“Actually, Nan,” Ash says, shooting me a look. “Eden had a date last night.”
Nan stops dead and stares at me. “Eden Marigold Tate – why didn’t you tell me? I want to know everything.”
Asha pushes her sunglasses up onto her head before setting up Nanna’s cashbox. “Oh, Nan, this guy was hot. Like, seriously, stupidly hot.” She grabs her bag and fishes out her bar of recently purchased soap. “And the best thing was, he smelled like this.”
Nan takes a whiff then lets out a low whistle. “Wowee. Sounds like a dreamboat.” She turns to me and raises her eyebrows. “When’s the wedding? I need to buy a new pantsuit.”
I throw the cloth I was using to dust the table at Asha, who bats it away and giggles.
“Ash is exaggerating, Nan. He wasn’t all that. And he turned out to be a total douche, so I won’t be seeing him again.”
“Except you will be,” Ash says. “For at least three dates.”
“Different guy,” I clarify to Nan.
“Did he smell just as good as the first guy?” she asks.
Asha grins. “Yes. Maybe even better.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“She liked the first guy. She’s not that keen on the second guy.”
“Actually,” I say. “The second guy is just a business contact. I have no interest in him beyond a professional relationship.”
“But this business guy is still hot?” Nan asks.
“So hot!” Ash says.
Nan looks at her in confusion. “Then why isn’t she dating him?”
God, this conversation is going nowhere, fast.
“Nan, let me make this as simple as possible. I’m not dating anyone. I don’t wish to date anyone. I’m single and happy, and I’m not changing that any time soon. Don’t listen to a word Asha says. She’s just being a brat.”
Nan throws up her hands. “You girls go and get my hopes up just to shatter them like glass. You know I’m not going to be around forever, right? I’d like to hold at least one chubby grandchild before I die. Stop baby blocking me, and put those nice, young uteruses to good use!”
As frustrating as Nan’s obsession with my dating schedule is, I laugh as she continues to mumble about my aging baby-maker while we finish setting up.
Twenty minutes later, we’ve just gotten everything into place when customers start arriving, and the three of us go to work.
For years, Nannabeth’s stall has been one of the most popular at the market. Apart from her amazing range of fresh fruit, veggies, and herbs, she also has her own brand of honey. Believe it or not, she raises bees, right in the heart of Brooklyn. Amazing what you can achieve when you’ve lived in the same apartment building for sixty years and have claimed the entire giant rooftop as your own private hobby farm.
Down at the other end of the tent are several boxes of old records, as well as a collection of furniture pieces and bric-a-brac dating from the sixties to the eighties. All of the secondhand wares sell incredibly well, even the ugly stuff. Nothing is ever out of fashion in Brooklyn.
As the morning rush hits us, the first few hours fly by, but by mid-morning things have calmed down. We’ve just hit our first big lull when a familiar platinum blonde in head-to-toe Chanel approaches Asha. In the midst of the reclaimed, recycled, and pre-loved nirvana of the markets, she’s kind of out of place.
“Joanna!” Asha says, and I recognize that thing she does when she’s sort of pleased to see someone and sort of not. “Hey. I didn’t expect to see you here.” I wander over, and Asha grabs me by the arm. “You remember my sister, Eden. You guys met at last year’s Christmas party, remember?”
I wave and smile as Joanna almost squeals, “Of course! Hiiiiii, Eden!”
I remember Joanna well. When we first met, she’d gone into disturbing detail about how her ex-boyfriend had given her gonorrhea and that until she finished the medication, she had to keep extra underwear in her drawer at work ‘just in case’. Never having had gonorrhea myself, I had no idea what she was talking about. Then she drilled me for a solid ten minutes about my sex life, including a full assessment of how many STDs I’d had. It wasn’t fun. She’s one of those people who over-shares at every opportunity and expects you to do the same. She’s also constantly smiling and yet never seems happy.
“What are you doing here?” Asha asks. “I thought Midtown was about as far as you like to roam from the Upper East Side. Isn’t Brooklyn a little out of your comfort zone?”
Joanna nods and looks around as if she’s assessing an alien planet. “Yes, but you told me about how cute your Nan’s stall was, so I thought I’d come check it out.” She looks over to where Nan is dealing with a young couple looking at furniture. “Oh, my God. Are things so tight that she has to sell her furniture? That’s so sad.”
Asha laughs. “No. She just has a lot of elderly friends, and when they pass, she helps out their families by selling their possessions for top dollar.” Asha points at a small, scuffed mahogany plant stand. “She just sold that for two-hundred dollars.
Joanna scrunches up her nose. “Wow. But it’s, like, way old.”
“Yes,” I say. “Some would even say antique.”
“You know who has cool antiques?” Joanna asks, her face lighting up. “Pottery Barn. They look old, but they smell new. Your gran should totally check it out.”
“Yeah, Ash,” I say, nudging her with my elbow. “You should tell Nan about Pottery Barn. You know how much she loves it when people replace rather than recycle.”
Joanna spies the bottles of honey and grabs two. “Ooh! Honey facial, here I come.”
“Take your time browsing,” I say to Joanna as I tug on Asha’s arm. “We’ll be right over here if you need us.”
I pull my sister over to the produce section and keep an eye on Joanna as I whisper, “So, you guys are outside-of-work friends now? That’s a new twist.”
My sister gets the same expression she always does when she knows she’s done something wrong but doesn’t want to admit it.
“Ahhh, I might have invited her down here so she’d think we were friends.”
“And why would you do that?”
“Because, she has tickets to see Kingdom of Stone tomorrow night and I was angling to be her date.”
“What the heck is Kingdom of Stone.”
“A band. A really good one.”
Joanna glances over and waves at us. When Asha and I smile and wave back, she heads down to look at Nannabeth’s collection of homemade Fimo jewelry from the eighties. “So gnarly!” she squeals. “It’s like ugly-chic.”
I turn to Asha. “So, you prostituted yourself to see some band?”
“Not some band, Edie. The band. They’re the biggest thing to come out of the east village in years, and I happen to love their music.”
“And ...?” Knowing Asha, I’m sure there’s more to it than a few catchy tunes.