EIGHT

Look Before You Buy

The next day, Asha and I are wandering through the bustle and noise of the Brooklyn Flea market while I regale her with the revelation that Mister Romance and Irish Kieran are the same man.

“Holy snapping duckshit, Edie, are you serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

She stops dead and whips off her Jackie O sunglasses in dramatic fashion. “So, that whole Kieran ploy was just to scope you out?”

“Seems that way.”

“And you went on your whole anti-love, fuck-relationships rant, and he stills said he’s going to win you over? Was he drunk?”

“He actually said he’s going to make me fall in love with him. Like this is some big game, and my affection is the prize.”

She gives me an incredulous look. “I hope he realizes he’s going to lose. Of all the women in the world to bet on going gooey for him, you’re the least likely. I invested two-hundred dollars into that date, thinking it was a down payment on a potential boyfriend for you. It turns out I was buying a delusional fool. God!” She stomps off while sucking angrily on her organic wheatgrass smoothie.

“To be fair,” I say. “You did get great value for money. I mean, that’s still forty-eight-hundred dollars less than his regular going rate.”

“And he’s not even Irish?”

“Nope.”

“Oh, man! I got all hot-and-bothered over his accent for nothing. What a dick.” She stops in front of one of the stalls and sniffs some homemade soap. “I was so sure he was into you, too. The way he spoke about you ... Edie, what I wouldn’t give for some guy to get that same wistful expression when he talks about me. Of course, I’d like it to be a real man with real emotions and not some faking faker who fakes, but still ...” She moves down the line of displays, smelling samples as she goes. “I’ll say one thing for Max – the dude is a committed actor. I was totally picking up what he was laying down.” She holds the soap out to me. “Ooh, smell this.”

I lean forward and breathe in, and I’m surprised that the familiar aroma gives me goosebumps.

“Lemongrass,” Asha says. “That’s exactly what Kieran ... shit, I mean Max smells like.” She pulls a couple of dollars out of her purse and hands them to the vendor.

“Why are you buying it if it reminds you of Max?” I ask.

She pops the soap into her tote. “He may be a dick, but he still smelled delicious.”

We head down the aisle of tents and browse the crazy collection of wares. It’s still early, so some people haven’t finished setting up, but if you ever doubted that Brooklyn has become the hipster capital of the world, you only need come to these markets to get proof. Everything is artisanal, free-range, and organic, even the furniture. There’s some dude selling cat-fur scarves. He doesn’t skin cats, mind you; that would be wrong on so many levels. No, he just spins the excess fur from his five Persians into wool and then lovingly knits it into neck warmers, no doubt while listening to sixties bands on vinyl and sipping his free-range, organic, recycled tea.

The mere thought makes me shudder.

Cat-man catches me staring and gives me a smile. Or, at least I think it’s a smile. His beard is so epic, it’s hard to tell.

“Pussy warmer?” he asks, gesturing to his collection.

I have a suspicion he started this whole thing for the express purpose of asking women that when they pass.

“No, thanks,” I say, trying not to act as skeeved-out as I feel. “I’m all good in the pussy wool department.”

Beside me, Asha snorts. “You can say that again.” As we walk away, she whispers, “This is your gentle sisterly reminder to get yourself a Brazilian. It’s been a while.”

“How the hell do you know my waxing schedule?”

“You walk funny the day after you get it done. That hasn’t happened in over a month.”

Dammit, she’s right. I make a mental note to schedule an appointment with Francesca as soon as possible.

We’re just about to reach the end of the aisle, when both of our phones ding. We stop and check our screens.

<No rush, but if U gurls cud cum b4 Xmas, that’d B gr8!!!!>

Asha and I turn to each other and say simultaneously, “Nannabeth,” and then pick up the pace.

“Why does she always have to text like a thirteen-year-old?” Asha asks.

“You know she dresses like a teenager. It’s only natural she should text like one.”

When we turn the corner, we head toward a large yellow tent, under which we can see Nannabeth bustling around, getting her wares organized for the morning rush. Today she’s wearing one of her tamer ensembles–a bright pink midriff top, floral overalls, and red Chucks. From this distance, when her back is turned, she even looks like a teenage girl. It’s only when you get closer and notice the wrinkly skin around her waist and the streaks of grey in her mess of curly red hair, that you realize she’s an old woman in disguise.

“Hey, Nannabeth!”

She turns, and when she sees us, her face lights up behind her trendy purple glasses.

