Chapter One
“Oh, Winnie.” Marcella’s voice carried over a contented sigh. “Don’t you just love that smell?”
Winnie Segal looked up from her portable workstation, her attention focusing first on the clear sky before settling her gaze on her cousin’s setup at the opposite corner of their booth space. By mutual agreement, they had left the cumbersome ten-by-ten vendor’s tent they usually used to mark their area in favor of individual umbrellas, anchored in heavy metal posts, for shade. While the Segals didn’t have the fanciest booth at the weekly St. Florence Farmers market, one could argue they operated a popular spot, particularly with children who looked forward to getting their faces painted and their arms emblazoned with glittering, temporary tattoos.
Yes, Winnie agreed she and Marcella provided a generous and profitable service to patrons, who shopped for organic vegetables and meats at their leisure while their kids waited in a long line to come out looking like their favorite cartoon and movie characters. The relief on adult faces that such a safe space existed here rewarded her, but she liked the money as well.
She pondered Marcella’s question just as the sweet and salty aroma of the nearby kettle corn booth wafted closer. Her stomach rumbled, demanding crunchy satisfaction as Winnie counted in her head the calories and steps needed to burn them. “Define smell,” she said finally. “I get hit with so many of them every time we come here.”
“I mean this.” Marcella held up a palm-sized pot of white makeup and unscrewed the lid to reveal the smooth and shiny surface. Once upon a time people called it “clown white,” but those who manned face painting booths, as she and Marcella had done for the last five years at the farmers market, used it to create endless personas and designs.
“I love opening a new pot. You’re hit with that initial tang. It’s so clean and new, no brush marks or stains from other colors,” her cousin added, gazing adoringly at the round container. She set it with the rest of her makeup and arranged her brushes and stencils. “It’s not even cracked. I’m almost afraid to use it and mess it up.”
Winnie shook her head and smiled. Her younger cousin idealized everything. Music sounded sweet when Winnie heard only noise, food tasted bold and sweet and spicy when all Winnie wanted to do was push it around her plate and give others the impression she’d filled up. Lithe Marcella in the black leggings and Vans underneath a gray tunic sweater danced through their early morning singing her praises of the weather and people and so forth, and given her slim physique could afford to indulge in all the colors and flavors of life. Both women stood right at five foot five with dark-brown hair and eyes, but the resemblance ended there. Winnie carried a good many more pounds, and though she rocked a size twenty on a good day she refused to let weight become an obstacle keeping her from her goals.
Indeed, the waistband of her panties cutting into her flesh bothered her less at this moment than the sense of foreboding scratching at the back of her mind, seeking release in a wave of anxiety. People stared at her tropical skater dresses, all custom ordered online, with varying degrees of pity and amusement, but she’d long ago trained herself not to give a shit about what others thought. The kids adored her for her ability to transform them into heroes and princesses for a day—that buoyed her spirits more than the receipts at the end of their shift.
No, something felt off today, but everything in the parking lot of the St. Florence Community Center appeared normal. Winnie stepped away from their space for a moment to survey their surroundings. She saw thirty booths, arranged five in a row with room for attendees to roam in between, buzzing with activity as vendors unfurled banners and stacked wares. Booths were positioned on the grid according to their merchandise, with the largest of the community farms closest to the center’s main building. Culpepper Dairy and Levane Farms enjoyed the prime spots and displayed fresh root and leafy vegetables and berries, and grass-fed butter and cheeses every week.
Behind them, the goods from other vendors included tables heavy with artisan chocolates and bakery treats, local honey, craft beer, handmade soaps and lotions, and the artists on Winnie’s row: woodcrafts, organic wool clothing, and their face painting. She’d heard from somebody on the board of the community center that select food trucks would park on the perimeter starting next week, which pleased her. She looked forward to skipping a bagged meal of PBJ and carrots in favor of a hot brunch.
Marcella sidled up to her, twirling a brush. “You all right? You kind of spaced out there.”
“I don’t know. I have this feeling we’re missing something, or else something bad is going to happen.” She frowned and turned to her cousin. “Were we supposed to do a party today after this?”
“It’s not on the calendar, but I’ll double check if it will make you feel better.” Marcella handled the scheduling and financials for their two-woman operation, all on her tablet. The young woman minimized the application they used to accept credit card payments and called up the digital calendar. Marcella shook her head as she studied the boxes.
