Any Rainy Thursday Read online

  For fall there were carrots and beets, both green and dry beans, turnips, kohlrabi and cabbages, plus she had a patch of pumpkins for the neighborhood kids. But without more rain, those pumpkins would be smaller than usual, and so would the big blue hubbard squashes. She was the only stand that still offered them. Too hard to peel, her customers said. “Just give me acorns and butternuts and patty pans.” So she did, but she grew a few hills of the old hubbards anyway for those older housewives who remembered them. Aunt Emily had baked them in the shell with seasoned butter and had a marvelous recipe for soup with thyme and garlic. Beyond her garden was her cousin Edward’s big potato patch. He raised his favorites, Kennebecs, for their needs, and also a variety of others – reds and russets and big baking kinds – for the stand. “I like growing potatoes,” he said contentedly. “It’s so satisfying.”

  Beyond that, against the back wall of the field, was a line of rhubarb, the first fruit of spring, so good with the strawberries one could pick on a neighboring farm. Althea did not grow berries, and did not plan to do so, as they were too labor-intensive, but she provided space for her neighbors, for those who did not want to pick their own.

  The night’s rain had left the air clean of dust and lingering car fumes. Althea drew in the heady scents of damp earth and wet grass, which reminded her that she would have to mow the area around the stand. I’ll ask Ed if he’ll do it. Cousin Connie would be arriving soon to open the stand, and her husband would be along later when the plants had dried off enough to work in the gardens. They were retired, but working on the farm gave them something worthwhile to do, Ed often said, and it got Connie out of the house and talking to people. It kept them young.

  As always, her first step was choosing music. Althea decided on a collection of traditional American songs, southern spirituals mixed in with some Civil War-era ballads. Most of it was rousing and good to work to. Connie would promptly change it to much more modern pieces and country-western. Althea decided to rearrange the corner where the jams and jellies were displayed, moving the maple products to one side and putting her neighbor’s hand-painted wooden trays a little closer to the cash register. She could determine just what she needed to harvest when it got a little drier.

  She was still doing that when a dark blue pickup pulled up in front. She straightened to watch last night’s visitor emerge from the passenger side, walk around the truck to talk briefly with the driver, then step back as the truck continued down the road. She stood still, waiting. The man was even better looking in the daylight. Perhaps last night he was just annoyed, although he had appeared frightened by the storm, and today would be more congenial.

  He glanced around and then stepped her way, holding out his hand and grinning broadly. “Hi. I’m back, like I said, to rescue my Jeep.”

  There was a note of self-assured arrogance in his voice that inexplicably annoyed her, and she ignored the offered hand. “It’s still there. No one bothered it as far as I can see.” Her voice was colder than she intended. One did not talk to potential customers that way.

  He frowned slightly. “I guess maybe I didn’t thank you properly last night. I hope I didn’t cause you any problems.”

  “You didn’t.” She recovered her salesperson persona, surprised at herself. “Do you need any help?”

  “Oh, no. I have everything I need in the Jeep.” Again with that self-confidence. He started to turn away, then looked at her, a long appraising look she found disconcerting. “I’m Miles Davidov,” he said. “I guess I didn’t introduce myself. Your new neighbor up the road.”

  “So you said. You’ve rented the Loomis farm.” She remembered now that someone had mentioned it had been rented to somebody from out of state. City people.

  He shook his head. “Not me. My cousin, Ted, and his wife, Glo. I just rent a room and help them buy groceries.”

  She remembered her manners. He is a neighbor after all. “Hi. I’m Althea Ivie, owner of this stand.” She belatedly offered her hand.

  He held her hand a moment too long and too intimately while he looked up and regarded the old sign. “This has been here a long time. Your family?”

  “My grandfather started it.” Her curiosity got the better of her. Deciding to be friendly, she asked, “Davidov? Is that a Russian name?” He didn’t look at all Eastern European, much too fair.

  Miles laughed, a rich, joyous chuckle. “There hasn’t been a Russian in the family since my great-grandfather. Most of the family has dropped the last syllable and just uses David, but I like the whole thing. More authentic.” He glanced at her, and she noted a twinkle in his eye and a twitch at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were an interesting shade of gray-green. “Sometimes it helps in my line of work.”

  Is he feeding me a line? What kind of work would that help? She didn’t ask, however. An old green Subaru SUV passed slowly, turned into the driveway at the western end of the stand and stopped. Cousin Connie had arrived. Thank goodness. She wondered why she felt such relief, why she wanted someone else with her. “Time to open the stand. I have to get to work.”

  He grimaced. “Yeah, me, too. And thanks, Althea.”

  There was a hint of intimacy in his voice, a caress in the way he said her name, and it raised her hackles. She turned toward her approaching cousin and smiled at her. “Good morning, Connie. It looks like a nice one after that rainstorm.”

  Connie Hamlin, a cousin on her mother’s side, was comfortably in her mid-sixties, short and stocky, cheerful, beginning to turn gray, and a lot stronger and more capable than she looked. In her practical green slacks and print scrubs-style top, she looked like somebody’s grandmother, which she was, but nobody pushed her around. “We needed that rain.”