“My girls! My beautiful but sleepy-headed girls. Thought you’d never get here. It’s almost lunchtime.”

She pulls us both into a hug, and as usual, we grunt in pain. The woman may be five-foot-three and would blow away in a strong breeze, but she’s still as strong as an ox.

“Nan,” I say, my voice straining beneath her vice-like grip, “It’s 7.30 in the morning, which is barely breakfast time. And to be fair, we were both up before six this morning, even though it’s Saturday.”

She pulls back and puts her hands on her hips. “Well, I’m up at 4am every day. I’ve told you girls before that life’s too short to spend it sleeping. Still, I’m grateful you could come and help today. I couldn’t cope without you.”

Nan usually has a couple of neighbors helping each Saturday, but occasionally they’re unavailable, and she gets Ash and me to step in. We don’t mind. Working with Nan is never dull.

“Okay, darlings,” she says as she grabs a nearby trestle table and unfolds its legs. “Help me get these up. I’m running behind. Moby was sick this morning, so I couldn’t get out of the house until he was all tucked into bed. Poor thing looked so small and pale when I left, I might have to duck home at lunchtime to make sure he’s okay.”

Asha and I exchange a smile as we set up the tables.

Nan saying she has to ‘duck home’ to check on Moby is hilarious, mainly because Moby is a duck. Think about that. She named him Moby Duck.

At first, Asha gave her props for her shout-out to Herman Melville, but Nan insisted she named him after the music artist. I thought she was kidding, until I discovered she does indeed have all of his albums. It still makes me laugh.

Another fun fact is that Moby is a girl. The duck, not the musician. When Nan first brought her tiny duckling home, she just assumed it was a boy, and by the time ‘he’ got around to laying his first egg, Nan was set in her ways and couldn’t face the inconvenience of a sex change. So, yeah. Moby has been Nan’s faux-transgender best friend and roommate since Grandad died, and Nan wouldn’t have it any other way.

I pull a tray of duck eggs out of a basket and place them carefully on the table. “Whoa. Moby’s been busy this week.”

Nan nods proudly. “He’s been binge-watching Game of Thrones. The stress of all the character deaths sometimes makes him pop twice a day. It’s fantastic for his laying but not so good for his blood pressure.”

It’s also hilarious that even though Nan has barely had a single sick day in all of her seventy-five years, Moby seems to be suffering from three or four chronic illnesses at any one time.

“So, Eden,” Nan says, as she stacks some crates to display her fruit and veggies. “How’s your love life? Found a nice boy yet?”

I sigh. “Nan, how come you always ask me that question and never Ash?”

“Because I know your sister is at least looking. You’re not.”

“So? You’ve managed to live a full and happy life without a man for over a decade.”

“It’s not the same. You don’t even have a duck.”

“I’ll go and get a duck today if it will stop you from hassling me about men.”

“Actually, Nan,” Ash says, shooting me a look. “Eden had a date last night.”

Nan stops dead and stares at me. “Eden Marigold Tate – why didn’t you tell me? I want to know everything.”

Asha pushes her sunglasses up onto her head before setting up Nanna’s cashbox. “Oh, Nan, this guy was hot. Like, seriously, stupidly hot.” She grabs her bag and fishes out her bar of recently purchased soap. “And the best thing was, he smelled like this.”

Nan takes a whiff then lets out a low whistle. “Wowee. Sounds like a dreamboat.” She turns to me and raises her eyebrows. “When’s the wedding? I need to buy a new pantsuit.”

I throw the cloth I was using to dust the table at Asha, who bats it away and giggles.

“Ash is exaggerating, Nan. He wasn’t all that. And he turned out to be a total douche, so I won’t be seeing him again.”

“Except you will be,” Ash says. “For at least three dates.”

“Different guy,” I clarify to Nan.

“Did he smell just as good as the first guy?” she asks.

Asha grins. “Yes. Maybe even better.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“She liked the first guy. She’s not that keen on the second guy.”

“Actually,” I say. “The second guy is just a business contact. I have no interest in him beyond a professional relationship.”

“But this business guy is still hot?” Nan asks.

“So hot!” Ash says.

Nan looks at her in confusion. “Then why isn’t she dating him?”

God, this conversation is going nowhere, fast.

“Nan, let me make this as simple as possible. I’m not dating anyone. I don’t wish to date anyone. I’m single and happy, and I’m not changing that any time soon. Don’t listen to a word Asha says. She’s just being a brat.”

