adolescence. It’s a typical photo of farm life – Kip and Shelby standing in the bed of a pickup truck with crates and buckets. A cardboard sign leaning against the back bumper that reads: Sinclair Farm. Kip – President, Thessaly – Vice President, Shelby – Treasurer . Perched on a bucket near the sign, is a teenaged Thessaly, dressed in overalls, combat boots, and a face with enough angst to start a girl band. The only reason the photograph is hanging in her store is because she loves the field of sunflowers in the background.
“The tomboy with the scowl? Yep, that’s me.” She reaches into the wire basket and removes the jars of jam. “Good choice, peach is my favorite. I add a dash of cinnamon to the recipe,” she blurts without thinking.
Impressed, Levi confirms, “Wait, you make the jam and honey here?”
Relieved that he appears interested, Thessaly answers, “Most of it. I buy local fruit and prepare the jam in the kitchen. The honey comes from my family’s farm in Asheville, but sometimes I infuse seasonal fruits and herbs into the raw honey.” Thessaly pauses, studies Levi’s perfect smile, and fights a fit of nervous laughter. “It’s really simple.”
“Tess, can I be honest?”
“Maybe.”
“I really don’t need four jars of peach jam. And six jars of honey seems like a lot for a single guy.” Picking up the expensive set of sterling silver jam spreaders, Levi adds, “And what do I do with these fancy little knives?”
“Okay, we can put a few things back.” Thessaly lowers her head, slightly offended, but mostly embarrassed.
“Thing is, I followed you in here.”
“Oh?”
“Well, not like a creeper. You bumped into me – at the crosswalk. I almost dropped my cone.”
“I was distracted,” she defends.
Meg charges from behind the kitchen door, flashes a sly smile, and then bursts out in song. “This piggy is going to the market!”
With a high, crackly pitch, Thessaly shouts, “Um, have fun.”
As she passes Levi, Meg cranes her neck to check him out. Stopping at the screen door, she spins around and mouths, holy shit, that ass, before turning to leave the shop.
Wanting her undivided attention, Levi moves directly in front of Thessaly and clears his throat. He smiles, and she smiles, and then he repeats, “So, Tess, you bumped into me.”
“And I’m sorry! I can offer you something at a discount – but since you don’t need jam, would you be interested in a cookbook or a honeypot?”
“Yours?” he asks with a smirk.
Blushing, Thessaly sputters, “Le Creuset.”
“I meant the cookbook.”
“Oh,” she says.
Crossing his arms and showcasing his tan, muscular forearms, Levi asks, “How ’bout you go out with me and we call it even?”
“Oh, I um, have these new labels and cornbread . . .” Thessaly trails off.
Furrowing his brows and scratching his chin, Levi says, “Huh, I don’t know what that means.” Reaching for his wallet, he removes a business card and slaps it on the counter. “But cornbread has to be the best excuse a woman has ever used.”
Thessaly picks up the plain white card with a single green stripe and reads, “Levi Jones, Director and Managing Partner, Brooklyn Soil.” She glances at Levi and asks, “The rooftop farm?”
With hooded eyes and a velvety voice, he replies, “So you’ve heard of me?”
Fighting a smile, Thessaly deadpans, “Sure – most of the fruit I buy comes from your farm.” Testing the frisky banter, Thessaly adds, “And the name Levi Jones sounds familiar, too – like the leader of a religious cult.”
Leaning against the counter again, Levi whispers, “What if I told you my sister’s name is Dandelion?”
Thessaly leans toward him and matches his whisper. “I’d wonder if there were marijuana crops in your rooftop greenhouse.” Placing a jar of jam and the set of silver spreaders inside a small, brown shopping bag, Thessaly rasps, “Enjoy your peaches.”
Levi hugs the bag to his
“The tomboy with the scowl? Yep, that’s me.” She reaches into the wire basket and removes the jars of jam. “Good choice, peach is my favorite. I add a dash of cinnamon to the recipe,” she blurts without thinking.
Impressed, Levi confirms, “Wait, you make the jam and honey here?”
Relieved that he appears interested, Thessaly answers, “Most of it. I buy local fruit and prepare the jam in the kitchen. The honey comes from my family’s farm in Asheville, but sometimes I infuse seasonal fruits and herbs into the raw honey.” Thessaly pauses, studies Levi’s perfect smile, and fights a fit of nervous laughter. “It’s really simple.”
“Tess, can I be honest?”
“Maybe.”
“I really don’t need four jars of peach jam. And six jars of honey seems like a lot for a single guy.” Picking up the expensive set of sterling silver jam spreaders, Levi adds, “And what do I do with these fancy little knives?”
“Okay, we can put a few things back.” Thessaly lowers her head, slightly offended, but mostly embarrassed.
“Thing is, I followed you in here.”
“Oh?”
“Well, not like a creeper. You bumped into me – at the crosswalk. I almost dropped my cone.”
“I was distracted,” she defends.
Meg charges from behind the kitchen door, flashes a sly smile, and then bursts out in song. “This piggy is going to the market!”
With a high, crackly pitch, Thessaly shouts, “Um, have fun.”
As she passes Levi, Meg cranes her neck to check him out. Stopping at the screen door, she spins around and mouths, holy shit, that ass, before turning to leave the shop.
Wanting her undivided attention, Levi moves directly in front of Thessaly and clears his throat. He smiles, and she smiles, and then he repeats, “So, Tess, you bumped into me.”
“And I’m sorry! I can offer you something at a discount – but since you don’t need jam, would you be interested in a cookbook or a honeypot?”
“Yours?” he asks with a smirk.
Blushing, Thessaly sputters, “Le Creuset.”
“I meant the cookbook.”
“Oh,” she says.
Crossing his arms and showcasing his tan, muscular forearms, Levi asks, “How ’bout you go out with me and we call it even?”
“Oh, I um, have these new labels and cornbread . . .” Thessaly trails off.
Furrowing his brows and scratching his chin, Levi says, “Huh, I don’t know what that means.” Reaching for his wallet, he removes a business card and slaps it on the counter. “But cornbread has to be the best excuse a woman has ever used.”
Thessaly picks up the plain white card with a single green stripe and reads, “Levi Jones, Director and Managing Partner, Brooklyn Soil.” She glances at Levi and asks, “The rooftop farm?”
With hooded eyes and a velvety voice, he replies, “So you’ve heard of me?”
Fighting a smile, Thessaly deadpans, “Sure – most of the fruit I buy comes from your farm.” Testing the frisky banter, Thessaly adds, “And the name Levi Jones sounds familiar, too – like the leader of a religious cult.”
Leaning against the counter again, Levi whispers, “What if I told you my sister’s name is Dandelion?”
Thessaly leans toward him and matches his whisper. “I’d wonder if there were marijuana crops in your rooftop greenhouse.” Placing a jar of jam and the set of silver spreaders inside a small, brown shopping bag, Thessaly rasps, “Enjoy your peaches.”
Levi hugs the bag to his
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