Текст книги "New Amsterdam: Tess"

Автор книги: Ashley Pullo

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 9 страниц)

Levi hugs the bag to his chest with an adorable smirk just as a customer approaches the counter.

“Is this honey kosher, dear?” asks the lady with brightly-patterned culottes.

Turning to the customer, Levi asserts, “Kosher honey is great for seasonal allergies.”

“Oh?” She beams.

“But you’ll need to buy a ton in order for it to work.” Nodding his head while turning back to Thessaly, he hums quietly, “Gonna eat me a lot of peaches, Tess.”

Arching an eyebrow, Thessaly places Levi’s business card in the slim pocket of her black pants and hooks the wire basket on her arm. She watches as Levi walks backwards out the door, clinging the paper bag to his chest, and mouthing, “All honey is kosher.”

Laughing, Thessaly leads the customer to the shelves near the kitchen and says, “This entire wall is kosher and gluten-free.” Replacing the remaining honey jars from Levi’s basket on the bottom row, she adds, “Let me know if you would like a sample.”

“Oh, yes, please. Try it before you buy it,” the customer sings.

“Right,” Thessaly mocks.

Leaving Ms. Culottes to read the ingredient labels, Thessaly wanders to the front of the store to replace the jars of unpurchased jam. As she organizes the shelves and hums, “Movin’ to the country, gonna eat a lot of peaches,” there’s a knock on the large window.

Turning toward the window, she finds Levi, waggling his eyebrows and grinning mischievously. With the jam jar in his hand, he unscrews the lid, dips his index finger in the sticky mixture, and then methodically sucks the confection from his finger.

Watching as he licks his lips, Thessaly shouts, “That’s what the fancy knives are for, Levi Jones.”

“What dear?” interrupts the kosher honey lady.

“Nothing,” Thessaly mumbles, placing her hand on the window.

Separated by a single pane of tempered glass serving as both a barrier and a prism of self– reflection, Levi and Thessaly stand on opposite sides of the window – trapped in a suspension of hypothetical outcomes controlled by the fictional rules of a looking glass.

Declaring what he wants, Levi places his hand on the window . . . and then walks away.

Switching hands, Meg asks, “Why am I pulling the wagon?”

“Because your ass bounces like basketballs when you do it.” Seth teases.

Schlepping the wagon toward the kitchen, Meg flicks his arm and shouts, “I’m reporting you to management!”

Trying to get their attention, Thessaly waves her hand and points to the phone pressed to her ear. “Guys, shh. I’m on the phone with Lois.” Seth grabs a stool and sits next to Thessaly to listen. “Sweetie, that’s horrible. What about her dad?” Thessaly continues.

Seth frowns and shakes his head.

“Oh, I didn’t know that, I’m sorry. Please take a few days off – Christina needs you.” Thessaly pauses to listen to Lois while picking petals from a wilting sunflower. “Can I stop by this weekend? Okay, I’ll do that – hang in there, Lois.”

As Thessaly ends the call and places her phone on the island, Seth asks, “Why did you ask about her husband?”

“Because I didn’t know they were separated!” she shouts defensively.

“Not separated – the asshole just disappeared. What’s going on with Christina?”

“It’s not good. Christina stole a lot of cash last week, and then Lois found drugs yesterday.” She sighs.

Returning from the kitchen with three bottles of water, Meg asks, “It’s drugs, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, Lois found an entire pharmacy of prescription pills.” Thessaly exhales and opens a bottle of water. “Poor Lois. It can’t be easy being a single mom with a teenager.”

Seth slouches over the island and rests his head on his arm. “Shit, what can we do?”

“The only thing we can do right now is support her – she’ll have to make some very difficult decisions in the next few days.”

Leaning against the island and gulping the remnants of her water bottle, Meg adds, “Agreed. I had a friend in high school that was into hardcore drugs and he would do practically anything for his next fix. His parents eventually pressed charges just to get him into a rehab program. I think his dad eventually had a massive heart attack.”

“Hey, Meg, please don’t tell Lois that story.” Seth scowls.

