Jinx Deveraux was not a social man. He kept to himself mostly, only seeming to want to converse with his queen. Who could blame him there? Everyone wanted to spend time with the fascinating woman, even the ones gossiping about her around town.

Jinx’s skin was several shades darker than Foxy’s pecan tan, but his eyes were butterscotch. Even though they were light and inviting in color, there was no openness to Jinx. Except for when it came to my brother Peg. Why he took to Peg of all people is baffling. Ain’t like there weren’t plenty of us who were more pleasant to be around to choose from. It was probably because Peg gave him no choice, always hanging out at Foxy’s, as we had started calling the guesthouse after they moved in. Some unspoken truth was conveyed that the couple were not guests but permanent residents and everyone was fine by that.

For as much as Jinx liked to protest about working for “the man,” he had no issue with working hard. From sunup to sundown, he could be found somewhere on the farm, either tending to a field or setting up a piece of farm equipment to work on a field.

And for as much as Foxy liked to protest that it weren’t her place when it came to Pa and his odd behavior or when it came to us young’uns, she sure made it her place to implement changes to the farm. Within the first month of them living there, she’d claimed an acre across from the chapel to turn into a garden. Herbs, flowers, vegetables, and fruit were planted meticulously. She nurtured and cared for that garden in a way I wished was directed toward me and my siblings. But it weren’t her place.

By the summer, a farm stand had been set up by the road and we were in business. On top of the tables was bountiful produce and underneath was lined with elixirs and such. She had quite a large clientele for what was under the table, even though those same folks wouldn’t so much as look her way when they crossed paths in town.

The first harvest to come from Nolia Produce was the fattest, sweetest strawberries I’d ever tasted. Seemed Clive Thomas thought the same thing from the cardboard trays of berries lining his truck bed.

“You gonna make a lot of jam or something, Mr. Thomas?” I asked the heavily freckled man as I placed another cardboard tray beside a fifty-pound bag of sugar.

Clive cackled, baring his buckteeth. “Somethin’ like that.” He pulled a wallet from the front pocket of his overalls. “How much I owe ya, gal?”