Last Day at the Farmers Market

Five in the morning and the farmers market was already packed. I should explain that I am not a morning person, not even slightly, but the commission had me up at four and the coffee stall was right there at the entrance, so fine, life was happening. I'm Lila Sanford, thirty-five, an exhibit designer, which means I drive to small towns and make museum displays that nobody reads. The drive up into the foothills had been gorgeous, all fog and pines, and the market smelled like bread and wet wool and cheese, honestly, it smelled like every good morning I've ever had.

I was shouldering my way past a woman selling eight kinds of honey when I saw the bookstore.

Or what used to be the bookstore. Its front window faced the market stalls, and taped to the glass was a sign that said CLOSING TODAY, EVERYTHING MUST GO. And coming out the back door with a box of books, squinting at the sunrise, was a man I would have known anywhere. Conrad Arthur. Thirty-six now, but I knew him.

My coffee nearly went down my front. "Conrad?"

He turned. He looked at me for what felt like a full season of television, and then he smiled, that quiet smile he always had, like the joke was private.

"Lila? Lila Sanford?"

"Yes! Oh my god, yes!" I laughed. "What are the odds? I'm here for a commission, two weeks, and the first person I bump into is you?"

"Small town," he said, setting the box down. "Smaller every year, apparently. How long has it been?"

Do the math with me. We were at the technical college together. I was twenty-two, he was twenty-three, and we dated for a few months before our plans pulled us apart. That was thirteen years ago. Thirteen! He looked good. Older, sure, but good, grey coming in at the temples, forearms doing the work of the boxes.

"Too long," I said. "What happened here? The sign says closing today?"

"Today's the day. Last box goes out at six." He glanced at the store. "Do you want to come in? One last look. I could use the company, honestly, it's a grim morning for hauling boxes alone."

"Absolutely I want to come in!"

He held the door and I stepped into the shop, and wow, it was sad. The shelves were mostly bare, a few sad paperbacks leaning against each other, dust everywhere, a cash register that probably belonged in a museum. Actually, that's my line of work, I could have sold that register. The back room was through a curtain, and I could see a single old armchair and a tall wooden cane leaning in the corner.

"Everything must go, huh?" I said. "What about that cane?"

He came up behind me. "That one's not for sale."

"Come on, it's beautiful. That carved handle. Who made it?"

"I did." He said it simply, like people say that sort of thing all the time. "Long winter, a few years back. Bookstores were dying and I was up at night with nothing to carve but a stick of birch. Took me the whole of January."

"It's gorgeous. You have hidden talents, Conrad Arthur."

"There's a lot you don't know about me anymore," he said, and something in how he said it made my chest do a funny little thing.

We drifted through the aisles, and I told him everything. The marriage, over eight years now, amicable, thank you for asking. No kids, we never got that far. The house has been quiet a long while now, and nobody warns you how strange that feels. One day you're sharing a life and the next you're eating dinner in silence wondering who you even are.

"So it's just me and a very judgmental cat," I said.

He laughed. "And you? Are you happy?"

"Honestly? I don't know. I'm busy. Busy is a kind of happiness, right?" I shrugged. "What about you? Married? Kids? Secret family in the next valley?"

"No kids. No wife. It's been me and the shop for a while now." He paused, straightening a lonely stack of novels that didn't need straightening. "Alone a while, if I'm truthful. Since the shop started failing, people stopped inviting you places. Like bankruptcy is contagious."

"Oh, Conrad." What do you even say to that?

"It's fine. Books were the dream. Dreams end, markets move on, and now there's a farmers market outside my window every Saturday that does better business in one morning than I did all week." He smiled his quiet smile again. "Maybe I should have been selling cheese."

"Never. You were born to shush people."

He laughed properly at that, and I remembered how much I loved making him laugh. Careful, Lila, I told myself. Thirteen years is a long time and this man is leaving this town, maybe, probably, and you are here for two weeks and a museum commission. But my body wasn't listening to the committee.

We ended up in the back room. The armchair, the cane, one window with morning light coming in sideways and making the dust look expensive. He went to the low shelf under the window and crouched down, digging for a box.

"There's a box under there I never unpacked. Should just take it to the skip, but I want to know what's in it first. Been staring at me for years, that box."

I crouched beside him to help. Together we hauled it out, and when he stood, I grabbed his arm to steady him, and suddenly we were very close. Close enough to count the new lines around his eyes. His hand was still on my arm. Neither of us moved.

"Sorry," he said. "Wobbly knees. Old box-hauling man."

"You're not old. You're thirty-six, that's not old, that's barely middle-aged." Was I leaning in? It felt like leaning in. Was he?

He looked down, just for a second, and I felt it, that specific electricity of being looked at. And not at my face. My legs. I was in a skirt, market-appropriate, and his eyes had gone there and come back up as if he hoped he hadn't been caught.

Well. Well well well.

"Lila," he said, carefully. "It's really good to see you."