“It’s the reality, dude!” Meg exclaims.

Fidgeting on her stool, Thessaly requests, “Let’s change the subject. How was the market?”

“Did you see the video we made?” Seth nudges Thessaly in the side. “Very film-noir if you ask me. And we sold everything but the two jars I gave away to some Swedish tourists.”

Rolling her eyes, Meg removes a compact from her makeup bag and snickers. “And by Swedish, he means a group of gorgeous blond chicks.”

“I watched the video! Never underestimate the cinematic appeal of an outdoor market on a gorgeous summer day,” Thessaly jokes.

“And never underestimate the appeal of overpriced hand-crafted jam in the hipster capital of the world.” Seth stands and pats Thessaly’s head. “Let’s go, ladies. I’m starving.”

“You coming, Tess?” asks Meg, applying pink lip gloss.

“Oh, I need to catch up on a few things in the shop.”

Frowning, Seth whines, “Turning me down is getting old, Tess. Change it up occasionally.”

Wrapping her arm around Seth’s waist, Meg pouts her glossy lips and teases, “Poor Seth, always getting shot down by beautiful women. Hey, Tess, what happened with that ice cream guy?” Meg’s eyes flutter as she waits for an answer.

“Mr. Softee?” Seth asks.

“There is nothing soft about ice cream guy!” Meg blurts.

Casually, Thessaly replies, “Ice cream guy is really cool. He runs Brooklyn Soil – that rooftop farm at the Navy Yard.”

Clapping her hands, Meg shouts, “He’s perfect! You can trade stories about crops and shit. Did he ask you out?”

“He did, I think. And as soon as I’m not bogged down with the Wild Honey launch, maybe I’ll call him.” Thessaly stands from the island and nudges her friends toward the door. “Go have dinner and relax – y’all did good work today.”

Seth bites the air. “You’re so sexy when your deep-fried accent seeps through.”

Laughing, Thessaly quips, “Go on. Git on outta here, boy.”

Over her shoulder, Meg reminds Thessaly of the following day’s schedule. “Wedding planner at two – I’ll help you set up in the morning. Good night, Tess.” Meg shoves Seth out the door and locks it behind her. Normally Meg would stay and help Thessaly prepare for a tasting at The Hive, but something about the cool breeze and the promise of lobster rolls steers her away from the shop. But more than likely, it’s the company of a redheaded Jewish computer geek that excites her.

As soon as her friends leave, Thessaly syncs the Bluetooth speakers to a Spotify playlist they would find ridiculous – John Mayer, Mumford and Sons, and some Indigo Girls thrown in for folky-fun. Swaying her hips to the sexy bass notes of Marcus Mumford, Thessaly wipes the marble counters with a checkered dish towel while dancing around the island.

In the kitchen, she flips a batch of cooled cornbread onto a small butcher block. Taking a beehive-shaped cookie cutter, Thessaly cuts five individual servings of cornbread, and then carefully places them on a platter to be warmed before tomorrow’s meeting. Scraping the leftover crumbles into a basket for Seth to eat for breakfast, she then covers everything loosely with plastic wrap.

Opening the cabinets, Thessaly selects a set of magenta glasses for the peach tea that will brew overnight. She also grabs four black dessert plates, the color being the perfect contrast against the golden cornbread and colorful jams. After placing the dishes on a wicker tray atop the workstation, and adding four yellow napkins, Thessaly rummages for a sleeve of Starburst she keeps hidden in a canister above the stove.

While removing the yellow wrapper of the unpopular lemon square, her phone buzzes on the counter with an incoming text.

Mason. She sighs, glancing at the vase of peonies that were delivered to her earlier.

Mason: Dinner?

Staring at the text while the tart juice of the lemon Starburst seeps from the corner of her mouth, Thessaly makes a bold decision.

Tess: I can’t tonight.

She opens the dreaded orange square next, always saving the red and pink for last. Popping it into her mouth, Thessaly’s phone dings.

Mason: I’ll come to you.

