Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 86972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
After I worked eight days straight, Hillya had decided we needed to schedule my days off. She had given me Sunday, Monday and Wednesday off, but I would still deliver items in the morning before they opened for them to sell. She said once she hired someone that I could teach to make the items, I could have real days off. I didn’t mind how things were now though. I also wasn’t sure how I was going to teach someone to make something when I had never written down an actual recipe for anything. I didn’t even know the exact measurements of my ingredients. I just guessed, and it always turned out good.
The two large tool boxes full of my grandfather’s tools were in my back seat as I pulled into the parking lot of Deep South Farmer’s Market. Again, I was confused by Gran’s request. It seemed odd that I was taking Granddad’s tools that she had kept this long to a man who owned a farmer’s market. Not just any farmer’s market either, the largest one in Alabama. It was famous around here and even held a Watermelon Festival every year that brought in thousands of people from all around the southeast.
Perhaps Lloyd March liked tools as well as produce. I didn’t know the man, but I had been here plenty as a child with my grandparents to get their weekly fruits and vegetables as well as homemade ice cream. It had been a while since I’d been there, but the place brought back memories. I wondered how likely it was Lloyd would be here. Gran seemed to think he would be easy enough to find in the letter. It had simply said:
Take Granddad’s tools that I have in storage room to Deep South Farmer’s Market. The man who owns it is Lloyd March. Ask for him and personally give the tools to him. Tell him that your granddad would have wanted him to have them.
Not once in all the years we had come to this farmer’s market had I met this man, yet my granddad was close enough to him that he’d want him to have his tools. It seemed odd but then all Gran’s requests had been strange. Except the first one. It had made enough sense.
The tool boxes had been heavy and a struggle to get in the car. I decided I would leave them there and go find this Lloyd March before fetching the tools. Stepping out of the car, the humid heat hit me in the face followed by a gulf breeze. I wished I’d brought Gran’s white hat. The sunscreen I had applied this morning would have to do its job.
Glancing around the parking lot, where I had found it difficult to find a parking spot, I tried to decide the best way to find Lloyd in this mad house. The tourists were everywhere with their bags of fresh homegrown items and ice cream cones. Every other person I walked past had a watermelon tucked under their arm. The employees had Deep South tee shirts on, but they were all different shades of summer colors. It was hard to decipher who worked here and who didn’t with so many bodies moving about.
I headed for the shade of the covered building before my white skin turned a bright pink and then pushed my sun glasses up on top of my head so I could see better. It took a few minutes but a girl wearing a cotton candy pink tank top that said DEEP SOUTH FARMER’S MARKET walked in front of me carrying a basket of apples.
“Excuse me,” I said before she could escape into the crowd.
She glanced over her shoulder and smiled brightly. “How can I help ya?” she asked with an accent so thick it had to be fake. Either that or this girl was from Mississippi.
“’I’m looking for Lloyd March,” I told her.
“Alrighty then, jus’ let me put this here basket uh apples down and I’ll show you to ‘em,” she replied.
Yeah, she had to be from Mississippi. I returned her smile, grateful this wasn’t going to be difficult. “Thank you.”
“Yer welcome!” she exclaimed loudly.
She put the apples down beside the others, told a lady where she could find the restroom, picked up a dirty napkin, and helped a kid find the ripest plum before she made her way back to me. I was so impressed with her work ethic I didn’t mind the wait. When she made it to me she nodded her head to the left. “Sorry ‘bout that. Right this way,” she told me then began to walk or possibly bounce a little as she led me past the rest of the fruit and toward a closed-off area. The bright blue door read “Employees Only” painted in a sunny yellow.