She grabbed her sunglasses, swiped back her hair, and shoved the shades onto her head. Mrs. Diefenderfer couldn’t scare her. Maybe losing her job at State was just the shot in the arm she needed to make a change. After all, Jennifer had been living in Manhattan almost seven years and was already hunting for a cozy, two-bedroom apartment. They would browse museums, go to the theater, and order takeout every night. Jenn gushed nonstop about the smart, successful guys who worked in the law firm with her boyfriend, Adam. With Jennifer at her side, moving to New York would be the ultimate adventure. No, Mrs. Diefenderfer couldn’t rain on her Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

A vinegar-scented breeze jarred her back to present surroundings. She wasn’t strolling down Fifth Avenue; she was shuffling through the Green Ridge Farmers’ Market. Her stomach grumbled. So much for flying under the radar. Might as well take her time and indulge.

Already tasting the exquisite combination of salt and vinegar, she zipped into line at Troutman’s Famous French Fries stand. New York might be a culinary epicenter, but it would have to work to one-up Troutman’s fries. Mouth watering, she surveyed nearby booths for her second course. Strawberries…hot pretzels…baby spinach…aha! A whole stand overflowing with Amish baked goods. A whoopie pie would complement the french fries beautifully. She licked her lips and made a note to pick up fresh vegetables for tonight. A big salad would cancel the calories from the fries and pies, right?

Scanning the room once more, she let out a wistful laugh. Who needed a time machine when she had the Farmers’ Market? Just standing there, she was thirteen again. The new guy selling kombucha notwithstanding, the whole place existed in a bubble, impervious to progress. Even the clothing styles hadn’t changed. Mrs. Diefenderfer looked the same, and of course, the Amish hadn’t updated their dress.

Tessa never exchanged more than a few words with the Amish vendors. They were private folk. But their whoopie pies…with whoopie pies, she was intimately acquainted: two rounds of rich chocolate cake sandwiching a dense layer of sweet white cream—a little slice of heaven wrapped in cellophane.

Popping a steaming fry, she beelined for baked goods at Rishels’ Farm Stand. The Rishels took their whoopie pie selection up a notch, branching out from traditional chocolate with white icing to pumpkin, peanut butter, chocolate chip, and strawberry. So many options, how would she choose? Then again, who said she had to? She just got fired. Bring on the carbs.

A girl, seven or eight years old, peeped between wide plastic trays heaped with treats. Garbed in a teal dress, the child tucked a bare foot behind the other ankle and scrunched her nose in a smile.

Evidently, some Amish children were permitted respite from the heat, even if it constituted a modest exposure of the flesh.