Page 59 of After We Fall (After We Fall 2)
br /> “Oh, I like whatever.”
“Whatever, huh?” I played with the radio to see what stations would come in. “We’ll see what we can find, but this truck is old and completely lacking in frills, like, say, a Mercedes.”
She poked me in the ribs. “My Mercedes is from 1972. Frills as we know it weren’t really an option then.”
“True. And who needs ’em, anyway?” I turned up the radio and rolled down the windows, since the A/C didn’t work. “Scratchy Hank Williams in a beat-up Chevy truck, driving down a back road, wind in your hair…” I thumped her on the leg and drawled, “It don’t get more country than that, sweetheart.”
She laughed and threw her head back. “Yeehaw!”
I laughed too. I hadn’t felt this good in a long, long time.
We arrived at the pavilion around one-thirty, located our vendor spot, and unloaded the truck. Margot gamely did a bunch of the heavy lifting, wiping the sweat from her forehead with the crook of her elbow, and began setting up once we had everything ready.
“I can do that,” I told her as she struggled to get a stubborn table leg unfolded.
She straightened up, blew a wayward piece of hair out of her face, and gave me a dirty look. “I’m not totally helpless, Jack. I can handle a folding table.”
“OK, OK.” I turned away from her to hide a smile as I unpacked the scale.
When the tablecloths were on and the displays done exactly how Georgia had specified, Margot stood back and eyed it critically. “I wish we had some different levels on the table. And more depth.”
I frowned. “Depth?”
“Yes. I love the different-sized baskets on the ground and the old barrels. But on the actual tables, I think we could use something more.” She tapped her chin with one finger. “The banner needs to be redone once you have your new logo, and we should also get it on the tablecloth front. I’d like to see it be a little modern and a little old-fashioned at the same time. On-trend but authentic.”
“What difference does it make? Shouldn’t the quality of the product be what attracts people?”
She smiled indulgently at me. “That will bring them back. But look at how many people are setting up here right now. How are you going to stand out? People make decisions about first impressions in under a second, Jack. You need to catch their eye with something visually stunning. Lure them in.”
I scratched my head. I had no idea how to do that, but if anyone knew visually stunning, it was Margot.
She came around the tables and grabbed her purse. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going? Don’t you want to eat lunch before it opens?”
“Give me ten minutes,” she called over her shoulder as she hurried off.
She was back in five with potted herbs and flowers at varying heights, which she set up on the table, rearranging things to make room. Standing back, she studied it again and nodded. “Better. And that basil smells so good. Once we sell some things, I’ll use the empty boxes to sort of prop up the little crates along the back of the table, but this will work for now.”
I arched a brow at her. “You’re the boss. Ready to eat?”
“Yes. I’m ravenous, actually.”
We ate lunch at our stand, scarfing down the sandwiches, pickles, and cookies Georgia had packed. “I hope they get to see the house today,” Margot said around a mouthful of cookie.
I uncapped my water bottle and took a drink.
She kicked my foot. “Hey. Don’t you?”
“I guess.”
She clucked her tongue. “You’re such a poop. Well, I’m excited for them. It’s their dream!”
“I know,” I said grudgingly. “And while I can’t say I like the prospect of them buying that peeling, splintering old heap, I do like knowing it’s making Pete and Georgia happy.”
“That is because underneath your grouchy exterior beats an actual heart.” She gave me a superior look. “Admit it—you’re really a softie.”
I made a face. “A softie? I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”
