Chapter Sixteen
KURT DROVE LEANNA home Thursday morning to prepare for her meeting with Mama’s Market. She’d gathered samples of each jam in a pretty basket and, dressed in a sundress and sandals, wore her hair loose. Traffic was light on the way to Yarmouth, and she arrived early. She hadn’t been nervous on the way, but now, as she entered the one-story office building, her stomach coiled tight. She felt Al’s presence, as if he were right there with her, and she drew confidence from the feeling. She had envisioned a sweet old couple sitting on a couch in a house set off the beaten path, with a garden out front and cats romancing the property. After all, the Mama’s Market in Wellfleet was run out of a small house at the end of the parking lot behind an old white church off of Main Street. The produce and breads were sold out of baskets perched on long wooden tables with tablecloth coverings. They didn’t even use a cash register. The staff calculated customer totals with paper and pencil.
Simple. Efficient. Friendly.
That was one of the reasons Leanna had decided to try to meet with them first. She figured that they’d be an easy sell. She was simple, efficient, and friendly. It seemed like a good match.
She walked through the glass door and into their office. A red and white hand-painted sign that read MAMA’S MARKET hung above a reception desk. The pretty blonde behind the desk smiled as she greeted Leanna.
“Welcome to Mama’s Market.” She glanced briefly at her computer. “You must be with Luscious Leanna’s Sweet Treats.”
“Yes. I’m Leanna Bray. I have a meeting with Leslie Strobe.”
The blonde nodded. “I’ll get him for you. You can have a seat if you’d like.” She picked up the phone and notified someone of Leanna’s arrival.
Him? Leanna had pictured Leslie as Mama, the elderly wife of the couple she’d envisioned.
A man about Kurt’s age, wearing dress slacks and a white button-down, short-sleeved shirt, appeared in a doorway behind the reception desk. He had closely shorn dark hair and squinty dark eyes.
“Leanna?”
And a voice as soft as butter. The muscles in her neck tightened as his eyes slid to the basket she carried. She felt underdressed and underprepared. “Yes. Hi.”
“Leslie Strobe. Nice to meet you. Come on back, and we’ll get started.”
She followed him through a hallway lined with photographs of Mama’s Markets—several of them, not just the one in Wellfleet. She swallowed hard. Breathe. Oh please, breathe. I can do this. She remembered a story Al had told her about the first time he brought his jams to the flea market, and she drew on the memory. They were good, Leanna. That’s all I had to remember. It wouldn’t matter what I said, as long as I could get customers to taste them.
He led her into a conference room where two men and a woman, all dressed in business attire—starched collars, dark suits—sat around a large conference table. The woman wore high heels and lipstick. Lipstick? No one wore lipstick on the Cape. No one wore business suits, either, at least not that she’d ever witnessed in Wellfleet and the surrounding small towns. I’m so out of my league. She ran her hand down her dress, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles in an effort to calm her nerves.
“Leanna Bray, this is Teddy Strobe, my sister and partner in Mama’s Market; Chester Magnus, our CFO; and Brian Warren, our marketing manager. You probably already know that we cover fifteen states and thirty-seven cities, and as of next week, we’ll be in two additional locations.”
She contemplated telling them the meeting was a big mistake and leaving, but if she was ever going to make her mark, she had to at least try. Al’s words pulled her forward. It wouldn’t matter what I said, as long as I could get customers to taste them.
“Hi. It’s very nice to meet each of you.” With her heart in her throat, she set the basket on the table and did her best to envision them wearing shorts and T-shirts and sitting around a picnic table. It didn’t work. They sat with their hands politely folded on the expensive conference table in a room that smelled of success and intimidation.
In the space of a breath she thought of Kurt—You’re perfect—and used his faith to anchor her confidence.
“Thank you for meeting with me today.” To settle her nerves, as she spoke, she emptied her basket of the samples, plates, and silverware she’d brought. “I make all of my own jams, and I’ve got a number of flavors that I think you’ll find unique.”
She opened the jars and the bread she’d baked and sliced and set them in the middle of the table. Leslie reached for a slice of bread and spread jam thickly over the top. The others followed.
“I work with fresh berries during the summer, and I plan on using frozen berries in the winter. There’s no difference in the final product, as the frozen berries will be whole and packaged without sugar or syrup.”
Leslie took a bite of the bread and his eyes widened. He glanced at Teddy, who smiled and nodded as well; then they both turned their attention back to Leanna.
