Page 32 of It’s All in How You Fall
Calming.
Going to get easier every time I do it.
Suddenly I can see Northfield Country Club ahead and to the right. Northfield sits on a hill like some high-and-mighty mansion for a modern recluse, given the fancy-yet-medieval iron fence that encircles the property to keep it private but visible in all its glory. The green lawns Alex and Nat help maintain are even and lush despite the drought Dad claims we’re in. Sixth-driest summer on record? Not according to Northfield Country Club.
The club takes up an entire city block. Maybe two. It’s hard to tell with the curve of the road and all the gated entrances.
And with Northfield blocking our view, we can hear the farmers’ market before we can see it. An accordion player who shows up to literally every outdoor festival in town is parked right by the closest entrance. It’s as easy to spy his customary top hat as it is to hear his rich notes over the light Saturday morning traffic.
We’re almost there.
And I’m happy to report I can actually breathe now. My body has gone from gasping to keep up with Alex’s stride to some benevolent form of autopilot, where movement, breath, and sweat are all coordinated. My steps are smooth and strong, and Alex is right: My back doesn’t hurt at all.
Maybe it’s just that Alex seems to make everything look easy and proximity is one hell of a drug, but I feel like I could do this all day. Or at least all the way home.
Alex slows as we hit the market boundary. I expect him to take a drink, but instead, he grabs a dollar from his pocket and drops it in the accordion player’ssecondarytop hat, which is used for change. I imagine the guy wearing both hats like a layer cake and walking home in full jingle.
“See ya this year at Northfield, George?”
The man lights up but doesn’t miss a note. “You better believe it, champ!” Of course Alex knows the accordion dude—er, George—who is now motioning to me like he’s going to share a juicy secret. “Don’t let him fool you, he likes when I call him champ.”
Alex laughs. “He’s right. It’s an honor.”
“It is.” George winks at me. “The boy’s whole goal in defending that tennis title is to make sure he gets to keep the titleIbestowed for the next year.”
“True. Totally true.”
A family comes over to request a song, and we both wave at George and enter the market. I take a few steps on my tippy-toes to whisper-ask Alex, “Sooo, does he just follow you around playing ‘One Shining Moment’ the whole tournament or…?”
Alex sucks down a gulp of water over a bubble of laughter. “That would be something, but no. They put him right next to the champagne tent. Goes over better than you’d imagine.”
Nat’s sardonic voice pops into my head: Hot night, rich people, free booze—an accordion can only add to the ambience.
We enter the massive parking lot that transforms into the farmers’ market every Saturday from April to November. It’s all tents and pickup trucks, with wares ranging from goat’s milk soap, honey, dried and fresh flowers to tables and tables of gleaming early summer produce, of course.
Tomorrow is the Fourth of July and the vendors areready.
Fat early tomatoes stand in neat rows. The first of summer’s sweet corn ears are piled high, tips exposed in a display of perfect worm-free kernels. Zucchini is, well, everywhere, because zucchini. Meanwhile melons are just starting to come in, being doled out one at a time so that customers think they hit a jackpot. All of it mingles with charcoal cook fires of breakfast being made at arm’s length.
My stomach growls approvingly.
Alex points his chin to the right, around the serpentineU. “I think the fountains are over here.”
They are. I know they are. But I still pretend to hunt for them while actually looking for any sign of Peregrine and Sunny. Trying to find two girls shorter than five feet in the heavy early-bird crowd while similarly vertically challenged is not ideal.
Alex and I manage to stay side by side. We’re sweaty enough that people give us some space. We end up slow-walking behind a family of five—two coffee-clinging parents with a double stroller and a stubborn preschooler leading the procession.
This is totally fine because it gives me more time to search.
“Are you sure you don’t want some of my water?” Alex holds out the fancy running bottle. “I only had a quarter. Not sick either. Promise.”
“Antsy to get home?”
“No. Just. It’s hot.”
I mean, it is. My shorts are sticking to my thighs—the quads I trained for a decade already filled out the fabric pretty well before sweat added to the cling.
A minute later, one of the stroller kids spikes a bag of Cheerios onto the pavement in a fit. The parents are completely overwhelmed, and Alex snaps up the bag before either of them can react. As he hands it to the dad, who is profusely apologizing, I shoot off a quick text to Peregrine.