“Far as I know, we have one party for Sunday, that’s the next one after tomorrow, and then we’re doing the Trunk or Treat party at the church,” she said. “Oh, and the day before Halloween is the homecoming fair.”
“Right.” Winnie forced back a groan. She’d initially balked when Marcella booked Two Chicks, Two Palettes for the annual celebration for students and alumni at Coolidge High School, since their services were geared toward a younger audience. They painted Marvel masks and elaborate whiskers on little kids, certainly nothing a teenager or adult would want done. When Marcella pointed out this year’s theme for homecoming—Zombies Versus Aliens…kids these day, huh?—she stressed they’d make a killing applying pale complexions and fake festering scars to the student body.
Winnie rarely turned down a good paying gig, but the idea of setting foot on her old school grounds made her irritable. The kettle corn no longer smelled appetizing.
“Do you really need me for that?” she asked, more like whined, and returned to her station to set up her face posters. “The homecoming fair has so much going on to compete with us, and two people might be too many if the kids aren’t into—”
“Stop it.” Marcella’s voice lost her light, everything-is-awesome tone, and Winnie stood to attention. A look of concern, more angry than pitying, darkened Marcella’s face as she continued.
“You’re not going to do this to yourself. It’s four hours at the high school, and it’s been fifteen years since you graduated.”
“Fourteen,” Winnie offered wearily.
“Whatever. The point is, you are bigger than all the assholes who tried to tear you down. Oh, you know what I mean.” Marcella huffed at her word choice, and Winnie laughed, genuinely finding the gaff funny. She appreciated her cousin’s attempt at a pep talk, and yes, enough years had passed since her time in high school to dull the pain inflicted by bullies. Yet, once in a while she’d see something or somebody she used to know back then, and it triggered a bad moment.
Back in the day, fellow students snickered behind her back, and a handful of the truly bold saw no problem calling out her weight to her face. Winnie Sea Cow, as somebody scribbled on a textbook she’d left behind in Senior Advanced English, echoed in her head as a cruel taunt during her darkest moments. She combatted the ugly behavior of others through her art, losing herself in paints and chalks and oils. Her grades led her to some scholarship money for the nearby community college, but Winnie attained the best education for herself through perfecting her skills and hanging a shingle as a freelance designer. While former classmates toiled in cubicles and suits, she set her own hours doing what she loved most.
Over time, the hurt faded, and people who side-eyed her in the past now wanted to hire her for their kids’ parties. She took some satisfaction sending them bills for her services.
She’d have a great day at the weekly market, too, if she could only shake off this feeling of doom. The comforting scents of fresh kettle corn and lavender from the adjacent soap booth helped a bit, but once she sat at her chair she’d have to concentrate on her customers.
“I’ll be fine,” she told Marcella. “I just wish I could be sure I wasn’t forgetting something today.”
“Let’s see.” Marcella affixed the last of the posters to her umbrella post and perched in her chair. “You put food in the bowl for Zeppo.”
“Check.”
“Invoiced the Mexican restaurant for their ads.”
“Done.”
“Set up the account at that stock site.”
That had been Marcella’s idea, to sell original designs for people to download for website design. Winnie wasn’t sure if she’d make much with it, but figured the exposure might lead to more jobs. “That’s not priority, but I’ll do it.”
Marcella leaned over, and her lip twitched. “Your shoes match.”
“Funny.”
“Welp, whatever’s bugging you will have to wait because it’s eight o’clock and that means showtime.” Marcella flashed the jazz hands with a wide smile, then swiped a finger across the tablet to wake it up. Winnie looked out past their space to see cars pulling into spillover lot across the street. For the next six hours they’d sit and cater to kids, even the occasional teen, wanting a touch of whimsy to show off over the weekend. She wouldn’t mind it so much today since early October granted them cooler weather without leaving them broiling. She did hope for a lull in the action eventually, so she could browse the other booths.
As she thought about what she might get at one of the bakery setups, which offered sandwiches and soda, a man arrived with an elementary school-aged boy. Both wore black football jerseys emblazoned with the number twelve. Winnie didn’t follow sports but nobody had to explain the significance here.