Nan throws up her hands. “You girls go and get my hopes up just to shatter them like glass. You know I’m not going to be around forever, right? I’d like to hold at least one chubby grandchild before I die. Stop baby blocking me, and put those nice, young uteruses to good use!”

As frustrating as Nan’s obsession with my dating schedule is, I laugh as she continues to mumble about my aging baby-maker while we finish setting up.

Twenty minutes later, we’ve just gotten everything into place when customers start arriving, and the three of us go to work.

For years, Nannabeth’s stall has been one of the most popular at the market. Apart from her amazing range of fresh fruit, veggies, and herbs, she also has her own brand of honey. Believe it or not, she raises bees, right in the heart of Brooklyn. Amazing what you can achieve when you’ve lived in the same apartment building for sixty years and have claimed the entire giant rooftop as your own private hobby farm.

Down at the other end of the tent are several boxes of old records, as well as a collection of furniture pieces and bric-a-brac dating from the sixties to the eighties. All of the secondhand wares sell incredibly well, even the ugly stuff. Nothing is ever out of fashion in Brooklyn.

As the morning rush hits us, the first few hours fly by, but by mid-morning things have calmed down. We’ve just hit our first big lull when a familiar platinum blonde in head-to-toe Chanel approaches Asha. In the midst of the reclaimed, recycled, and pre-loved nirvana of the markets, she’s kind of out of place.

“Joanna!” Asha says, and I recognize that thing she does when she’s sort of pleased to see someone and sort of not. “Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here.” I wander over, and Asha grabs me by the arm. “You remember my sister, Eden. You guys met at last year’s Christmas party, remember?”

I wave and smile as Joanna almost squeals, “Of course! Hiiiiii, Eden!”

I remember Joanna well. When we first met, she’d gone into disturbing detail about how her ex-boyfriend had given her gonorrhea and that until she finished the medication, she had to keep extra underwear in her drawer at work ‘just in case’. Never having had gonorrhea myself, I had no idea what she was talking about. Then she drilled me for a solid ten minutes about my sex life, including a full assessment of how many STDs I’d had. It wasn’t fun. She’s one of those people who over-shares at every opportunity and expects you to do the same. She’s also constantly smiling and yet never seems happy.

“What are you doing here?” Asha asks. “I thought Midtown was about as far as you like to roam from the Upper East Side. Isn’t Brooklyn a little out of your comfort zone?”

Joanna nods and looks around as if she’s assessing an alien planet. “Yes, but you told me about how cute your Nan’s stall was, so I thought I’d come check it out.” She looks over to where Nan is dealing with a young couple looking at furniture. “Oh, my God. Are things so tight that she has to sell her furniture? That’s so sad.”

Asha laughs. “No. She just has a lot of elderly friends, and when they pass, she helps out their families by selling their possessions for top dollar.” Asha points at a small, scuffed mahogany plant stand. “She just sold that for two-hundred dollars.

Joanna scrunches up her nose. “Wow. But it’s, like, way old.”

“Yes,” I say. “Some would even say antique.”

“You know who has cool antiques?” Joanna asks, her face lighting up. “Pottery Barn. They look old, but they smell new. Your gran should totally check it out.”

“Yeah, Ash,” I say, nudging her with my elbow. “You should tell Nan about Pottery Barn. You know how much she loves it when people replace rather than recycle.”

Joanna spies the bottles of honey and grabs two. “Ooh! Honey facial, here I come.”

“Take your time browsing,” I say to Joanna as I tug on Asha’s arm. “We’ll be right over here if you need us.”

I pull my sister over to the produce section and keep an eye on Joanna as I whisper, “So, you guys are outside-of-work friends now? That’s a new twist.”

My sister gets the same expression she always does when she knows she’s done something wrong but doesn’t want to admit it.

“Ahhh, I might have invited her down here so she’d think we were friends.”

“And why would you do that?”

“Because, she has tickets to see Kingdom of Stone tomorrow night and I was angling to be her date.”

“What the heck is Kingdom of Stone.”

“A band. A really good one.”

Joanna glances over and waves at us. When Asha and I smile and wave back, she heads down to look at Nannabeth’s collection of homemade Fimo jewelry from the eighties. “So gnarly!” she squeals. “It’s like ugly-chic.”

I turn to Asha. “So, you prostituted yourself to see some band?”

“Not some band, Edie. The band. They’re the biggest thing to come out of the east village in years, and I happen to love their music.”

“And ...?” Knowing Asha, I’m sure there’s more to it than a few catchy tunes.

