She breathed through her nose and thought about her mother's handwriting in the recipe book. slanted and careful the way she wrote everything. Like she understood that words on paper lasted longer than the person who wrote them. She set out the rest of the pies and straightened the cloth and waited. By 8:00, the grounds were fully alive and her table had already drawn three customers, which was more than she usually had before 9 at the Sunday market. Something about the festival atmosphere made people more willing to stop more generous with their attention, less locked into the routines that kept them moving past things they might otherwise notice.
A farm wife bought the peach. A grandfather bought the cinnamon apple, two of them, one for each grandchild, who was currently occupied elsewhere, and would be very happy about this later. A young couple from out of the county stopped and asked what was in the dried cherry and when she told them they bought it without hesitating by 9 she had sold four of the six and was feeling steadier. Then Clara Hutchkins arrived. She came with purpose which was how she always came, not walking exactly more processing like a woman who understood that her movement through a space was something other people should adjust to.
She had three women with her this time, not two, and they arranged themselves in front of Margaret's table with the energy of something that had been planned. "Margaret," Clara said pleasantly. "Mrs. Hutchkins," Margaret said. "I see you've entered the competition." Clara looked at the competition tent behind them both.
"Quite ambitious." "It's a pie competition," Margaret said. "Not a land claim." One of the three women made a sound. Clara smiled the thin smile.
Of course, I only meant the open category draws some very accomplished bakers. The Garfield woman won last three years. Her lemon chess is extraordinary. And the Morrison girl she trained with, a pastry chef in Billings, you know, she paused with the precision of a woman who knew exactly how long to let silence work. But I'm sure your entry has its charms.
I'm sure it does, Margaret said. Clara's gaze moved to the two remaining pies on Margaret's table, she said with the air of someone extending a great courtesy. "How much for the blackberry?" Margaret looked at her. "$2. I'll give you $1.50."
The three women waited. Margaret said, " $2, Mrs. Hutchkins. Same as it's always been." Clara held eye contact for a moment, then looked away first, and something in that small thing gave Margaret a clarity she hadn't had when the morning started. She said, "I don't do different prices for different customers."
Clara sat down $2. She picked up the Blackberry without looking at it. She said, "Good luck in the competition." And turned and left, and the three women followed her. And one of them glanced back over her shoulder with an expression that Margaret couldn't name and didn't need to.