‘No, ma’am. The peas are done, but we’ve got beets, kale and spinach.’
‘Spinach, then,’ I decided.
When Karen nodded, I continued. ‘What do you suggest for dessert?’
‘Would a butter cake be satisfactory?’
Even though I’d just eaten breakfast, my stomach rumbled in anticipation. ‘Perfect! We’ll need a light supper, too. Welsh rarebit? Strawberries and cream?’
‘That can certainly be arranged. And there’ll be leftover ham and biscuits enough, too.’
I stood up. ‘Good. We’ll be leaving for market in half an hour. I’m hoping the rain will let up by then.’
‘Your mouth to God’s ears,’ Karen said.
I left her to get started on the chicken we’d be having for supper – its limp feathers and lifeless eyes had been staring at me accusingly from the sideboard all though our conversation – and went in search of Mr Donovan to talk about the wine.
There has been a market house at the city dock in Annapolis since 1788. The most recent iteration, closed since Hurricane Isabel flooded the entire downtown area in 2003, had reopened with great fanfare the previous July after nearly a decade of internecine squabbling and mismanagement. Although glassed in and air-conditioned within an inch of its life, the market felt open and airy, its high roof supported by gold, pole-like pillars, with exposed pipes and ductwork overhead.
After long negotiation, the new market featured local merchants, like Chick and Ruth’s Delly Express, and vendors selling Sno-Cones, popcorn, and even Chinese food. Local craftsmen were represented, too, and at the Visitors’ Information Center, tourists could get information to go along with their crab cakes. It had been good to see the market thronged with customers again, but I missed the hubbub of fishmongers, butchers, bakers and greengrocers who used to have concessions there. It had been an old-fashioned waterfront market back then, the kind of place where the floors had to be hosed down every night.
The rain had let up, thank goodness. Perhaps foolishly, we’d forgone the pattens, so we had to negotiate our way around the puddles, hiking our skirts up to help keep the hems dry. Chad’s Nikes splish-splashed along the sidewalk behind us as he and his Steadicam followed us out of Patriot House heading east along Prince George Street.
‘It’s creepy,’ I commented as we turned into Wayman Alley, a shortcut that led directly from Prince George into Fleet Street. ‘I feel like there’s somebody following us.’
From behind me, Karen said, ‘Duh, Hannah. Chad, one hundred tourists with cameras, a class of fifth graders on a field trip?’
I stifled a laugh with my gioved hand.
As we turned down Fleet Street Amy pointed a gloved finger at a passerby dressed in University of Maryland sweats who had stopped to take our picture. ‘Invisible?’
‘Invisible,’ I repeated, sidestepping a puddle and wishing I’d worn my pattens after all.
Thanks to Founding Father, the vendors were indeed expecting us. The minute we pushed our way through the glass door, we were met by Derek filming from a crouching position, the better to capture our ruined footwear and muddy hems. A clot of tourists surged behind him, most of whom aimed their cell phones in our direction and began clicking away. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, we smiled, nodded, and forged on through the crowd, carrying our baskets and string bags.
‘They should have issued me with blinders,’ I muttered as we passed Firenzes Gelateria where colorful tubs of gelato (Caramel! Lemon! Passion fruit!) called out to me temptingly, and the aroma of fresh-brewed Italian coffee wafted over, seized me by its tendrils and dragged me totally against my will over to the refrigerated display case, like a scene from a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
‘Earth to Hannah?’ Karen muttered under her breath.
I snapped out of it. ‘Sorry,’ I whispered back. ‘Lost control there for a moment.’
‘There it is,’ Amy chirped. ‘On the right. Maryland Table.’
Maryland Table, a concessioner who provided organic and sustainable meats, dairy products and vegetables, all locally sourced, was expecting us. In order to make room for an eighteenth-century market stall, they had borrowed a bit of space from Whimsey Cove, an adjoining business selling maps and local art.
Kyle Stewart and his wife, Corey, were decked out in colonial costume, too. Corey wore a linen dress the color of dark chocolate with a clean, white apron tied around her waist; her light-colored hair was pinned up and covered by a mob cap. When we arrived, she was ringing up two boxes of De Cecco pasta for another customer, so Kyle greeted us. Although his dark hair was too short for a ponytail, he’d slicked it back convincingly and looked sufficiently colonial in his breeches, shirt and vest that Colonial Williamsburg would have hired him in a shot. One of the couple’s children – dressed in jeans and a T-shirt – seemed to be rebelling against central casting. He peeked out at us shyly from behind the counter.
While Amy wandered around the market stalls visiting the other vendors and flirting outrageously with the small group of paparazzi in her wake, Karen picked out oranges and blueberries, peppers and mushrooms, then moved on to the meats, some cuts of which I recognized; others could be anyone’s guess.
With Karen’s help, I selected a beef loin, eight Cornish game hens, a slab of bacon, and a leg of lamb. ‘That will be all, Mr Stewart,’ I said as Corey began wrapping up our purchases in brown paper.
‘You won’t want to forget this, Mrs Ives,’ Kyle said. He reached under the counter, grunted as he heaved up a package wrapped in burlap and tied with string. He untied the string, peeled away the burlap.
‘Oh, gross!’ I took a step back. I was staring at a suckling pig – ears, eyes, snout and whiskers, four little trotters and a curly tail. Lying there on the counter, it looked more like a sleeping pet than a future meal. ‘There’s been some sort of mistake,’ I stammered. ‘We didn’t order that.’
Kyle grinned, clearly enjoying his role. He held up a piece of parchment. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it says here that you did.’
I rolled my eyes. Founding Father, again, damn him. ‘How much does it weigh?’ I asked.
‘Twenty-five pounds, give or take.’
‘This must be what we’re supposed to serve Mr Washington,’ I told Karen. Turning to the shopkeeper again, I said, ‘Very well, but we’ll have to send someone from the house to pick it up.’
‘Do you know how to roast a whole pig?’ I asked Karen as Kyle totaled up our purchases and added it to Jack Donovan’s account.
Karen skewered me with her eyes, but her voice was sweetness itself when she drawled, for benefit of the camera, ‘No, ma’am, can’t say as I do.’
In all of the hullabaloo over the pig, I’d lost track of Amy. I sent Karen next door to Pit Boy Oysters to look over the seafood while I went in search of my errant lady’s maid. Finally I spotted her in the glass enclosure occupied by the Annapolis Visitors’ Center and, as I feared, she was talking on her iPhone. Unfortunately, Chad, who was hot on my muddy satin heels, was about to find Amy, too.
I swayed, touched my left hand to my forehead, flailed blindly with my right in the direction of the Gelateria counter, then crumpled gracefully to the floor in a puddle of petticoats. Almost immediately I heard a woman shout, ‘Call 9-1-1!’ so I thought it best to bring a quick end to my charade. I stirred, opened my eyes, fluttered my eyelashes in a damsel-in-distress sort of way, and stammered, ‘So, so sorry. I don’t know what happened.’
Rather than leap to my assistance, Chad stood to one side, camera grinding away, as a woman in a pink jogging suit knelt down and took my hand, rubbing it briskly. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I think so.’
She helped me into a sitting position just as Amy came rushing out of the Visitors’ Center. ‘Hannah! My God, what happened?’ Wild-eyed, she glanced around at the passersby. ‘Did she fall?’