Oh, lord. Another bad memory surfaced and she suppressed it quickly as she approached.
“Good morning. Looks like you could be my first customer today,” she told the boy. He had short blond hair and a gapped smile, a five-dollar bill tight in his fist. Enough for a half mask design, and it looked as though the boy eyed one of the colorful ninja masks. “What’ll it be?”
A shy one this time. Winnie was used to it, but sensed the boy’s excitement all the same. He chose a red eye mask and Winnie sat him in the chair to get to work. She selected the paint and brushes needed for the job, which usually took about five to seven minutes depending on whether the customer fidgeted.
“How about you, Dad?” Marcella offered the father. “You want to match completely, right?”
Winnie thought the man looked familiar but didn’t press for a name. People from St. Florence often stayed cradle to grave, or else moved a town or two over but came for all the events. This guy might have gone to her high school or hung out at all the popular teen spots.
He laughed and shook his head. “I’m good, thanks. We don’t usually come to the farmers market, but we heard Cory Levane was back in town, and the kiddo here wanted to meet him. We thought we’d take a chance at him showing up at his dad’s booth.”
The name knifed through Winnie’s gut. How had she missed the return of the hometown hero? As tuned in as one could get to the comings and goings around St. Florence without resorting to spy cameras on every building, she’d have thought this tidbit couldn’t slip under her radar. Her imagination kicked into overdrive, conjuring scenarios of a town-wide conspiracy to keep her in the dark about Cory’s visit.
Ridiculous, she told herself, shaking her head. The years of high school teasing notwithstanding, people in St. Florence were nice to her. Besides, nobody knew of her years of unrequited mooning over the star athlete—the no-hit pitcher, the first-string quarterback. He did it all.
He, far as she knew, had no idea what she’d discovered one day while standing within earshot of him. Water under the bridge now.
Scratch that first thing. Marcella glanced at her with saucer-round eyes and pursed lips as if to crow over the news. “Winnie, did you hear that?” she trilled. “Local boy does good, comes home to tell us all about it.”
“I heard,” Winnie said quietly, busying herself with her makeup. This boy wanted a ninja mask to put the terror in passing townsfolk, and by gum she wasn’t about to disappoint a paying customer.
“Well, we’ll make sure you’re gussied up right to meet your favorite football player. Huh, buddy?” Marcella bent over where the boy sat and laid it on thick. “Make sure you use enough black in the outline to really make it stand out, Win.”
Winnie said nothing, thinking of the black eye she wanted to give her cousin.
Four hours into their day at the booth, Winnie had painted about half a dozen ninja masks, two full-face cats with glitter whiskers, a Wonder Woman forehead crown, and several Queen Elsa tiaras. The steady stream of children coming into their space kept Winnie focused on the job and the money she and Marcella racked up in such a short time. She didn’t give Cory Levane another thought until her neighbor Sandy Brett brought over her kindergartner twin boys, Damien and Ty.
“We want to get cougar faces!” exclaimed one of them—Winnie never got them straight—with a mighty growl and claw hands raised in the air.
“I think we can manage that. Marcy, how about you take one, and I’ll get the other, and we’ll be done in half the time.” Winnie’s gut roiled as she set out her orange and black pots for the job. Cory had played for the Cougars, an expansion team that came into existence twenty years ago, for his entire career. It made sense, if the quarterback was making an appearance at his family’s stand today, for the kids to want to show their colors.
Get the man’s attention, get an autograph, maybe a selfie to share on Facebook and with Grandma. Enough girls back in high school had done much more than curl their lashes and powder their eyelids to get Cory to look their way. Winnie…well, she had been content to sigh from the sidelines and invent her own head canon where the lean, handsome football hero sighted her in a crowd and asked her out on a date.
Dream on. Winnie knew the score, not just the ones flashing on the board during home games. Her weight aside, she understood she had the personality of a gourd—quiet, squat, and always bright with embarrassment. Attempts at conversation in school and at lunch typically dissolved into awkward sentences, when she could string a full one together. She’d been more comfortable in the library with a book, or her sketchpad.
Freelancing in graphic design allowed her to work from home and communicate with clients via e-mail and video conferences, so that cut out in-person meetings, which she abhorred. The Saturdays spent with face painting she didn’t mind, since kids couldn’t talk while she slathered heavy makeup on their faces, and she hardly felt pressured to entertain them beyond making them look pretty and/or awesome.
