1
Marguerite Chance stepped out onto the front porch of her small cottage, her purple yoga mat under one arm and her first cup of green tea in her hand. Luckily, the porch was a covered one, for rain was coming down in a misty curtain, so her flower garden looked like a soggy impressionist painting. The trellis tumbled with heirloom roses, their pink and white blooms drooping wetly. Beyond the garden was the bulk of her world. Fields of organic vegetables stretched out in rows, lush and heavy with bounty.
It was late September in Hidden Falls, Oregon; harvest time. This rain marked the end of a long stretch of sunshine during which she and her casual farm laborers had picked fresh lettuce, tomatoes, some of the squash, beans and kale. Her shoulders and back ached from the exertion, but it was a good ache. The greens had likely already been eaten in the high-end restaurants that bought most of her organic heirloom produce.
She rolled out her mat on the porch, ready for her morning yoga session, and then settled into the old rocker that sat near the door to drink her tea and simply to enjoy this quiet moment so early in the day. As soon as she sat, Ophelia, a young black and white cat that she’d found half drowned and brought home, strolled past rubbing against her knees and then slowly, and oh-so-casually, turned and jumped into her lap.
She rocked slowly in the wicker chair on the porch, Ophelia a warm, purring comfort. Rain dripped from the eaves and the moist morning air was heavy with the smells of damp earth and late summer flowers. Her rocker creaked slightly against the wooden porch. Her dad had built the porch himself, which was why none of the boards fit quite evenly. From her small cottage she could just see the house where she’d grown up. As she watched, a beat-up Jeep rattled up the gravel road toward her. It slowed and came to a stop and her dad rolled down the window, letting out a blast of Jumping Jack Flash. “How’s my beautiful girl?” he bellowed, cheerful in spite of the weather.
Since she was the only one of their eleven kids living on the property, Jack Chance always seemed happy to see her. “I’m fine. Do you want some tea?”
“Can’t. I’m helping build a barn.” Jack loved to build things. But his skills were never as grand as his visions. She only hoped there were more experienced barn builders going today to keep him in check.
“Have fun.”
“You know, seeing you there reminds me of Daphne’s great aunt Mildred. She used to sit right there on that porch in that very rocker when she got old and the kids were too much for her.” He shook his head. “Sure takes me back.” Then he waved, rolled the window back up and drove on.
She stared after the departing Jeep that was streaked with dust and rain. She reminded him of great aunt Mildred? She was twenty-eight years old. Was she really beginning to act like an ancient spinster? She pictured herself sitting here in a rocker with the cat in her lap. Her tea. Her garden. Could she be any more of a cliché?
She’d put down roots here from the moment she was born.
She’d always loved this land from when she was a tiny girl and she’d helped her mom and dad tend the gardens and the chickens. When the rental cottage on the property became available two years ago, it had seemed natural that she should take it over. It wasn’t as though she had never left home. She’d opted, instead of college, to travel around Europe and Australia working on organic farms, sometimes volunteering her time for free and sometimes being paid a pittance. She’d learned a lot about farming and had an opportunity to see the world. While working on a farm in rural France she’d learned French. As much as she’d loved her time away, she’d been very happy to return home. She wasn’t one who craved excitement and new things. She liked to be around familiar places and people she knew. She loved watching the seasons change and the crops she planted grow and flourish. She liked living in a community where most everyone knew everyone else. At one time she had worried that she had so few ambitions but she had figured out a way to make a life for herself with a small business that would never make her rich but allowed her to live a life that was meaningful to her.
“You’re as rooted here as those lumpy tomatoes you grow,” her younger, restless brother Cooper had told her one day. To him her life was no doubt boring, but to her it was exactly what she wanted. Maybe she was lonely, once in a while, but the feeling usually passed.
