Nordic Heroes: In the Market and a Wholesale Arrangement

by Day Leclaire

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. Black velvet over steel, an intriguing image, one he found both enlightening—and revealing. Probably more revealing than she’d have liked.

  “Judging from her reaction over those bananas,” he said, turning to Marco, “there’s little doubt how she’ll respond once she learns I’m after Cornucopia. I have to admit she has nerve. She took quite a gamble with the coin toss.”

  “If you say so,” Marco muttered, mopping his brow.

  Rainer frowned at the salesman. “I say so.” He tilted his head to one side, analyzing his options. “Looks like I have three choices. I can either buy Cornucopia out, go around it, or break its hold on the north end with a competing market.” He grinned. “And since I’ve never been one to go around an obstacle when I can bust right through it, I guess we can eliminate at least one of those options.”

  Marco shifted uneasily. “I don’t know. Sometimes it’s faster to skirt a mountain. Tunneling through can take time.”

  Rainer remained unswayed. “Tunnels make for a shorter trip over the long haul. Besides, it’s cleaner. Cornucopia is going down, one way or another. It’s best not to prolong the agony.” That resolved, he gave a decisive nod. “Well, Ms. Roberts. You have your bananas. But soon, I’ll have you.”

  Chapter 2

  L ater that morning, Jordan walked through the front door of Cornucopia Produce Market—and into the one place she considered more of a home than any spot on earth.

  Another hour remained before the doors opened for business. She looked around, releasing a happy contented sigh. It gave her a good feeling, standing in the very store her grandfather started while continuing the family tradition.

  She paused in front of a wall of photos tracing the history of the market from its inception to present day. She took pride in her family history. It gave her a connection, a sense of belonging, something she and her Uncle Cletus both appreciated.

  It also represented her heritage, one she struggled to preserve on a daily basis. She wanted to make her parents and grandparents proud, to have their spirit live on through her efforts—and through Cornucopia.

  Sometimes, though, she felt woefully inadequate and it worried her. Ever since Uncle Cletus’s stroke a year ago, more and more of the responsibility for the store fell on her shoulders. The thought of losing her last remaining relative worried her. She squared her shoulders. She needed to buck up and stop letting Thorsen get to her. She could handle him the same way she handled everything else about her job. Just like her father and uncle and grandfather before her.

  Grandpa Joe had been the store’s first proprietor. With his passing nearly twenty years ago, her father, Jake, and his brother, Cletus, had run things. Now only she and her uncle remained and since she had his physical well-being to consider, she’d taken charge. Someday she’d own Cornucopia outright.

  A smile teased the corners of her mouth. At least she’d own the store once it brought in enough to pay for Uncle Cletus’s retirement. In the meantime, work waited.

  She’d left the truck parked by the side door, two employees busy unloading it. At a guess, Uncle Cletus and his friend and co-worker, Walker, were in the far back, preoccupied with their never-ending checker game. She glanced at her watch. Five minutes remained, maybe ten with a pinch of luck, before mass confusion broke out. She intended to take full advantage of those few minutes of rare peace and quiet. She wanted to savor every second of this brief stolen time alone in her store.

  Strolling up and down the bright sunlit aisles, she checked each display. Some counters were swept clean, waiting to be loaded to groaning capacity with fruit and crisp fresh vegetables. Others were already filled with less perishable items, attractively arranged and ready for purchase by the early shoppers who gathered at the front door on the dot of nine.

  Progressing aisle by aisle, she sorted through the apples and dried beans, squash and potatoes that covered the huge gingham-skirted counters. Her father had built these counters, and she noted with pride their terraced design, like a beautiful garden, rather than a conventional flat tabletop.

  She ran an eagle eye over everything. Nothing escaped her, not the bit of dust collecting in a back corner, nor the early signs of wear on the edges of the green-checked table skirt, nor the lopsided sign stuck in the middle of a pile of Yellow Finn potatoes. She took note of each imperfection. Before the end of the day, she’d see every last one corrected.

  Jordan nodded, satisfied. High-quality produce and reasonable prices went a long way toward making Cornucopia so popular. But the real secret to their success was the warm traditional “feeling of family” that characterized the market and made it that extra bit special. Yes, family. She knew all about the importance of family.

  “Uncle Cletus,” she called, heading for the back of the store. “Wait till you see what I bought today.”

  “Not now, Jordan,” her uncle responded. A man in his early sixties swept aside the heavy canvas curtain separating the main store from the employee lounge. In one hand he held an avocado, in the other a sugar beet. “Three more jumps and I’ll have Walker trounced.”

  “Six,” came the adamant retort. “Put back my man.”

  With great reluctance, Cletus returned the sugar beet to a large painted checkerboard covering the surface of the packing crate set between them. “Don’t know why you have to be so picky about a bunch of silly rules,” he muttered. “You know that piece will be mine in two more moves.”

  “Three.”

  Jordan struggled to keep from smiling. Uncle Cletus might misunderstand if he saw her grin, and she wouldn’t hurt him for anything, especially since affection overshadowed the amusement she felt toward his ongoing contest with Walker. “It’s time to set up, Uncle Cletus,” she announced.

  “In a minute, love.”

  She leaned down and planted a kiss on top of his balding head. “Go ahead and finish. But I should warn you, I just ran across the dullest eggplant you ever saw.”

  Cletus looked up in alarm. “Dull?”