Asha slumps. “And I think I’m in love with their bass player. He’s gorgeous, and from reading articles about them, I think he has the soul of a poet. He writes a lot of their songs.”

“So you’re lusting after him? Okay. I can get on board with that. Does he have a girlfriend?”

She crosses her arms. “I’m not looking to be his girlfriend. I’m not one of those delusional women who thinks he’s going to bring me up onstage and fall in love with me. It’s a harmless rock star fantasy. Everybody has one. I remember when you used to have Justin Timberlake posters all over your room.”

“That’s different. JT could dance. There’s nothing sexier than a man who can dance.”

A short distance away, Joanna holds up an ugly flower necklace. “Girls! Don’t you just love it?”

“So much love,” I say, giving her a thumbs up.

“She’s not that bad,” Asha whispers. “Plus, she was the one who told us about Mister Romance, so I figure we kind of owe her one.”

Joanna walks over with her collection of items and drops them in front of us. “How much for all of this?”

Ash goes through her pile and adds everything up. “Thirty-five.”

Joanna reaches into her purse and pulls out some cash. “I think I’m going wear the flowery thing tomorrow night. Do you think?”

“Totally,” says Ash. “You should wear it with that cute red dress you rocked at work the other day.”

“Yes! So cute, right?” Joanna turns to me. “Did Ash tell you we’re seeing the Stoners tomorrow night?” When I hesitate, she says, “That’s what the fans call the Kingdom of Stone guys. I’m pretty sure they’re not real stoners. Or maybe they are. Who am I to judge, right? Anyway, I’m good friends with their manager, so if you want me to get a ticket for you, too, I totally could.”

“Uh ... thanks, but I don’t really know their stuff.”

She waves off my concern. “Who cares? They’re hot guys playing rock music. What’s not to like, right?”

I smile as I wrap up her purchases, and when I give them to her, she grabs my hand and leans forward in a conspiratorial way. “So, Eden, did Asha tell you about the whole ...” She looks around. “... Mister Romance legend?”

I take a quick glance at Asha, who nods. “Uh ... yes,” I say. “Thanks for the tip about him. I think it would make a great story.”

“No problem. And just so you know, if you need to, like, do some research or whatever, my cousin and her friends are having a big fundraiser thing next week, and I can totally get you an invite.”

Now my gratitude is real. I know I told Max I’d stop investigating the identity of his clients, but if I happened to be at a party and some of them were there, and I just happened to run into them ... well, that’s just a good old-fashioned coincidence, isn’t it?

“Wow, Joanna, that’s a great offer. Can I get back to you?”

“Sure. I’ll RSVP that I’m bringing another guest just in case, and if you decide not to go, Asha can come instead. There’ll be some rich single dudes there. Maybe even royalty. You never know what could happen.”

She lets go of my arm and shoves her purchases into her giant tote, and I realize Asha’s right – she’s not that bad. In fact, she might be useful in finding out some facts Max is hesitant to tell me.

“Hey, Joanna,” I say. “Why don’t you come over to our place tomorrow night and get ready there? Ash can do your hair, and we can have cocktails before you guys go to the concert.”

For a second, she looks shocked, but then her face breaks into a giant smile; a real one this time. “Are you serious? That would be ah-maaaaayzing! I’d love to! We’ll have such a good time!”

“Great. We’ll see you around six?”

“Yes! Perfect! See you then.”

She’s just about vibrating with excitement as she waves goodbye and walks away.

When she’s gone, Ash nudges me with her shoulder. “Aw, that was a nice thing to do. Are you getting soft in your old age?”

I glare at her. “You shut your filthy mouth, Asha Rose. You’ll ruin my reputation.”

* * *

I’m weaving through the waning afternoon crowd with fresh coffee for me, Nan, and Asha when I get a text from Nannabeth.

<Found a man 4 U. GORGEOUS! Lawyer!!! Single!!! Hurry bck b4 he leaves!!!!!>

I groan and drop my head back. I wonder how much time I could waste if I went all the way around the other side of the markets to get back. The only trouble is, the coffee would be cold by then, and I’d have to make another run. Still, if it helped me avoid Little Nanna Matchmaker...

I compromise by dawdling all the way back, and when I arrive, I’m relieved to see Nan is alone at the stall.

“Awww,” I say. “I missed him? Total bummer.”

I hand Nan a coffee, and she pats my forearm. “I’m immune to your sarcasm by now, dear, you should know that. Besides, he’ll be back. I’m going to sell some furniture for him next weekend, and he’s just gone away for a few minutes to organize someone to deliver it.”

