Can't Stand the Heat - Louisa Edwards [32]
“Finally,” Adam put in.
Ignoring the interruption, Paul held up a finger. “A certain little redheaded tomato came poking around the stall asking questions, not ten minutes ago. Questions about you, what you like to buy, who you shop with, how much you spend.”
Adam bristled. He knew at once who the redhead was and his blood started a slow simmer. “You don’t say.”
“People pointed her over here, and she wanted to know all about how we grow our vegetables, like were we really organic and whatnot. I gave her the farm spiel. She seemed kinda disappointed to hear that we’re all about sustainable agriculture, no pesticides or anything. It was like she wanted to catch us spraying poison all over everywhere.”
“I’ll just bet she did,” Adam grumbled. “Mother of God, she’s got to be the biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever encountered.”
“The point is,” Paul said, with emphasis, “I didn’t know who she was, so I didn’t tell her anything about you. I mean, for all I knew she was from a rival restaurant, looking to steal your ideas. So I ask her what she’s doing playing twenty questions, and she’s like, ‘It’s for research.’ ”
“Of course.” Adam was really starting to loathe that word.
“But it gets better,” Paul promised. “ ‘Research for what?’ I ask, and she says, ‘For a book.’ ”
Adam rocked back on his heels as if he’d just taken a heavy cutting board to the jaw. “What. The. Fuck.”
“Yeah, man.” Paul nodded. “A freaking book. So I told her she’d better move on, because I wasn’t talking and she was blocking the line. That was the last I saw of her.”
Adam felt his slow simmer heating up to a rolling boil. This kept getting worse and worse! First the kitchen invasion, then the brother, and now this? A magazine article would’ve been bad enough, but magazines were, by their very nature, ephemeral. Whatever she wrote would cause a stink for the month the rag was on the newsstands, but after that, it would all die down and he could forget Miranda Wake ever existed.
A book, though. That was permanent. A book would haunt him for the rest of his career.
“Did she leave Union Square?” he asked, his voice shockingly calm and low.
“Don’t know. I kinda doubt it. She had that look, you know? Like she wasn’t gonna be put off.”
“Yeah, she’s a determined little thing.” Adam grimaced. “In fact, I’d lay dollars to doughnuts she’s canvassing the stalls right this minute, looking for someone who’ll tell her I bought a nonorganic zucchini, or a Vidalia onion from Chile. I’ve got to find her.”
“If you leave now, you’re gonna miss the morel guy,” Paul warned. Adam shook his head, ignoring the sharp twist of regret.
“Can’t help it. Thanks for looking out for me, man.”
“You betcha,” Paul said, and waggled his bushy eyebrows expressively. “Just don’t forget what I said about the tomatoes.”
The sick anger churning in his gut wouldn’t let him laugh, and Adam just shook his head again as he left the stall and reentered the fray.
Wishing he had some of Frankie’s ridiculous height to help him peer over the heads of the shoppers, Adam decided the best way to find Miranda would be to follow his usual path around the market. She was smart enough to have figured out his favorite suppliers, and with any luck, he’d catch up to her.
After checking the stand where he got all his jam and jelly products, and the stall with the weird tropical fruits that they grew in a hothouse in the Catskills, he finally fetched up back at Dava Whitehurst’s dairy stand near the front entrance to the market.
And there she was. Miranda Wake, all buttoned up in one of her crisp suits, leaning on the table and chatting away with hippie Dava like they were old friends. Spotting Adam over Miranda’s shoulder, Dava waved a languid hand, her many bangle bracelets clinking merrily.
“Twice in one day,” she called, her throaty voice carrying over the noise of the square. “It must be a sign. You’d better let me do your chart tonight, see what I come up with.”
Adam forced a smile.