The Solace of Bay Leaves

why I remember. Slender, about your height, streaked blond hair. Female, I assumed. But when she spoke, her voice sounded male.”
Who that could be, I had no idea.
“She headed for the craft stalls,” the woman continued. “A new artist, maybe? You’ll know her when you see her. And hear her.”
Right now, the daily tenants were busy unloading, not the best time to interrupt. Later.
Besides, the last time I’d gone hunting an artist new to the Market, I’d inadvertently kicked over a hornet’s nest of secrets that rocked several families, including Kristen’s and mine. I’d learned my lesson: Inquire with care.
A young man in a white T-shirt and olive cargo pants came in through the back, toting an empty plastic crate. Misty greeted him, then turned to me.
“Hey, you still thinking of hiring someone to help with deliveries? Cody here is looking for extra hours after he finishes the morning bread run for us.”
“Not sure. Maybe,” I said. “Yes. Come down and talk to me. Tomorrow afternoon?” He agreed and the dog and I headed out.
The shop was dark but for the lamp with the red silk shade glowing in the far corner, sitting on an antique Chinese armoire an elderly neighbor had left me years ago. We use it to display our signature tea and tea accessories. A glass-fronted cabinet below the front counter holds my collection of antique nutmeg grinders, rusty metal spice tins, and canning jars cloudy with age, the handwriting on their red-and-white labels faded and spidery.
The place had history. And, I hoped, a long and successful future.
I turned on the lights and started the morning routine, pausing now and then to sip my coffee. Delish as a double mocha is, and as much as I enjoy a cup of cold brew or a pour-over made with the swankiest new equipment, a good old-fashioned cup of strong black drip does wonders when brain fog rolls in.
Kristen swept in a few minutes before ten, unwrapping the layers of scarves that made her look a mummy dressed for a fashion show. She disappeared into the back room and reappeared moments later, tugging her apron over her blond head.
“We had Tim and Maddie’s kids most of the weekend. Her mom should be at their house by the time they get home from school.”
“How are they doing? Any update on Maddie?”
“Still unconscious. The doctors say that’s not bad—it’s the best way for the brain to heal.” She finished tying her apron strings. “The kids—well, kids are resilient, but it’s hard to tell. Especially with Max—I am no good at reading teenage boys.”
“Is sending them back to school so soon a good idea?”
“They wanted to go,” she replied.
“My mom was killed on a Thursday,” Matt said, “and I went back to school on Monday. It was the best thing I could have done. A few people knew and they said sorry and all that, but then it was time for class and I could act like everything was normal.”
Kristen and I stared at him. Finally, I spoke. “Matt, we had no idea. I’m so sorry. How old were you?”
“Fourteen. It was a car wreck. My dad was driving. He kinda never got over it—his injuries or the guilt. He died when I was twenty-one. Reed and I got the delivery crates loaded and the route mapped out yesterday during a lull.” He pointed at the hand truck, parked by the front counter.
I took his change of subject as a cue and got back to the business of business. I couldn’t blame myself for not knowing Matt’s family history. In his five months at the shop, he had proven himself very private.
And even those of us who have been spared the obvious tragedies carry burdens others can’t see. Every family has its trials and tribulations—a volatile marriage, financial struggles, health problems. Every adult has her failures and regrets.
Though apparently I had assumed that rule didn’t apply to Maddie Petrosian.
After opening, Matt and I headed out, me leading the way, he pulling the cart. The Market is home to a year-round farmers’ market, bakeries, meat and fish markets, produce stands, and specialty food stores. Not to mention more than two hundred craftspeople renting daystalls, an equal number of owner-operated shops and services, and four hundred-plus residents—all in nine acres.
And nearly a hundred sit-down restaurants, from the creperie and the chowder joint to bistros with white tablecloths. So it made good business sense to nurture commercial accounts close to home. I’d worked hard, learning individual chefs’ tastes and needs, devising custom blends, and offering free samples, good prices, and good terms, including reliable delivery. The butcher in the Sanitary Market unexpectedly runs out of fennel for his custom sausage blend or a prep cook drops an open jar of oregano—call me. The spicy shrimp special proves too popular and you’re desperate for red pepper? Leave me a late-night voice mail and I’ll have a fresh supply on your doorstep before you’ve finished your first cup of coffee.
But we were having trouble keeping up with our own success.
“What would you think about a part-timer to help with deliveries?” I asked as we boosted the hand truck over the threshold of the Soames-Dunn Building and across the tile floor to the oyster bar.
“Great idea. I’m proof that you don’t need to be a spice wiz to bring back orders.” He flashed me a grin.
The Persian café, two Greek spots, the Falafel King, the chowder joint, and three restaurants with an Italian flair—we hit them all and everything in between. We were welcomed and thanked in half a dozen languages. The Market is a polyglot world.
“Matt.” I laid my hand on his arm after we left our last stop. “I had no idea you’d lost your parents so young.”
“No reason you’d know,” he said. “It’s just one of