With her confidence bolstered, she continued. “I make my own pectin, and I only use it when making low-pectin fruit jams, such as apricot, blueberry, peach, or pear. With higher-pectin fruits like ripe apples, cranberries, plums, or gooseberries, there’s no need for added pectin. If they’re not overripe, of course, then they have enough natural pectin and acid for gel formation with only added sugar.”
“Leanna, this jam is remarkable. Very sweet, perfectly textured, and the bread is delicious. You made the bread as well?” Leslie’s voice was serious, and as he wiped his mouth with a napkin, he held her gaze.
“Yes. I make the bread and the jam.” Breathe. Breathe.
“And where are you manufacturing the product?” Teddy asked.
The word product threw her off. “The jam? I make it in my cottage, which is in Wellfleet—another reason I thought this might be a good fit.”
“And do you have backup for power outages during the winter?” Teddy asked.
“Backup? No. I’m afraid I don’t, but my kitchen has been certified by the town of Wellfleet for summer production.” Has the cottage ever lost power in the winter? Will I be here in the winter?
“How do you handle returns? If we were to purchase a batch of jam and it was found to weep, we assume that would be easily and expediently replaced.” Teddy glanced at handwritten notes in a notebook on the table and then met Leanna’s gaze again.
“Weeping? I control weeping with the acidity of the juice and ensure that the jars are properly stored. Without temperature fluctuation, there should be no loss of liquid, or what you refer to as weeping.” Aw, heck. I don’t control the temperature of the cottage. I don’t even use air-conditioning. She made mental notes about their concerns to address later.
“If weeping were to occur, how quickly would we see the replacement stock?” Teddy made a notation in the notebook.
Leanna’s pulse raced. “I could have a batch ready in twenty-four hours, assuming I had the appropriate ingredients in stock.”
“Do you have an ingredient list, product list, and preparation outline that we can review along with prices and delivery times?” When Teddy asked the questions, Chester and Brian leaned forward and picked up their pens.
“I…um…No. I’m sorry. But I can get that to you next week.”
Brian and Chester made notations on their notepads, and Leanna felt as though she were being sucked into a dark hole and clamoring to remain on level ground. I can do this. I can do this. I’m perfect. She took a deep breath. Okay, clearly not perfect, but good enough to do this right.
“I apologize. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I approached your company with the proposal. To be honest, I thought I’d be meeting with an elderly couple in their home. They’d sample my jams and bread and maybe agree that we were a good match.” She crinkled her nose out of habit and silently chided herself for doing it. She knew it made her look young and inexperienced.
“Then our branding worked perfectly,” Brian said as he clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. When he smiled, it softened his chiseled features, and instead of looking fifty-something he looked to be in his late thirties—and maybe not quite so stoic.
Leslie laughed. “That it does, Brian. Mama’s was actually named for our great-grandfather’s cow. It’s a long story. It started out as a milk market, but by the time we took it over, the name was well known and respected.” He shrugged, as if that was all the explanation she needed.
Which it was.
Lesson learned. Research is important. She made a mental note not to take Bella’s word for anything ever again. Mama’s Market is owned by this old couple out in Yarmouth.
Leanna drew her shoulders back and began gathering her supplies, leaving the jams and bread for them.
“I believe in my products, and though this business is quite new to me, I plan on making a career out of it.” She hadn’t realized how certain she was, or that she even had a real plan, until that very moment, and she was as sure of it as she was about loving Pepper, which spurred her to continue.
“I will address each of these issues, and if you liked my product, then I’d appreciate the opportunity to discuss this with you further in the near future, when I have addressed your concerns.” She surveyed their expressions as they exchanged looks she couldn’t read any better than she could sweep a sandy deck.
“Your products are excellent. We’d welcome a future meeting with you.” Leslie and the others stood, indicating a clear end to the meeting.
“Thank you.” She breathed a sigh of relief and tried to hide her trembling hands by holding the basket against her hip as she shook hands with each of them.
“The first bite of the strawberry-apricot jam has a strong strawberry taste. How do you achieve such a smooth apricot finish?” Leslie asked.
“Leslie.” She flashed her sweetest smile. “You’re not asking me to give away my secrets, now, are you?”
A smile found his serious eyes.
“If you thought that flavor was interesting, wait until you try Frangelico Peach.” She pointed to the jars of jam on the table. “The one with the peach ribbon around the jar. Try it. I’d love to know what you think.”
He nodded. “Thank you. I’ll drop you an email and let you know. In the meantime, good luck. I think you’ll have a killer business on your hands once you see it as a business rather than a hobby.”
Ouch.
“Honesty. I like that.” Leanna shook his hand again, trying her best to mask the pain of his comment. “I assure you, this is far more than a hobby. I’ll be in touch.”