  “We did. I’ll go tend to the chickens,” Althea said, the first excuse to leave that came to mind. “I haven’t had a chance yet and we’ll need more eggs.”

  Connie was eying the strange young man with open, but mild, curiosity, and beyond him the car in the ditch. She asked him, “Did you have some trouble?”

  Miles laughed. “Flat tire. In the middle of that storm. Thank goodness Althea was still here.”

  “I just was getting ready to leave when he got here,” Althea said, turning away. “I have everything all set here so I’ll leave it to you and get some work done.” She looked back. “This is our new neighbor, Miles Davidov. Lives at the old Loomis place.”

  Connie nodded. “I heard there was someone.” Glancing at Althea, she added, “Have a good time out there. Ed’ll be along when he gets some chores done.”

  Althea found it oddly reassuring that Connie’s husband was on his way, and wondered why she felt she needed protection. She could certainly take care of herself. Ed had grown up in the area and always been around, tending to his own kitchen gardens while he worked for many years at a local mill, retiring when it closed. He had no interest in anything larger and liked to putter at his own speed. Tending Althea’s gardens suited him perfectly. But he’s a man, a relative, and why do I feel I need him right now? She didn’t know and didn’t continue the thought.

  ~ ~ ~

  Althea kept two dozen hens and one rooster, a collection of several varieties including barred rock, buff Orpingtons and silver-spangled Hamburgs, partly for the simple pleasure of having them around, but also for the eggs. She had a steady list of people who wanted them farm fresh. Mixing the variety of breeds, courtesy of the big strutting New Hampshire Red rooster, produced an interesting array of chickens. A mother hen with a flock of chicks was one of her delights.

  She opened the doors, allowing the chickens into their fenced yard. She would have preferred them to be free-range but she needed to protect her gardens from them. Filling the feeders and collecting the eggs did not take very long, so within a half hour she went back to the stand with the bowl of eggs, intending to put them into cartons and pick up a carry basket for t
omatoes.

  The dented Jeep was parked in front of the stand, and its owner was lounging against the counter with Connie, holding a few ears of corn and a crookneck squash. He glanced her way, straightened and grinned. “Ah, you’re back. I was going to go look for you and see all those gardens back there.”

  His self-assurance grated. Couldn’t he have at least asked me if I minded? She said, “It’s still a little wet out there.”

  He sighed elaborately. “I have to go to work, too, I suppose. But,” he paused a moment, his head a little to one side listening. “I do like your choice of music. Connie here says she’ll change it when you’ve gone.”

  “She always does. That’s her prerogative.”

  He regarded the CD player with his eyes half closed while keeping time with his fingers to “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” making her wonder if he was silently singing it. “Good stuff. Very few people listen to it these days.”

  “Are you a musician?”

  He sighed again, but there was a glint in his eyes. “I’m a computer consultant. It pays better. I choose not to be a starving artist. But I do like the old music.”

  That implied that he did play something, but she didn’t continue the thought. The song had changed to a melancholy version of “Tenting Tonight,” the last song on the CD. “I have to get to work.” She picked up a produce basket from a stack of them near the counter. “I’m glad you got your car fixed.”

  “And I’m glad you were here last night. I don’t know what I would have done if you weren’t.”

  She laughed shortly. “You would have called your cousin and somehow gotten together, as you did. I didn’t do anything.” She wondered at her sharp tone. Although his smug arrogance was annoying, he had done nothing wrong. Something about him was irritating. Probably just his attitude.

  “But you told me where I was, offered some protection from the weather, and found me a wonderful place to buy corn, right here in my new neighborhood.” His voice had intimate inflections again, and she wondered if he were an actor. “And now that I’ve found it – and you – I will be back.”

  She didn’t answer and Connie asked, “So you rented the Loomis place?”

  Miles shook his head. “Not me. My cousin Ted Platt and his wife Glo. I just live there.”

  Connie smiled warmly at him. “You’re welcome here anytime.”

  Miles glanced at Althea as if seeking confirmation of that.

  She said, “Of course.”

  “Maybe to talk about old music as well as cucumbers?”

  “Maybe.”

  He picked up his purchases and stepped away. “Thanks again.”

  She watched him climb into the Jeep and did not return his casual wave.

  Connie asked, “What did he do to you last night?”

  “Nothing, really. He has an attitude.”

  Connie laughed. “One of these days you’ll meet someone and change your attitude.”

  “Maybe.” She picked up her basket. “I have to get those tomatoes. And I think there are some peppers ready.”

  “Have fun,” Connie said. “It’s going to get hot.”

  “Yeah. I have to get that drip system fixed.”

  Connie turned away to meet a customer. “You could call somebody else, you know. That company that installed it for you isn’t the only one in the county.”

  “I could.” She smiled at the woman who had come in. “Betsy, you’re a bit early. Ed hasn’t been out in the corn patch yet.”

  Her neighbor laughed. “I’m after salad fixings for a luncheon. I’ll pick up the corn later.”