Knowing that he usually does whatever he wants anyway, Thessaly agrees.

Tess: My apartment in an hour?

Mason: I’ll bring wine.

Thessaly doesn’t respond to the last text, wondering why the man she spent seven years with would bring wine to a girl that hates grapes. Cupcakes, pie, even Sno-cones would have been a more natural gift for Thessaly Sinclair.

Shutting off the lights to the kitchen, but distracted by the wilting sunflowers on the island, Thessaly presses the record button on her phone. “Switch the flowers.”

She powers off the speakers, latches the screen door, shuts off the tiny chandelier in the vestibule, sets the security alarm, and then locks the outer steel door behind her. Seth’s bike is still leaning against the window, so she checks the U-lock attached to a pipe, and then makes her way up Fulton.

The last time Mason came to her Pearl Street apartment, they had unemotional, senseless sex. Less than a year ago, Thessaly was dining with a family friend at a Downtown restaurant when Mason staggered into the bar with a group of stockbrokers in custom suits. Mason noticed Thessaly immediately, always drawn to her light hair and fair skin – my naughty angel, he often called her.

But he didn’t approach her. Instead, he sent a drink to her table – strawberry vodka lemonade rimmed with extra sugar.

“From an admirer at the bar,” the waiter had said.

Thessaly knew instantly who sent the drink, as this was the exact cocktail she ordered on their first night in Manhattan – the same fruity drink Mason teased her about for months. She thanked the waiter and continued the dinner with her friend. But as the evening progressed, and a few glances were exchanged between Thessaly and her admirer, the sexual tension became unbearable. Declining dessert and saying goodbye to her friend, Thessaly eventually made her way to the lounge. She quietly sat at the opposite end, ordered a cocktail of pineapple vodka, threw it back in two gulps, and then slapped a ten on the bar. Full of confidence, she went straight for what she wanted. But as she tapped Mason on the shoulder, her heart raced and her skin prickled with a fiery twinge. They were not a couple anymore, and most likely, never would be again.

“Hiya,” he’d slurred.

“Hey,” she’d replied.

“Let’s get out of here,” he’d demanded.

Taking her familiar hand, Mason led Thessaly through the group of colleagues, knowing the immature assholes would high-five each other in his wake. Once they were outside the restaurant, the two former lovers kissed – Thessaly’s breath sweet and fruity, and Mason’s lips burning from the expensive brandy. Their arms groped each other tightly while their hands teased and fondled their favorite spots. Walking the two blocks to Thessaly’s apartment was painfully intolerable, so as soon as they entered the elevator in her building, clothes were ripped and removed.

And then they fucked.

Against the door. On the couch. And hunkered over the steps leading to her elevated bed.

It had been a night of carnal pleasure shared between two strangers that sort of loved each other. There was a level of trust that allowed them to cross every conceivable boundary yet still remain comfortable.

Lying in bed, sated yet confused, Thessaly quietly asked Mason the important question. “What exactly happened?” she’d probed.

“You didn’t touch that stupid drink. I saw you differently – you weren’t Tess Sinclair the adorable honey heiress, you were a sexy woman I wanted to fuck,” he’d explained flatly.

Had she changed? Or had she actually conquered New York on her own? Either way, Mason had tested her intentions and gave her hope all in the same breath that night. And even now, as she crosses the street to meet her former lover in control of their confusing relationship, Thessaly wonders if she should quickly shave her legs and change into a lace thong, or make some biscuits with honey butter and get out the wedding magazines.

Approaching the steps to her apartment building, Thessaly spots the man with the peacock feathers lounging on the tiny camping stool against the wall of the next building. Stretching out his long, tan legs, he glances at Thessaly, and then returns his attention to a cardboard sign in his lap.

Walking toward him, Thessaly says with a friendly smile, “We meet again.”

Looking up from the cardboard sign briefly, the man smirks. Returning his attention to the sign, he takes a long string, wraps it around the end of a marker, pierces a hole through the cardboard, and then ties the string to the sign. Flipping it around and displaying it on the wall beside him, Thessaly bends to read the text.

