Nordic Heroes: In the Market and a Wholesale Arrangement (15 page)

Jordan laughed, relaxing a little. “I’m being silly. I’ve always wanted everything done by the time we opened the front doors.” She gestured to encompass the picture-perfect shop. “Here I get my wish, and I’m still not happy.”

“Because I gave it to you.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, wishing she could deny his statement but unable to. How could she, when it held a certain validity? She offered him a wry smile. “Now I feel like a heel. I’m being defensive, aren’t I?”

“Territorial would be more accurate.” He shifted nearer, his voice dropping a notch. “I know all about territorial.” He lowered his head, his lips close to her ear, his warm breath stirring the curls at her temple. “I take what I want and I hold what I have. No one takes what’s mine. Is that what you’re feeling?”

“Yes. I’m also hearing warning bells,” she murmured with a shiver.

“Listen to them.” He straightened. “In the meantime, show me some of the things that make Cornucopia so unique.”

I take what I want
. He wanted Cornucopia.
I
 
hold what I have
. He’d never let go once he had her store.
No one takes what’s mine
. Did he already consider the market his? The cat was getting ever closer to the pigeons. Heaven help her tail feathers.

“Jordan?”

She struggled to switch gears. “What?”

“You were going to show me what makes Cornucopia unique.”

“Unique . . . Unique . . .” She gave the store a blank stare.

“How about the interesting wallpaper.”

She bristled at the implied criticism. Uncle Cletus was right. He did want to change things. Well, let him try. Even better, let him fail. “What about it?”

He crossed the room and studied the artwork she’d hung there. Picture after childish picture showed different arrangements of fruits and vegetables. An occasional rendition of Uncle Cletus or Walker or herself were among the colorful collage.

“It’s cute, but not very professional.”

“Says you.” Jordan lifted her chin. “These pictures are done by my customers’ children. They use that back table I have set up and draw while their parents shop.”

He glanced at the table she indicated, his expression doubtful. It took up one corner of the market. Against the wall, behind the table, stood a low shelf stuffed full of books. On the table were markers, crayons, and paper, scraps of material, scissors, and glue.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that,” he said. “If you put produce counters in that corner instead, you could increase sales by, oh . . .”

“Ten percent or more,” she said, wondering if her voice sounded as arid to him as it did to her.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he hastened to say. “It’s nice and everything. But you’re running a business. Having a kids’ area and running tabs on special customers—Seth, for instance—and then throwing their bills away isn’t. . .”

“Professional?” She offered a bland smile, darned if she’d explain her reasoning. Seth was a personal project and her most loyal customer. As for the kids corner . . . Well, Rainer had chosen to work for Cornucopia for a week. Let him work and learn. “You’re right. It’s probably a mistake.” She looked around. “What else are we doing wrong?”

He laughed, holding up his hands. “Okay, okay. I surrender. I’ll watch and listen, and draw my own conclusions. At the end of the week, we’ll discuss your uniqueness again.”

“Good plan.” And this time he couldn’t mistake her dry tone.

The week flew by. Jordan became accustomed to having Rainer shop with her at the wholesale market. She didn’t know what he said to Nick, but it stopped all open speculation cold. If there was any private speculation going on, not a whisper of it reached her.

At Cornucopia things progressed just as smoothly. His help proved invaluable, and to her disgust and inner fury, she found herself counting on it more and more. He knew so much about the business and dealt so well with people. In addition, he was fast and accurate.

Even Uncle Cletus seemed to take an unexpected liking to him, happily discussing philosophy, religion, and economics, as well as its effect on produce. Not by a flicker of an eyelash did Rainer show amusement or disdain. He listened seriously and commented seriously. It made her all the more wary.

She couldn’t allow herself to forget his true purpose. The man helped them for a reason. And it wasn’t altruism.

