lumber on my way.”
Iris stole a peek out of the corner of her eye, allowing her gaze to roam over his navy-blue polo shirt, his beach-tousled brown hair. Cooper’s lanky teenage frame had filled out into that of a man’s, but he’d maintained his athletic carriage.
Millie placed her hand on his arm. “What can I get for you? The Swiss chard is lovely this summer.”
“I’ll let the expert choose,” Cooper replied with an appreciative smile, his gaze returning to Iris, who suddenly wished her plastic chair would fly her away.
“So how are you, Iris?”
Iris would have blushed if her face hadn’t already been a deep shade of heatstroke red. “Great,” she said, then laughed at the ridiculousness of it. “Well, up until the last five minutes.” Or the last five months, she thought. She forced herself to meet his gaze.
Cooper’s eyes were a calming blue, like the deeper shoals of the lake, and for a moment Iris felt her insides stilling. “So, you’re back in Hampstead now?”
Cooper nodded, stuffing his hands into his khaki shorts. “Came back last year,” he said, shifting in his flip-flops. He did not elaborate.
“That’s great. I just got up here myself, actually.”
“You picked the best season. How long are you staying?”
Iris touched her forehead. Her head pounded, though she wasn’t sure it was just the heat anymore. “For the summer, actually.”
“Your family here, too?”
Iris paused. Cooper knew she had a family? She’d never spoken this many words to him in all of her high school years. “No. Not yet. My kids are coming up in a few weeks. And my sister, too,” she added hastily. Surely he’d remember Leah.
Cooper nodded. Had he guessed about Paul by her omission? Or was it pathetically obvious already: the forlorn single woman returning to her hometown, husband-less, homeless, and flailing around in her mother’s perfectly good tomatoes. Oh, why had she come back here, anyway?
“Yeah, your mom mentioned something about a family reunion. You must be excited.”
“Thrilled,” Iris said, smoothing her rumpled shirt. “So, you’re working here?”
“Didn’t your mom tell you?”
Iris shook her head, confused. What was the lacrosse captain doing on her parents’ farm?
“Your folks hired me to work on their barns. I do historic preservation.” He looked up at the wooden rafters overhead. “I restored this for them last spring, when the farm opened.”
Iris followed his gaze. “You did this? It’s stunning. I barely recognized it.”
Cooper flushed. “Thanks. Your dad asked me to come back and restore the roof on the old horse barn by the main house.”
“Wow.” It was all Iris could manage. Of all the tedious things her mother peppered their rare phone conversations with, you’d think she could’ve shared that tidbit. Cooper had been working for them all year.
Millie returned with a large bag. “I added some rhubarb. Splendid with vanilla ice cream.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Standish.” Cooper tried to hand her a twenty-dollar bill, which Millie refused.
“You’ve done enough already,” she insisted, throwing Iris an accusing look. “Feel free to drop off any materials at the barn. It’s open.”
He nodded, glancing over his shoulder at Iris once more, and she wished suddenly that her mother would disappear to the register, or the scene of the crushed tomatoes, anywhere else.
“Well, I’d better get down to the barn,” Cooper said finally. “Feel better, Iris. Good to see you.”
“You too.” Iris stood, unsure if she should shake his hand or give him one of those quick hugs between old friends. But she didn’t get the chance to do either. Instead, Millie placed her hands firmly on Iris’s shoulders, pushing her right back into her seat.
“Sit down, dear. We don’t want you fainting on us again.”
As if any of them had forgotten.
Fuming, Iris allowed herself to be chaired, watching helplessly as Cooper headed down the drive. He was already climbing into his truck when Iris realized she hadn’t even thanked him.
Millie interrupted the thought. “A shower would do you good, Iris. You need to pull yourself together for dinner.”
Iris turned. “Dinner?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Leah and Stephen changed their plans. Their plane lands tonight.”
Five
It’s the runaway!” The tiny bell over the bakery door had barely chimed, and Trish was already flying out from behind her counter, untying her floury apron.
“Please stop saying that,” Iris groaned. But she allowed herself to be hugged and sank gratefully against her old friend. Even nearing forty, the girl was still a knockout, her long, dark hair swept up behind her. Iris breathed deeply. Trish smelled like baked apple and something else; coffee, maybe.
“I’m teasing. You’re not a runway so much as a stray. Now come sit.” She placed a miniature tart in front of Iris. “Key lime. I want your honest opinion.”
Iris sank her teeth into the pale green cream and rolled her eyes. “You’re killing me,” she said, running her tongue over the graham cracker crumbs on her lips.
Trish grinned, handing her friend a napkin. “You look good.”
“Liar.” She’d eaten poorly for weeks. She hadn’t slept more than an hour or two a night either, for that matter. She ran a hand over her ponytail. At least she’d finally managed to wash the tomatoes out of her hair.
“No, you do. Thinner, but good.”
“Well, that’ll change pretty quick if I come here each day.”
Trish laughed. “How’s the farm?”
“It just about killed me.”
Trish smiled. “So Millie put you right to work, huh?”
Iris couldn’t reply. The shower she’d finally gotten, and now the key lime dessert, were both too intoxicating to be spoiled with any further explanation.
“So how are those kids?”
“Fine, I think. I called them on the way over. Lily and Jack told me camp is great. Sadie mumbled a few syllables before hanging up.”
“What about Paul? You guys aren’t talking?”
“No, we are.” But they weren’t really. Aside from discussing the machinations of the day: who
was on carpool, how much the new cheer uniform would cost, what to heat up for dinner. Paul had sounded distant and vaguely bored. Not missing her. Not sorry she’d gone. Iris could hear Millie’s take: Well, what do you expect? You abandoned him! But she liked Trish’s take better. “Let the bastard figure it out. Have another tart.”
“So does this wedding stuff make you want to jump off a cliff?” Trish had always harbored love-hate feelings for Leah.
“Not for the reasons you’d think.” According to Millie, Leah had chosen a wide expanse of pasture at the far end of the lake for the ceremony and reception. An intimate affair amid a rustic setting, Millie had informed Iris, which conjured images of hauling wooden tables and chairs across sweltering fields.
“I just can’t believe she’s settling down. You and me, yeah. But Leah?”
The fact that Leah had suddenly settled on one man, after a string of loves that stretched from one end of the country to the other, had come as a surprise to them all. Since college, she’d remained on the go—backpacking through Europe, landing briefly for a spell in New York, then heading out west to work in the national parks. And with each new destination there appeared a heavy new relationship that inevitably crumbled when Leah moved on. Iris never thought she’d settle down.
“So what do you know about the fiancé’?” asked Trish.
Iris threw up her hands. “Nothing. But I’ll find out soon.” She checked her watch. “They’re coming in tonight.”
Trish shook her head. “Just like the old Leah. Never a dull moment. Whatever you do, don’t go crying through your old wedding album when she asks you to pick out bridal flowers or write out seating cards.”
“More like locate misplaced relatives at the airport,” Iris muttered. “Or pick tomatoes.” Wait till she told Trish about that incident. She was dying to find out more about Cooper Woods.
The Lake Season Page 4