LOVE IS ____________

The man offers Thessaly the marker, but she retreats in fear.

Not wanting to scare her away, the man tries to lighten the mood by writing: Starbucks.

Embarrassed and offended by his attempt at humor, Thessaly backs away from the alcove and rushes to the safety of her apartment building.

Asshole. He doesn’t know me.

Love is Starbucks? Ha! With extra caramel, maybe.

What is love?

Love is . . .

“Love is a battlefield,” she blurts.

Taking the stairs to clear her head, Thessaly tries to imitate Pat Benatar, but her pitchy voice echoes throughout the stairwell. When she reaches her floor, she grabs an invisible microphone and performs a dramatic finale before opening the door.

Inside her apartment, Thessaly lights a candle that promises to bring the allure of a Bahamian vacation, lowers her shades, and powers on the Bose speakers. Dancing to her favorite R.E.M. song, she removes her bra and changes into a flouncy kimono shirt and red leggings. Pleased with her casual yet chic attire, she darts to the bathroom to freshen up. She brushes her teeth, spritzes on some perfume, and tops off her you-know-you-want-me look by applying ruby red lipstick.

Hyper but still needing a quick fix, she settles for a can of whipped cream stashed in the refrigerator. Careful not to smear her lipstick, she sprays the cold cream in her mouth and swallows. Replacing the cap to the can, she tosses it back in the refrigerator just as there’s a knock on the door.

Shit!

She takes a deep breath and then unlocks the door. Leaning against the door frame with a cocky smile is Mason, dressed in a white dress shirt and loosened tie. He runs his hand through his chestnut hair, and then guides Thessaly back into the apartment with his body.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” she replies.

Dropping a small white bakery box tied with floss to the floor, Mason presses her against the living room wall and breathes into her hair. “Dessert.”

“My first acting audition as an adult was for an off-Broadway play in the role of Hooker #2. I didn’t get the part.”

Chapter Five

 “But it was good, right?”

“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Debating whether or not it was good is a waste of time – it was sex.”

“So it was good,” Seth stresses with a grin.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Seth. We can’t do this – I barely like you.” Meg jumps from her bed, yanking the sheet from Seth to drape around her naked body like a giant cape.

Grabbing his boxers from the floor, Seth slowly stands up and stretches. “Oh, you like me. You like my tongue all over your breasts, and you really like my dick jammed . . .”

“Ohmigod, no.” Meg shakes her head as she darts to the bathroom. Slamming the door and locking it behind her, she shouts, “You should leave.”

Meg lowers the sheet and stares at her figure in the full-body mirror behind the door. She hasn’t worked out in years, and it’s slowly beginning to show. Places that used to be firm and tan are now freckled and flabby. Meg cups her breasts and sighs, watching in horror as her boobs lose their perkiness and her stomach puckers.

“Meghan?” Seth says outside the door.

“Go home, Seth!” Meg snaps.

Starting the shower, Meg waits several minutes before getting in. After feeling the vibration of the front door slamming, she jumps in the scalding hot water to wash away her confusing thoughts.

It was just sex. After a night of mojitos. But Seth is pretty cool. And he likes me. But we work together. And he annoys me. Immature fuck gave me a hickey! We’ll have to forget last night. Can we? The sex was pretty good. And he didn’t seem to mind the cellulite. I need more shampoo. I’ll avoid him for a few days. Maybe he doesn’t like me. What if he ignores me? Fuck, I’m late for work.

Shutting off the shower and drying off, Meg quickly brushes her teeth and runs some gel through her black hair. Even with the recent weight gain, Meg still has incredible cheekbones that are perfect for her pixie haircut.

Rummaging through her tiny IKEA wardrobe, Meg removes a blue and black striped sundress and a pair of white Keds. She lathers lotion on her bare legs, scowling at the ridiculous tattoo that sits on her ankle. She’s been known to tell people that the cherries and skull represent the misconceptions of rebellion, but that tattoo is a direct result of her Rockabilly phase during her sophomore year of college.

