Page 6 of Love in Mission City
Apparently there’d been a flood over at the market in Chilliwack, and the organizers directed everyone to MissionCity. Our community center was packed to the rafters with people and, by the end of the day, I’d sold all of my cider.
One harried-looking man even offered to buy the wooden apple on the table.
I’d glanced around and realized that most booths were nearly empty or entirely empty of wares.
Henry caught my eye.
“Sorry, sir, this isn’t for sale. It’s…part of the farm I have.” I picked up a card. “But feel free to come around in the fall for apple picking.”
The man pocketed the card and headed over to the booth filled with cat paraphernalia. Or that had been filled. Even that one was down to the last few feline-themed items—a shag rug, an oversized stuffed pillow, and a weird cat sculpture made of coat hangers.
I glanced back over at Henry and caught the ghost of a smile on his lips.
Guess I said the right thing.
Another shopper approached him, and I plunked down into my seat. I still had to put the crates back into the truck, but I couldn’t do that until the last of the shoppers were gone. Even then, tired as I was, I wouldn’t rush. Some of the vendors would undoubtedly be in a hurry—family or some other obligations. Since I had none, I’d take my time.
The scent of popcorn wafted past, and my nose twitched.
After pocketing the carved apple—just in case anyone thought about taking it—I headed over to the popcorn stand.
Two bags remained.
I paid for both, then meandered down the various aisles, checking everything out.
Truly, most tables were empty. Hopefully some of the vendors would make some money.
My business mostly relied on the apple harvest—the cider was a side business. I’d been lucky to be able to buy the farm and cider-making equipment for a damned good price.
The widowed owner died suddenly, and his daughter hadn’t wanted the property. A local realtor, Cadence Crawford, arranged for the sale.
Mark and I moved in the next month after selling our Edmonton home.
He’d paid to bring all his vintage cars via special transport. Barely a year later, he’d paid to take them all back.
Dumbass.
Him or me?
Could go either way.
Maybe I should’ve been more distressed about the end of our ten-year marriage. Perhaps, initially, I had been. But we wanted very different things. He was happy working in the volatile oil-and-gas sector. He wasn’t convinced fossil fuels caused climate change.
I, on the other hand, believed wholeheartedly in man-made climate change, and I wanted to do everything in my power to help reverse the damage. Moving to a province that relied on clean hydroelectric power helped. So did using the solar panels on the farmhouse and the building holding the cider-making equipment. I drove an electric vehicle, and I hadtrees. Trees pulled carbon out of the atmosphere. Plus, I sold my apples locally, so fuel wasn’t required to transport them.
Mark and his vintage cars used tons of gas. As did the massive home he’d bought when I’d scraped enough to buy out his half of the farm. I’d owe the bank for a while, but it’d been worth it.
As I rounded the corner back to our aisle, I caught the sound of laughter. A deep belly laugh. My gaze followed the sound, and I caught sight of Henry grinning.
A young blonde woman smiled back, with her hand protectively cupping a young boy’s shoulder. The little mite appeared to be about seven or so—my best guess—with dark hair. He lightly fingered one of the figurines.
I squinted, realizing the fairy wore trousers. Huh. I hadn’t realized they weren’t all girls. Or women. Or female-identifying.
My head spun.
Henry gently took the figurine back and carefully put it in a box. He offered it to the woman.
She held up her hand.