I look around. “Where’s Ash?”

“Bathroom break, but she’s been gone longer than you. No doubt she’s found a clothing stall somewhere and is trawling it for vintage Valentino.”

“Oh, well. Her loss.” I put Asha’s coffee on the table and sip mine. Ahhhh, sweet caffeine. Normally, I’d have had four or five by now, but this is only number two. My brain sighs in relief.

When I look up, I see Nan’s smiling at me.

“What?”

She blinks, and I notice how her eyes are a touch misty. “Nothing. Just always surprises me how much you look like your mother when she was your age. Asha looks more like your dad, but you ... you’re a dead ringer for Liz.” She touches my face. “I wish she’d lived to see you girls grow into such beautiful young women.”

I pat Nan’s hand and smile back as best as I can. Thinking about Mom always makes my throat tight. “Yeah. Me, too.”

Mom was too young to die, and Ash and I were too young to lose her. Everything should have been different. She shouldn’t have had to kill herself working two jobs to keep our heads above water, and Dad shouldn’t have been a Houdini husband who disappeared whenever it suited him.

Ash blames it on them getting married too young, but I blame the swinging dick who broke Mom’s heart a little more each time he left.

“You finished your coffee?” Nan asks.

I take one final sip and nod.

“Good. Then go take off your smartass pants and put on some lip gloss. I want you to look your best for when Sean gets back.”

“Sure, Mah,” I say in my best redneck accent. “Ah’ll go pretty mahself up, so the hawt cowboy you wanna sell me to can check mah teef befow he rahds me!” I’m in the middle of a gross yokel guffaw when Nan’s eyes go wide as she focuses on a point over my shoulder.

I stand up straight and drop the act. “He’s right behind me, isn’t he?”

Nan winces and nods.

A deep voice says, “So, I’m the cowboy in this scenario? Do I have to wear chaps and a hat? Because as luck would have it, I own both.”

The familiar resonance sends a shiver up my spine, and sure enough, when I turn I see Max standing there, an amused smirk on his face.

What the hell is he doing here? Did he really go to all of the trouble of tracking down my grandmother, so he can recruit her in his quest to make me see the error of my anti-romance ways?

A flush of anger fills me. Involving my Nan like this feels like a violation. He’s had the balls to lecture me several times about professional behavior, and then he does something like this? Not cool.

“Oh, Sean,” Nan says as she sidles up to him. “There’s that sense of humor again. Women love witty men. By the way, this is my lovely granddaughter, Eden.” Nan smiles and through gritted teeth says, “Say hello, Eden.” Then she leans over and whispers, “Isn’t he handsome?”

Max holds out his hand and acts innocent. “Very nice to meet you, Miss ... uh ... Eden.” It ridiculous how awkward he sounds calling me by my first name.

I ignore his hand and go for a level-ten glare instead. “Oh, please ... Sean, is it? Feel free to call me Miss Tate.”

“Or call her anytime!” Nan says with a giggle. “She’s single.” When neither Max nor I laugh, she glances between us. “Wait, do you two know each other?”

“No,” I say. “I’ve never met Sean before. Wow, you’re a lawyer, huh? Impressive. Perhaps you can enlighten me – what can I do if a guy is stalking me?”

“Well, first,” he says in his calmest voice, “you’d have to establish that his presence is nefarious and not just a coincidence.”

“That’s unlikely.”

“Not really. If two people live in the same area, it’s conceivable they’d run into each other from time to time.”

“After not running into each other for years before that? Seems strange.”

“Perhaps he’s recently moved to the area.”

“And perhaps he’s full of horseshit.”

He tilts his head. “Not bullshit?”

“I thought horseshit would be more appropriate, considering the whole cowboy thing.”

Nan continues watching us like a tennis match, until a couple of girls wearing flowers in their hair pick up some herbs and wave at her.

“Well, if you’ll both excuse me,” she says, giving one more glance between us. “I have customers to attend to. Eden, don’t forget to get a contact number for Sean before he leaves. See you next weekend! We’re going to make you some money.”

When she’s out of earshot, Max goes to say something, but I cut him off. “How dare you use my grandmother to get to me!”

“Miss Tate –”

“I mean, seriously. She’s an old woman whose only wish is to see me married off and churning out tiny, red-headed babies. She doesn’t need Sean the lawyer coming in here and being all tall and single.”

