Imitating Fiction

Chapter 4. Ryeka

I’ve never really been a morning person, but I don’t tend to sleep late either. Even after getting home last night around three am, I was awake at eight. Normally, I would be groggy and moody, even after a full night’s sleep, but this morning I feel a strange sense of energy flowing through me. I want to head back into town to compare the gloomy, shadowy town full of secrets I had seen last night to the town in the bright sunshine.

A block from the town’s square, I notice a large number of people crossing the road aimlessly, leisurely, as though they had all the time in the world. Tents dot the little park that creates the town’s center. Any other day, the park was a quiet green oasis, today it was a bustling hum of activity.

I struggle to find a parking space, and end up walking a few blocks back to the little park that was evidently playing host to today’s farmer’s market. Every tent had tables of fresh fruit, vegetables, home butchered meat, jams and jellies, homemade bread, and any number of handmade or homegrown treasures. I feel a little detached as I peruse the offerings, selecting a few bags worth of fresh produce, and watching the interactions of the town’s people, catching up on the latest gossip and news from long friendships. Although most people treat me with polite curiosity, I feel very much like an outsider, but also holding hope that eventually, I may be invited into the confidence of at least a few of the citizens.

I’m picking out a few zucchinis from an elderly couple’s table, the wife smiling warmly at me while the husband eyes me warily. “How long have you been in town, dear?” the woman asks. Her voice is light and delicate, a slight lilt to it that speaks of green pastures and warm, starlit nights. It’s the voice of a much younger woman than I would have expected from the weathered, wizened face studying me.

“Only a few days,” I smile at her.

“Haven’t seen you around,” her husband huffs. His voice is gruff and it’s obvious he doesn’t trust outsiders nearly as quickly as his wife does, but I detect no malice in him.

Shaking my head, I laugh quietly. “No, I’ve been busy unpacking and working.”

“You bought that beautiful little place just the other side of Walter’s Creek, correct?” the woman asks suddenly.

I can’t hide my surprise. “That’s right. How did you know?”

She giggles like a teenager. “News travels fast in a small town. I’m Zara, and this grumpy old man is Victor,” she gestures towards her husband who sniffs in acknowledgement.

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m Ryeka.”

“I thought you might be.” Before I can ask what she means, she gestures to another tent a few spaces down from her. “You see that woman there? The one in blue?” I nod dumbly. “That is Magda. She has the best tomatoes in the entire county! But more importantly, she has a recipe for spaghetti sauce that will make you see the eyes of the Goddess! You go buy some tomatoes and tell her Zara sent you to ask for her famous recipe.”

Feeling a little flustered, I stumble over my words. “I will, thank you. How much do I owe you for the zucchini?”

She waves me away with a friendly smile. “Nothing at all, my dear. We will call it a welcome present.”

An hour later, I’m loading my purchases into my car. It was obvious the citizens of the town took great pride in their community. After being directed to Magda’s tent, I was dragged to another tent with fresh baked bread that smelled divine, then to another with jams where I was told the apricot jalapeno jam would change my life, and another with cold smoked cheeses where I was willing to pledge my life to the vendor after trying a sample. I take one last fleeting look around, telling myself I’m not looking for anyone in particular, but still can’t secretly deny the disappointment that Jarek is nowhere to be found. With a small sigh, I get in my car, and head home.

The three cows milling around in the road in front of where I need to turn to get to my house are my newest welcoming committee.