Meg applies very little makeup – liquid black eyeliner for her hazel eyes, peach blush for her freckled cheeks, and hot-pink lip gloss for her pouty lips. Fully dressed, Meg grabs the orange juice carton from the refrigerator and takes a big gulp, gagging as the citrus mixes with her minty-fresh breath.

“Bleh!” She spits into the sink. Patting her mouth with a napkin, she then reapplies her lip gloss and bolts out the door to head to her favorite place.

Like Seth, Meg needed a job out of monetary desperation. Raised as a privileged snot in an apartment on the Upper East Side, she’d played the role of darling socialite for eighteen years. But instead of boarding a plane after high school graduation to spend the summer abroad, Meghan Victoria Fitzpatrick chopped off her russet hair, dyed it black, sold her Louis Vuitton luggage, enrolled in theater classes at NYU, moved into a Village apartment with two roommates, and began her adventure as Meg.

Following college graduation, very few auditions called for a sarcastic pixie with a raspy voice, so Meg worked as a ticket agent during the day, and a cocktail waitress at night. It was such a clichéd story, and like every twenty-something single girl in New York City, Meg wanted an original story – a complex narrative fueled by romance and self-discovery.

Trying to find her groove, Meg spent two years living on tips, going on auditions, and sleeping with any man that could offer something in return. Her life was disappointing, and she’d had enough. So last summer, armed with her laptop and the determination to find an adventure, Meg set up an outdoor office in a public space in the Seaport. While padding her thin resume outside a coffee shop, Meg overheard Thessaly and Seth discussing media strategies for The Hive. She’d thought it was some trendy nightclub which piqued her interest, but when she quickly Googled the store, she was presently surprised. She wanted to be a part of this small business, but what she really needed was to be a part of something. Using an aggressive yet creative approach, Meg blasted every social media platform with catchy hashtags about The Hive. She then emailed her resume and a short cover letter directly to Thessaly that read: #hireme.

So it was on that cool summer day when Meg approached their table and said, “Hi, did you receive my email?”

Caught off-guard by Meg’s simplistic beauty, Seth muttered, “What?”

“Meghan Fitzpatrick?” Thessaly asked, looking up from her phone and the dozens of social media notifications.

Meg nodded, pulled out a chair, and joined her new co-workers.

Seth, still unaware of what was going on asked, “What’s going on?”

Smiling, Thessaly announced, “Meghan, welcome to your first business meeting!”

Working for The Hive has afforded Meg with great friends, a new studio apartment, and a potential romance with a stable and doting graphic designer. It’s everything the sarcastic rich girl from the Upper East Side ever wanted – plus all the honey and jam she can physically eat. And just like Seth, in three months, she will own one and a half percent of The Hive as a token of her loyal service.

Leaving her building, Meg places earbuds in her ears and begins a brisk walk. It normally takes her fifteen minutes, but today, eager to be the first to arrive at The Hive, she books it down John Street like a woman being chased. She passes the Beanery, the storefront with the mermaid mannequins, the fresh vegetable stand at the market, and then darts the last block to Fulton.

Outside The Hive, Meg unlocks the door while glancing at Seth’s bike leaning against the window.

Could he be the right guy?

Once inside the shop, Meg switches on the chandelier and props open the screen door.

“Meg?” Thessaly squeals.

Losing her footing and catching her fall on the screen door, Meg replies, “Oh, shit, Tess. You scared the crap out of me. Why are you sitting in the dark?”

Thessaly, sitting at the island with her phone and a pile of Starburst wrappers, pats the stool next to her. “I needed to think, and the sunrise is really amazing from this spot. Here, come sit with me.”

Removing her earbuds and shoving them in her small bag, she sits down across from Thessaly. “What’s up?”

“I need to talk about what happened last night before Seth gets here.”

Flinching slightly at the mention of his name, Meg rambles, “Oh, Seth’s okay, Tess. I mean he’s acceptable. He’s somewhat funny and adequately smart. Last night we just had way too much to drink.”