  “We have plenty of those.” Althea picked up her basket. “I’m off,” she told Connie. “I’ll be back.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Being outside and in the garden, in the fresh air and sunshine, usually freed Althea’s mind and restored her well-being. She thought of it as sweeping out the cobwebs of her working world, the four days a week when she was the office manager and bookkeeper for the owner of a string of self-storage places. It was not her first choice of employment but it did make use of her associate’s degree and she had worked out an agreeable arrangement with the owner that gave her long weekends for her true love, her gardens. Stan Dowling might be a hard-nosed and astute businessman to most people, but she knew he was really a kindly soul who supported a lot of charities, including her desire to be a farmer. His wife was one of her regulars.

  This morning as she sought out the tomatoes that were ready to pick, she considered what Connie had said: someday you’ll meet somebody. By that, she meant finding a man. On rare occasions, she wished she would.

  Right now, she had no romantic interest. She told herself she didn’t have time for that. There had been few interests since high school, when she had been hopelessly in love with Ward, the oh-so-handsome captain of the soccer team. He’d seen her only as one more conquest, another trophy. He’d left her lonely and longing, gone off to a west coast college and never returned. She heard that he had gotten married, divorced, and maybe married again. She no longer cared, of course, but she had seen no one since who roused more than a passing interest. None who had equaled Ward’s devastating charm, his athletic prowess, or his intriguing mop of black curls that she had wanted to run her fingers through.

  There had been Josh, a good looking and very amusing classmate at the community college where she had earned her accounting degree. They shared the same taste in music and movies and had dated a few times, but she suspected that he might be gay. He never said, and she never asked. They had not met since graduation two years ago. She had no idea where he had gone.

  The most recent was Barry Sanford, who inexplicably kept what appeared to be all his belongings in a storage unit and had no interest in farms or growing tomatoes, and could not see why she stuck with such an uncertain future. He was charming, good looking in an average sort of way, and had a quirky sense of humor. She had little interest in the high-tech world he lived in, his visions of robots doing everything. She worked with her hands in the dirt, each of her plants a special being.

  This summer, there had been no one. No possibly intriguing men renting storage units, no casual customers at the stand that sounded interesting. Plus, she admitted, she really didn’t have much time for a social life. She met many men in the course of her work, customers and vendors at both of her jobs, but the few single ones didn’t appeal to her. Although she liked the people she worked with at the storage company, she detested the job. She knew very few young farmers and they tended to be married, at least to their jobs.

  She filled one basket with round, red tomatoes, then another with the peppers, and decided she would take another look at the drip irrigation system. It still refused to work properly, delivering only sporadic dribbles of water. She really should find somebody to fix it, but she refused to admit it was beyond her expertise. She did not want to be foiled by a machine. Maybe I’m just stubborn, but I spent a lot of money for that system. It hadn’t, she didn’t like to admit, been guaranteed. Not since she’d bought it online in an effort to save money. She probably should know better.

  It was indeed going to be another hot day. Hot and humid. Really sticky, according to the weather forecast this morning. This is August in New Hampshire. What do I expect?

  What she wanted was rain, August or not. Both she and her gardens needed it – cool, life-giving water. Even a thunderstorm would help.

  SATURDAY

  Saturday was usually her busiest day, so Althea was at the stand early. Yesterday afternoon she and Ed had gathered what they agreed was needed: carrots, baby beets, and leafy beet greens. In spite of requests from a neighbor with a new southern wife, she had declined to grow collards. She had planted a row of parsnips in the spring, just to try, but those wouldn’t be ready until spring, making them the first fresh vegetabl
e of the season. Her grandmother had liked them, but Althea didn’t care for them. She thought them a little mushy and bland, even with a lot of butter and seasoning.

  Connie had swept out the stand before she left, but would not be in today. Weekends were hers, as well as Wednesday mornings when her knitting group met. Becca Ross took over then, one of several retired neighbors who wanted to get out once in a while and filled in occasionally. Another neighbor, teenager Mavis D’Orsey, would be in this afternoon. Saturday was Althea’s day to talk to customers, find out what they thought, what they wanted, and to catch up on the neighborhood gossip. As a lifelong resident, Althea had at least heard of everyone for generations back. That made the gossip easier to understand since a lot was simply implied.

  Althea frequently thanked her grandmother for her neighborhood knowledge. It made her a part of the town, a very small piece, but she fit into the interwoven lives that made up the little village of Somerset, a quiet corner of a larger township. She was accepted in a way that a much larger farm store on the other side of town was not. Although people shopped there for the wider variety they offered, they came back to Ivie’s for the corn and tomatoes. And the neighborhood connections.

  “Who knows where their corn comes from?” her neighbor, Harriet, said. “It isn’t always fresh. It’s like the supermarket stuff, almost. We can see where this comes from. Besides, we all knew Ray.”

  It was a long day, but satisfying, with many customers, regulars and a few new ones. Even when the afternoon grew hot, the ceiling fans kept it tolerable inside the stand’s shade. She was thankful, however, when it was over, when she could bar the big doors and hang up the closed sign.