She stood, replacing the protesting cat on the seat cushion, and proceeded to do a series of sun salutations. Rain salutations, really, but the land needed rain as well as sun and there was a kind of wet beauty in the dripping landscape. Stretched and invigorated, she swapped yoga pants for an old pair of jeans, left her long hair tied back—much easier than dealing with the mess of curls—and headed to the shed where crates of produce were waiting. Her main clients had all received their deliveries yesterday, but she had a few personal deliveries to make herself this morning. She hefted stacks of wooden crates into the bed of her faded and dusty red truck and was on her way.
Her first stop was the Sunflower Coffee and Tea Company, the bakery and café where her sister Iris baked and served the best muffins and goodies in town. She timed her visit strategically to coincide with the end of the morning rush. She was an early riser but she had nothing on Iris, who was baking by five and open by six. It was after nine, now. The workers dashing in for a coffee on their way to the office, followed by the heading-to-school crowd, was over. Tinkling chimes above the door announced her arrival as she backed into the cafe, her arms laden with the box of fragrant purple blueberries. She glanced around. A group of exhausted-looking young mothers with toddlers sat around a big table mainlining coffee. A couple of older men faced each other in a corner arguing about something in gruff voices, politics it sounded like, but otherwise Sunflower was empty. She approached the counter where Iris was replenishing her signature brownies in the glass display case. She glanced up and smiled when she saw her sister. “Hey, sis. Is that box full of what I think it is?”
“It is.” The smell of fresh blueberries emanated from the box like a fruity aphrodisiac.
Iris nodded, peeking into the box with a professional eye. “I’ve got a few recipes in mind for these. I thought I might try baking those open blueberry tarts like they do in France.”
“I only grow the berries. I don’t consult on cooking methods.” Marguerite glanced around. “Where do you want them?”
“Bring them through to the kitchen.”
She carried the box behind the counter and into the kitchen, a scene of organized chaos that told how busy Iris’s mornings were. Pans and trays were stacked at the industrial sink waiting to be washed, flour dusted not only the work surfaces but also the floor, and tantalizing smells emanated from the ovens. “I don’t know how you do it,” she said, amazed as always at how Iris managed to run such a hectic business.
“I go without sleep.” As though on cue, she yawned, hugely. “Do you have time to stop? Morning Glory muffins are just out of the oven.”
“I skipped breakfast for a reason. And I always have time for you.”
Iris nodded. “It’s one of the nicest things about you, you’re probably the only person I know who always has time. You’re never in a hurry, are you?”
Coming from Iris, who was run off her feet, the comment made her feel lazy. She shrugged. “I don’t like feeling rushed. When you grow produce for living, you get used to a slower pace.”
“My life is exactly opposite. When you sling coffee and muffins to rushing commuters and the early bird crowd, you get used to a very fast pace.” Hidden Falls was a small town, but enough of its population commuted to larger work centers, and wanted a good coffee to take with them, that Iris sometimes had lines as long as a Seattle Starbucks.
Iris fixed them both an herbal tea, which she carried to a vacant table. Marguerite followed with the muffins. They settled across from each other. Even though they saw each other most days, they never ran out of things to talk about. They were close in age, similar in temperament and had remained best friends all their lives.
That’s why she knew that her sister had something important to say. You didn’t know a woman all her life, call her sister, and not recognize the signs. Iris’s cheeks were glowing, which suggested the news was good. She shifted the pottery bowl containing packets of sugar and sweetener, and fiddled with the edges of her muffin. The diamond on her engagement ring winked as her restless hands stayed busy. Marguerite simply waited, knowing that Iris would tell her what was on her mind when she was ready. Finally, her sister leaned forward and said, “I have to tell someone. I wanted you to be the first.”
She nodded, feeling a growing sense of anticipation since she was pretty sure she had an idea about the good news that was to come.
Iris glanced around to make sure they weren’t overheard, then dropped her voice. “Marguerite, we did it!”
She leaned in, mirroring her sister’s posture and whispered back, “That’s fantastic. Did you do what I think you did?” She wanted to be absolutely certain before giving out congratulations.