Brooding over it, Jordan watched while he chatted with Marie Langstrom, a pretty redhead and a regular customer. A vague jealousy stirred and she frowned, impatient with herself. The woman possessed a delightful husband and a brood of children. For some reason, the knowledge didn’t help one lick.

I take what I want and I hold what I have.

His words echoed again through her mind. That was precisely how she felt this very minute. She wished she could march up to that flirty redhead and toss her right out of the store. She cringed. Territorial feelings about Cornucopia she could understand. But Rainer? She shook her head. No way. This meant trouble. Big trouble.

She scrambled to assess the amount of damage and figure a way to contain it before it grew worse. Where were her angles? What was her out? Her eyes widened. She really had turned into a spiral staircase.

“Jordan?” A shy voice spoke at her elbow.

Startled, she whipped around and looked into the smiling face of Marie’s eight-year-old daughter. “Casey, I didn’t see you there.”

“I found something to draw, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Let’s find out,” Jordan suggested. “Is it a fruit, or a vegetable?”

The girl thought for a moment. “It’s brown,” she said decisively.

“Brown.” Jordan grinned. “Brown works. Why don’t you show it to me?” She followed Casey back to the kids’ counter, where Casey and her brother had spread open a number of books.

“This one.” Casey pointed to a picture.

“It’s a fruit called a kiwi. That ugly brown outside hides a delicious green inside. Come on, I’ll show you.”

Having gained both children’s interest, she went over to the fruit counter and selected a ripe kiwi. She took the knife used to trim lettuce and sliced the egg-sized fruit into four sections.

“They’re very sweet,” Jordan explained, “and you can even eat the little black seeds.” She peeled back the skin and nibbled at the bright green fruit. “Have a taste.”

Exchanging hesitant glances, the children each took a section and followed Jordan’s example. Their uncertainty changed to astonished delight, and they ran to their mother, begging her to buy some kiwi. She could hear Marie’s laughing agreement.

Rainer looked at her from across the store. Did she see comprehension dawning in his eyes? If he thought she kept the children’s corner for this reason alone, he’d find himself sadly mistaken. She loved teaching the children about the different produce the market carried. She also wanted her customers and their families to feel comfortable in her store, as relaxed here as they were at home.

“I always shop at Cornucopia,” she could hear Marie telling Rainer. “I’d never go anywhere else.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I can take my time and not worry about the children getting into trouble. And they’ve learned so much. Before they were such fussy eaters. Now, thanks to Jordan, their diet is healthier and more varied than mine.”

Jordan smiled in satisfaction. That described Cornucopia perfectly. It also explained why Thorsen’s markets wouldn’t succeed in drawing off her customer base. Uncle Cletus’s idea wasn’t so foolish, after all, she realized, and felt the first stirring of hope. Maybe Rainer would change his mind, and he and the rest of the Thorsens would leave Cornucopia alone. There was room for both of them in the north end, if he went far enough north.

Like to Alaska.

S
aturday dawned bright and clear and beautiful, and Jordan headed across the Ballard Bridge on the way to the wholesale market. A faint blush of purplish blue lit the still waters of the canal. From her position in the cab of her truck, she could see a family of ducks swimming around a solitary fishing boat berthed at Fisherman’s Terminal.

She felt a certain sadness that today was Rainer’s last at Cornucopia and couldn’t contain her curiosity about his intentions. Had he reached any conclusions? More importantly, had he given up? She hoped so, even though part of her would regret his departure.

This business tended to be a lonely one. Until his advent into her life, she’d never been conscious of that. His company this past week brought it home to her. He’d been a partner, and she found she liked having a partner.

She pulled into Constantine’s, surprised not to immediately spot Rainer’s red convertible. She waited in the truck for a while, expecting him to show at any moment. Fifteen minutes later, she gave up. Time waited for no man. Nor did work. She climbed from the cab and clambered onto the docks. Rainer could catch up later.

Jordan trudged alongside Terry and placed her order, annoyed at the sensation of loss that nagged at her.