Confused by Meg’s sudden admission, Thessaly scrunches her nose and asks, “Huh?”

“What?” Meg blushes.

But before Meg can divert the conversation, Seth bursts through the door of The Hive with a Starbucks tray. “Ladies, what’s the topic of chit-chat?” he announces with a cocky smile.

“I’m not sure,” Thessaly replies, analyzing Meg’s body language.

“Nothing!” Meg lowers her head and pretends to scroll through her phone.

Seth places the drink tray on the counter and removes Meg’s iced coffee. Setting it in front of her and gently brushing her bare shoulder, he whispers, “Creamy – just the way you like it.”

Meg squirms under his touch and laughs nervously. “Ha, um, yeah.”

Taking her iced latte from the tray and wiping the condensation with a napkin, Thessaly shakes her head. “Can you two just do it already?”

Seth glances at Meg’s tense shoulders and red cheeks. “I wish, Tess. Meg’s way too good for a guy like me. And I’m completely content knowing I get to see her pretty face at work every day. And on the rare occasion, I get to make her laugh.”

Meg, head lowered, smiles from ear-to-ear. “What did you want to talk about, Tess?” Meg’s voice cracks as she raises her head.

“Oh, God, it’s really silly and insignificant, but I saw Mason last night – at my apartment.”

“You let him come to your apartment?” Seth confirms, pulling up a stool next to Meg.

“Yep, for a booty call.”

“Wait, did you just say booty call?” asks Meg.

Smiling, Thessaly teases, “And what do the hip kids of the Village call it these days?”

“Personally, I find that hooking up is vague yet classy,” Seth interjects, secretly pinching Meg’s thigh under the counter.

Thessaly arches her eyebrow and complies. “Fine. Mason wanted to hook up.”

“End your sentence with yo for emphasis.”

“Mason wanted to hook up, yo!” Thessaly chirps.

Meg and Seth smile and demand in unison, “Continue.”

“So he came by and we messed around a little – but I wasn’t feeling it. Maybe I realized something was missing. Like, where’s the passion? The give and take?”

“Go on,” Seth instructs while chomping on ice.

“He had me pinned against the wall,” she reveals, suddenly ashamed. “Anyway, all I could think about was the need for honey sticks.”

Snickering, Seth asks, “Should I insert a joke now?”

“I’m talking about honey in sticks. They’re treats.”

“I bet they are,” he panders.

“You killed the mood, didn’t you, Tess?” asks Meg.

“Not even close. Mason is tenacious and always gets what he wants. Very few things will stop him.”

“Like?”

“Like, I told him I wanted to date other people.”

Meg laughs while Seth shakes his head. “Lemme guess . . .” he starts.

“Now he wants you, right?” Meg snorts.

“He didn’t want to believe me about the dating, he’s so arrogant, but this morning, he sent me five texts – the five stages of jealousy.” Thessaly reads from her phone in a deep voice. “I love you. We belong together and I was stupid for not seeing that sooner. We have a history and a future. No prick is good enough for you. I won’t wait for you to change your mind.”

Meg’s jaw drops as Seth whistles.

“Wow, that’s some lame shit,” Meg says flatly.

Seth grabs Thessaly’s phone and insists, “Don’t text him back! I want to see how far this goes.”

Standing from the island, Thessaly yanks her phone out of Seth’s hand. “He won’t give up.”

“Maybe you need a sexy farmer with a hankering for ice cream to kick his ass,” Meg suggests with a smile.

“Maybe so.”

Using the iPad to research Shelter Island weddings, Thessaly quickly checks Pinterest to gather a few ideas. She always tries to stay away from cheesy puns when it comes to using her products as gifts, and the best way to avoid clichéd phrases is to show an elegant bride how overused that crap really is.

Aware that her two o’clock appointment arrived early, Thessaly watches as they wander around the store. Overhearing their remarks about the gorgeous packaging of the confections and the exquisite modern design of her shop, Thessaly takes the opportunity to approach the ladies.