“I didn’t –”

“I know you’re probably nervous about convincing me that your whole romance shtick isn’t a con, but clearly we need to set some professional boundaries about how and when we contact each other, because I find this totally unacceptable. Call me on the phone. Don’t just show up and charm my Nan into liking you.”

“That wasn’t my –”

“I can’t believe you’d just ...” I’m shocked into silence when Max takes a step well inside my buffer zone and whispers, “Miss Tate, if you don’t stop and listen for five seconds, I’m going to kiss the hell out of you in front of your gran then drop to one knee and propose. If you think she’s obsessed with marrying you off now, imagine what she’d be like after that.”

He’s so close it takes me a second to get used to the heat of his proximity. “You wouldn’t.”

“Keep talking and find out.”

“You agreed you wouldn’t kiss me.”

“On a date. Since we’re not on a date right now ...”

“Seems like you’re just looking for an excuse to kiss me, Mr. Riley.”

“I’m not, but if that’s what it takes to get a word in, I’m willing to take the hit.”

Looking up at him like this is uncomfortable on my neck, but I’ll be damned if I’m the first one to step back.

“Wow, you sweet talker. I can see what all the ladies see in you. I’m swooning so hard right now.”

“I assume your failure to stop means you’d like to find out how my mouth tastes? Maybe it’s you who’s looking for an excuse.”

I tell myself that threatening to shut someone up with a kiss should not be sexy. Unfortunately, my body doesn’t listen. He stares, waiting to find out what I’ll do, and I deliberately press my lips together to show him I’m done. I’m still not moving back, though. He can be the one to retreat.

I hold my breath for the full three seconds he takes to register my compliance, and then exhale as he finally steps back.

“Now,” he says, “if you care to know the truth, I came down here today because a friend recommended Nannabeth as someone who could sell secondhand furniture fast and for a decent price. I had no idea she was your grandmother, until I returned from my phone call to find you doing your best Jerry Lewis impersonation.”

“It was Lucille Ball mixed with Holly Hunter, actually, but whatever.”

“I know this may be hard to believe, Miss Tate, but my world doesn’t revolve around finding excuses to spend time with you. I have a life outside of my work and separate from your story, so if you’ve finished yelling at me, I have better things to do than stand here and argue.”

He’s about to leave when I say, “Why are you selling your furniture?”

He looks back at me and hesitates before saying, “For personal reasons.”

“It just seems strange to me that someone who earns as much as you would need to sell furniture on the side.”

“I inherited some pieces. I’d rather sell them through Nannabeth than worry about registering with a dealer or auction house.”

“Because then you don’t have to give your real name?”

“That’s part of it, yes.” He takes a step back. “Oh, and just so you’re clear on when and how I’m going to be contacting you in the near future, you’ll receive an email from me tomorrow about the etiquette of our upcoming dates. Please read the guidelines carefully and commit them to memory. I’ll call you tomorrow night to discuss them and answer any questions you might have.”

I don’t know why I bristle from his assumption that I won’t have anything better to do on a Sunday night than talk to him, but I do, and without thinking too much about it I say, “I’m not available tomorrow night. I’m going to a concert.”

He pushes his hands into his pockets. “Let me guess –Kingdom of Stone.”

“How did you know?”

He looks over at the line of clouds forming on the horizon. “I think half the women in Manhattan are going. I’d considered taking a client, but if you’re going to be there …”

“You don’t think I could maintain a professional distance?”

“I think it would be a challenge for you.”

“Would you prefer it if I didn’t go?”

He gives a one-shoulder shrug. “I won’t presume to tell you what to do, Miss Tate. I’ll make other arrangements.”

“Don’t,” I say. Getting a chance to see him in action is too good to pass up. “I don’t care about the band, so don’t change your plans because of me. I have plenty of work I can do at home.”

A look of relief settles on his face. “Okay. That’d be great. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Will you be available to talk Monday morning?”

“Sure.”

He walks over to the back of the tent and picks up a paper carry bag overflowing with fresh flowers. “Nannabeth stashed these for me earlier.”

“They’re gorgeous,” I say. “Are they for a date?”

He gives me a serene smile. “Goodbye, Miss Tate. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

He walks down the aisle, and I’m ashamed to say I watch his back until he disappears.

I’m still staring off into space when Asha gets back.

“What did I miss?” she asks, carrying two bags filled with clothes. Guess Nan was right about where she’s been.

“Could you call Joanna?” I say. “I’m going to need a ticket to that concert tomorrow night after all.”