When she finished Damien’s—or Ty’s, their mother never specified when she paid—face, she glanced at her watch. Noon, typically the time browsers drifted from the craft tables toward the edible goodies. A few of the food vendors offered sandwiches and soup to go, and people could either take it home or grab a nearby picnic table if they moved quickly. Winnie looked forward to the lull in foot traffic to Two Chicks, Two Palettes, and her stomach grumbled in anticipation of the peanut butter sandwich in her thermal lunch bag.
Marcy capped her paints and rinsed two of her brushes, setting them to dry before she sidled close to her. “So,” Marcy drew out the word for a few seconds, “Cory Levane.”
“Don’t,” Winnie warned.
“Cory the Q. Fleet of feet and the pride of St. Florence. Back home to rest on his laurels after a short but successful NFL career. You do know he’s recently retired, right?”
“I’m aware of that, Marcy.” Winnie didn’t follow the sport as religiously as most in town, but she occasionally browsed the sports tab of the online version of the local paper. Yes, if she saw a link to something on Cory, she clicked, because she did know him way back when and wanted to know how he fared. That wasn’t stalking.
Only if the article linked to a known sports source would she click, though. That one time she opened a gossip site to see Cory in a tux, his arm around some blonde in candy-red lipstick and little else, made her heart burst.
“Cory Levane,” Marcy said wistfully, “the one who got away.”
“Shut up,” Winnie snapped. “Nobody got away. You can’t say that unless a person actually had the other person first, and that obviously wasn’t the case. Besides, I don’t know why you get on my case every time Cory comes up in conversation.”
Marcy slouched in her director’s chair, elbow on the armrest and chin in hand. “You had a crush on him, is why.”
“Well, duh. Who didn’t, back then?”
“Well, me for one.” Marcy rolled her eyes, unrepentant. “I mean, Cory was good looking and all, but he was always blocking my view of Kev.”
Ah, yes. Kevin Hammer, running back for the Coolidge High Vipers, Student Council Sergeant-At-Arms, and originator of the slur that haunted Winnie for years every time she let down her guard. Well, she couldn’t exactly prove Kevin had written sea cow on her textbook, but he did have the English class after hers, sat in the same desk as her, and he hadn’t been shy about using the name to her face.
And of all the people to crush on him...her own cousin! Something had to be said for the fact Marcy didn’t own this small business, or anything else worth mentioning. Why am I even allowing her to manage the money?
As Winnie considered changing the password on the credit card reader app account, Marcy grabbed her purse and fished through the pockets with growing consternation. Winnie recognized the routine, how her cousin would feign looking for money she likely knew wasn’t there to begin with, then plea poverty to obtain a loan to buy lunch.
Three, two, one…. Now with the puppy eyes and pouty lip. Aw, even showing off the gaping recess of her bag as though a moth might flutter out of it.
Winnie nodded to her thermal bag. “I packed an extra sandwich, and it’s yours.”
“You know I can’t eat peanut butter, Win. My allergies?”
“It’s not a severe allergy, and you at least brought your EpiPen with you, right?”
Marcy huffed, fists on hips. “Win, I’m surprised at you. A peanut allergy is not a joke.”
“I also made a turkey sandwich. I had a feeling I’d need extra food for you.”
“Yeah, packed in a bag that also contains peanut butter. You might as well give me a bag of cyanide.”
Winnie refused to argue with her cousin. Were it not for Marcy’s above average face painting skills and her good nature around kids, she wouldn’t have the woman working these events with her at all. Despite the occasional fights over petty things, and the teasing, she loved family and she knew Marcy would have her back. She suspected, too, Marcy was aware of the main reason for her presence. She made an excellent buffer. The younger, slimmer woman could chat up the kids and their parents with ease, allowing Winnie to work in introverted silence.
Some days, though, to have the booth all to herself with blissful quiet, and all her change still in her pocket….
“Fine. I will see what’s out there that isn’t infested with peanut germs, or GMOs, or pesticides, or whatever the hell it is you’re abstaining from this week.” She’d cover the cost of lunch, again. Hand Marcy the only twenty in her wallet and she’d come back with bags of sweets from the bakery booths because Miss Emma’s fried cherry pies were just so good and she had to buy some because they’d definitely sell out while she waited in line to buy a salad.