“Hello, welcome to The Hive. I’m Thessaly Sinclair.” Extending her arm and motioning toward the island, Thessaly adds, “We can chat over here.” As the women sit with their designer handbags and remove their iPads and folders, Thessaly signals to Meg standing near the register. Taking her cue, Meg heads to the kitchen to retrieve the glorified refreshments.

Smiling and arching her Botox-ridden eyebrows, the wedding planner exclaims, “Thessaly, it is so nice to meet you – I’m Mindy Hollis-Klein. We’re absolutely in love with your shop!” Tapping the island in front of the bride, she adds, “Heather and I were discussing how your honey and jams are like little pieces of art.”

“Thank you,” Thessaly replies, sitting down across from the two women. “I take great pride in my family’s farm – it was only right to share it with the Seaport.”

Meg arrives at the island carrying a wicker tray of warm cornbread, and a sampling of jams and honey. Thessaly places a small plate in front of each woman with a smile. “I hope y’all are hungry.”

Heather’s eyes expand with horror, terrified of ingesting unwanted calories before her wedding. “It smells delicious, Thessaly, but I’ll just have a water with lemon.”

Mindy uses the serving tongs and places a small portion of cornbread on her plate. “Think of this as a tasting, Heather. Jam or honey?”

Suggesting something lighter, Thessaly offers, “Try the peach-infused honey, Heather. No added sugar and the taste is phenomenal. I also have sugar-free strawberry jam you could spread on a low-fat rice cake.”

“No, please don’t bother – I’ll rely on Mindy’s impeccable taste. Does the honey come from your family’s farm? I’m so fascinated with the subject.”

“It does! I receive raw, harvested honey shipments every few months and then I package it in my shop.” Thessaly opens a photo album on her tablet and shows the ladies previous examples of custom products. “Mindy will direct me as to what you’ll want during your reception – from there, we can create almost any flavor and personalized packaging specifically for your wedding.”

In a hoity voice reserved for the Manhattan elite, Mindy reveals, “Heather’s fiancé owns a lovely property on Shelter Island. Since family and friends from all over the country will be attending, they’re graciously hosting a destination weekend wedding. Every detail is important, as I’m sure you understand.”

Heather opens an album on her iPad and scrolls through the pictures of the white and blue beachfront estate. “Dennis and I want our guests to enjoy a weekend getaway while attending our wedding. The rehearsal dinner will be outside featuring a feast of an autumn harvest. We’ve planned a pancake breakfast the following morning, lunch in town, boating activities, a trip to the winery, and then on Saturday night, a reception that will impress Julia Pierce. Nothing over the top or pretentious though – Dennis and I want the wedding to mimic an upscale bed and breakfast.”

“Oh, Heather, it looks amazing – will Julia Pierce be there? I love her columns,” Thessaly adds, glancing in her periphery as a burly delivery man enters her shop.

“She’s doing a two-page spread!” Heather beams.

Rising from the island, Thessaly asks, “Two pages? Can you excuse me for a moment?”

“Of course, dear. I’ll just be sampling this strawberry jam.”

Joining Meg as she tries to answer the silly questions of a young couple, Thessaly nudges her hip. It never ceases to amaze her that honey and jam can bring so much debate.

“Hi, you will love the light and fragrant taste of the lavender honey. I’ll have Meg bring you some tea,” Thessaly offers.

“What’s up?” asks Meg when the couple leaves.

“Can you bring the wedding chicks some water with lemon? There’s a delivery guy here unloading crates, but I didn’t order anything.”

Meg glances at the door and shrugs her shoulders. Plodding to the kitchen, she mumbles, “Water and tea.”

Walking to the front of the store, she watches as a large, hairy man wipes sweat from his brow. “Can I help you?” Thessaly asks with a polite smile.

“Tess Sinclair? I got your order of white peaches – one bushel.”

“I think there’s a mistake! I would never order that many peaches.”

“I only deliver, lady – and I don’t get paid if I don’t deliver. You wouldn’t do that to me, would ya?” Sweat runs down his cheeks like dejected tears while he continues to unload his dolly.

“But, I, where did they come from?”