Page 24 of Tattered and Torn

“Like I said, I’m fine.” My tone is sharper than I had intended. “I don’t need anyone’s pity.”

Her brow furrows. “I don’t pity you, John,” she says quietly. But she shifts her position so that she’s facing forward. “I’m just sorry for what you’ve been through.”

That’s the end of our conversation. She stares out the front windshield or her passenger’s window, apparently watching the scenery.

I could kick myself for being an ass. She was just tryin’ to be nice, to make conversation.

The rest of the trip passes in silence until we arrive at the church where the market is held. The parking lot is full, so I end up parking on the grass. The market is set up on the lawn behind the church—scores of tents and temporary stalls, not to mention a snack bar. The playground is filled with boisterous kids.

I follow Gabrielle into the fray.

“This is amazing,” she says as she glances around at the stalls.

There’s everything imaginable here—fruits and vegetables, fresh-baked bread and other baked goods, local honey, meats, fresh cut flowers, potted plants, yarn, jewelry, quilts, clothing, farming equipment, too.

She grabs one of the plastic grocery baskets stacked all over the place.

“Here, I’ll carry that for you,” I say as I take it from her. I figure I should make myself useful. The smile she gives me in return makes my chest flush with heat.

“Thank you, John.”

I realize I like hearing her use my first name. She’s the only one who does. Everyone else calls me Burke—the guys, co-workers, guests.

Gabrielle stops to talk to each of the stall owners. She introduces herself and finds out what farms grow what. She’s good at this—at meeting people and making connections. That’s something I suck at.

She buys some potatoes and carrots and onions, and into the basket they go.

“I thought I’d make a pot roast for dinner this evening,” she says.

My ears perk up. “Pot roast?”

“Yes, I thought something hearty and comforting would be a good choice.”

Does a bear shit in the woods? “Um, yeah,” I say. “Definitely.”

“We’ll have to make a stop at Ed’s on our way back to the lodge so I can pick up some roasts.”

“Not a problem.” Hell, no, it’s not a problem. I’ll drive her to the moon and back for pot roast.

She picks up a bunch of fresh-cut flowers. “These’ll look nice on the tables. I spotted some small crystal vases in the storage room. I wonder if we have any candles.”

As we meander through the market, Gabrielle checks out all the stalls and everything the sellers have to offer. Eventually, we end up near the snack bar, drawn to the sweet smell of funnel cake.

“I haven’t had funnel cake since I was a kid,” she says. “My parents used to take me to the county fair every summer and having one was the highlight of the trip.”

Of course, we end up buying funnel cake because who doesn’t love funnel cake? We share, each of us taking turns pulling off a piece to eat.

Gabrielle grins as she points at my face.

“What?” I ask.

“There’s powdered sugar on your mustache.”

I attempt to brush it off, but she just laughs and lifts her hand.

“May I?” she asks.

May I touch you? My heart slams against my ribs at just the thought. “Sure.”

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