Winnie set her hand-drawn Back in a Bit sign on her chair and set out in the opposite direction. Oh, she’d enjoy a fried fruit pie if she desired one and not fret the calories, but she found passing the booths of organic soaps and potpourri aided in a relaxed day. She took her time, browsing bars shaped like stars and valentines and farm animals before rounding the perimeter of the vendors’ area to where Levane Farms had their impressive setup. On approaching, her steps slowed and her heartbeat spiked. The tiptoe past the lavender and lemongrass had worked too well because she’d forgotten that Cory might be there, helping his parents bag purchases.
People crowded the tables, too many for Winnie to see activity on the service side. She saw back pockets aplenty—blue jeans and khaki slacks and shorts covering ample bottoms over dimpled knee backs and thick calves. She tugged on her oversized T-shirt, something old she didn’t mind getting smudged, in a poor attempt to conceal her own tushie. As often as she told herself to give zero cares for what others might perceive of her, the challenge of seeing confidence to goal proved a long road. Here she gazed at people of varying sizes and thoughts speared through her head—she was no better. No worse, either.
Levane Farms had a table to one side where they displayed freshly made salads and sandwiches in biodegradable to-go containers. A niece of the family—her name escaped Winnie—manned the area and handled transactions with a tablet, like Marcy did at her booth. Only three people waited, and Winnie didn’t see Cory’s familiar brawny form as she neared, so she released the breath she held and moved forward.
The girl wore a nametag, Winnie noticed by the time it was her turn. Everybody working the tables at the double-tented booth was labeled, a notion Winnie found odd considering the Levanes’ popularity in St. Florence. Maybe that wasn’t the right term to use—more like notability. Rare were the years when the city council didn’t have at least one Levane in office, and aside from the farm, the family operated other businesses around town. Levane Family Dentistry, Levane Auto Repair. They are our Kennedys, Winnie thought, without the ridiculous money and tabloid scandals and untimely deaths. Yet she found she needed the nametag system to remind her that Deborah now sold her a turkey and cranberry sandwich with herbed mayonnaise.
“Are you the lady who does the face painting?” Deborah swiped Winnie’s credit card through the square reader attached to a phone and turned the screen for Winnie’s forefinger signature.
“That’s me.”
“Can you do a full Spiderman face? My son has been begging to have it done, and he’s going to an early Halloween party at church later. I know he’d rather have the face paint than have to wear a mask.” Deborah bounced on the balls of her feet, and Winnie looked around to make sure nobody waited behind her to buy lunch.
“Of course. We’re here until the end of the business day. Just come by the booth.” She held up her container. “Thanks for this.”
“Do you take reservations over there? I know you all get busy. I don’t want him to miss out.”
“What’s your boy’s name?”
“Trevor. He’s four.” Deborah shrugged. “I don’t know if that makes a difference or anything.”
Winnie wanted to laugh. Since setting up Two Chicks, Two Palettes she’d fielded a number of questions one would consider odd. People approached her under the impression she charged according to the age of the child or the size of his face, or offered “family discounts” even though no DNA connected them—Winnie, we’ve been like sisters to your mother, surely that’s worth a deal.
“Not at all. It’s first come, first serve, and two chairs so it moves quick. A full face design is ten dollars flat.” Winnie backed away, nodding at Deborah and smiling with each step. “Come on by. Marcella or I will take care of him.” Her skin prickled. The act of standing close to one of Cory’s relatives aggravated her nerves. Granted, Deborah resembled nothing of her old high school crush—for all she knew, Deborah wasn’t an actual Levane but the niece of Cory’s mother or the wife of a Levane nephew—but the nametag and the logoed apron made her more of a Levane than her.
She’d never be a Levane by marriage. Winnie had put that idea out of her head a long time ago. She wanted to give Marcy her damn salad so she could have her lunch.
“Bye!” she called out and hightailed it back to her space before she caught a glimpse of two strong arms known for cradling a football toward the goal line…and embracing cheerleaders.
She got about half a dozen steps away, well out of the borders of the Levane booths when a familiar deep voice cut through the air.
“Hey, Deborah.”