“The big guy bail on you?” Terry asked with a guilty surreptitious look around.

“Don’t worry. Nick’s nowhere to be seen,” she said. “And yes, it appears you’re safe from Thorsen, as well.”

“Really?” The salesman brightened. “So what gives? You and him an item, or what?”

“Did I just declare open hunting season or something?” she muttered. “No, you can safely announce the length of the dock that Rainer and I are not an item.”

“Rainer, huh?” he limited himself to saying. Which was more than enough.

Terry’s “big guy” didn’t show at the wholesale market that morning. Nor was he waiting at Cornucopia. As a result, setup proved a disaster. Nothing went right. Andy and Leroy nearly came to blows, as did Uncle Cletus and Walker. Michelle couldn’t have found the puddles to mop if she’d been drowning in them. And Jordan . . . Jordan was not happy.

Two minutes before opening, she stood in front of her uncle, her hands on her hips. “You have to put out the pickling cukes. That’s why we bought them. It’s also why we bought the dill.” She pointed at the huge stalks of the lacy herb sitting in a bucket of water. “Dill plus pickling cucumbers equals pickles. Get it? Our customers can’t pickle without pickling supplies.” She’d begun to feel like Peter Piper.

Cletus cradled the bulky carton of cucumbers in his arms. “What about what the cukes want?”

She balled her hands into fists and spoke through gritted teeth. “The cukes live to be pickled. They want it with every fiber of their runted, gnarly little bodies.”

Her uncle’s grip tightened on the box. “If Rainer were here, he’d understand.”

“Well, he’s not, I am, and you’re out of luck,” she snarled. “Now hand ’em over.”

A deep voice intruded on their conversation. “Problem?”

Jordan and Cletus turned. Cletus beamed at Rainer. She scowled.

“Rainer, my boy. Just the one I wished to see.” He shot his niece a reproachful look. “It’s about these cukes . . . .”

Rainer touched her arm. “It’s past nine and customers are waiting. Why don’t you open up,” he suggested. “I’ll take care of this.”

Barely able to contain her fury, she stomped to the door and swung it open. “I hope you don’t want pickles,” she snapped at the first little old lady in line. “Because you’re not likely to get any.”

“No, no,” the woman assured her in a timid voice. “I don’t want pickles. In fact, I don’t think I want anything at all.”

Before the poor old soul could scurry away, Jordan ushered her into the store, feeling lower than a snake’s belly. “Sure you do,” she soothed. “Have a spaghetti squash. On the house.”

The woman hesitated. “Well . . . I suppose I could choke one down.”

“And I’d be delighted to help you.” Her arm was grasped from behind and before she could draw breath, Rainer hustled her away from the front door. “Hey, what—”

“Back,” he said.

“Forget it!”

“Public.”

Jordan sighed, giving up. “Lunchroom.”

“Now that’s truly unique,” he bit out, the instant they hit the lunchroom. “Of all the unique things I’ve seen in my life, that one tops them all.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “I know. I know. I’m sorry. I’m a total louse. I can’t believe I did that. My only excuse is that it’s been a rotten morning.” She shoved a tumble of dark curls from her face. “Nothing around here is done, everyone is fighting, and I’ve been reduced to yelling at the customers.” Her lower lip inched out. “And it’s all your fault.”

“My fault? How the hell do you figure?”

“Because you weren’t here . . .” She closed her eyes and groaned, unable to believe what she’d just said.

She opened her eyes to his kiss. It was gentle and loving and warmed her from top to bottom. He held her lightly, his touch one of comfort instead of passion, and gratitude filled her at his insight. She needed his comfort right now.

Her hands crept up his chest, clinging to the hard muscles of his shoulders. Never before had she felt so vulnerable or taken such delight in his strength. His lips moved slowly over hers and the urge to fight faded away. She settled deeper into his protective embrace.

“Jordan, someone might walk in,” he murmured, fitting her hips more firmly into the cradle of his.