  “Plump, firm, and the darkest purple you could want. But dull as a tarnished penny,” she informed him. “Don’t you worry about it, though. I wouldn’t dream of interrupting your checker game.”

  “You can’t put out dull eggplant,” Cletus said in censorious tones. “What would our customers think? If the eggplant isn’t just right, the customers won’t buy it.”

  “No, they won’t,” Jordan concurred.

  He frowned. “If the customers don’t buy, the cash registers stop ringing.”

  “True,” she acknowledged, waiting.

  “And if the cash registers stop ringing—” His eyes widened in alarm and without another word, he swept the sugar beets and avocados off the crate and into a box. “You lose, Walker. Time for work. Come along now, we have eggplant to tend.”

  Jordan permitted herself a small smile of satisfaction. Diligence wasn’t her uncle’s strong point, so she felt completely justified in using the one weapon guaranteed to work—basic human greed. Such an endearing flaw in an otherwise warm and loving personality. Oh, well. All was fair in love, war, and turnips, especially when keeping their business a success often felt like a constant battle.

  “Hey, you forgot to take the avocados and sugar beets with you,” she called after the two men.

  Family. You can’t work with ’em, and you can’t work without ’em. She shook her head and grinned, carrying the box of “checker” vegetables into the store and leaving Cletus and Walker to organize and set up the displays. Arranging the produce as attractively as possible was their area of expertise. Her uncle seemed to have a knack for combining colors and textures, a knack that contributed greatly to increased sales.

  Jordan headed for the employee lunchroom, where she grabbed a yogurt from the refrigerator and sat down. She pulled her receipts from her pocket and used the calculator on her cellphone to figure
out the costs, circling items that would need price changes.

  She followed the routine religiously, just as all her workers had their set routines. One pair of employees unloaded the truck and carted the various boxes directly into the store or into the huge walk-in cooler at the back of the shop. Cletus and Walker took care of setting up while she did the paperwork and made new display signs. At precisely 9 am, her workers manned the cash registers and the store opened. She smiled. At least it should operate that way. Reality often differed from the best laid plans.

  It didn’t take her long to do the pricing. She spooned up the last of the yogurt, then swiftly made a list of the sign changes. Finished, she slipped her bibbed apron off its hook and put it on over her T-shirt and jeans. Now for the signs. Fancy billboard placards blanketed the outside of the market, and each day she used colored markers to create new ads to tack over the old, promoting the day’s specials. Within twenty minutes, nine bright signs were drafted, carted outside, and placed.

  She reentered the store to find mass confusion reigning freely. Two employees, standing amidst stacks of banana boxes, were engaged in a heated dispute about where to display the fruit. A third employee stood idly by filing her fingernails. Jordan glanced over at Uncle Cletus and shook her head. He clutched a shiny eggplant to his chest and glared at Walker. Walker, a mulish expression on his face, glared right back.

  Okay. Everything status quo. Which meant she needed to get everything organized, starting with the bananas.

  “Leroy, Andy, the bananas should be in front. Display as many as possible. We need them out before they start spotting or we’ll be eating banana bread until Christmas.” She caught Michelle’s eye. “I don’t want to ruin your nail job, but how about getting the empty boxes to the recycling dumpster and the cooler organized.”

  Satisfied by the instant response to her instructions, she turned her attention to Uncle Cletus and Walker. With a determined stride, she headed for the back of the store.

  “You have to move those radishes,” she could hear Cletus order Walker. “You know they’re politically incompatible with my eggplant.”

  “Aren’t,” Walker retorted with stubborn persistence.

  Cletus drew himself up, his voice rising. “Radishes belong with green onions and celery and the rest of the Democrats. Eggplants are Republican down to their toenails and never the twain shall meet.”

  “Don’t have toenails.”

  “Don’t argue!”

  Jordan stepped between them, hands on her hips. “Uncle Cletus, Walker. I thought we had an agreement about this sort of thing.” The two men stared at the floor, abashed. “No politics in the store, remember?”

  “Normally I wouldn’t dream of it,” Uncle Cletus claimed self-righteously. He spared a scowl for Walker. “But in this case, there’s no getting around it. Fact is fact, right is right, and eggplant is Republican.”

  “Uncle Cletus . . .”

  He smiled benignly and put an arm around her shoulders, drawing her off to one side. “Listen love, you’ve done very well these past few years. Very well, indeed. But you still have one or two things left to learn before the store is yours and I retire to my chicken ranch in New Mexico.”

  Jordan sighed. “Arizona, Uncle Cletus. You want to retire to Arizona.”

  “Exactly. But I can’t do that until I’m positive you comprehend the political and philosophical mindset of produce.”

  “I wasn’t aware food had a mindset,” she murmured.

  He offered her a pitying look. “I’m not surprised. It takes a keen eye to spot it.” He patted her shoulder. “Which is why I’m here to help. Take eggplant, for example. Hates radishes. Downright despises them. You can’t even put the two on the same counter. Disastrous results if you do.”

  Jordan snuck a quick peek at her watch. “Uncle Cletus, I know this is important, but—”

  “Vital. Absolutely vital. Put your eggplant with rutabagas and turnips and it’s an entirely different story. They get on like ants and a picnic.” He paused, his expression reflective. “You might get away with mixing eggplants with peppers on the odd occasion.” He fixed her with a stern gaze. “But never red peppers. Green bells only.”

  “I’ll remember that, Uncle Cletus. Now if we could—”

  “Which brings us back to the issue of radishes.”

  Jordan closed her eyes and stifled a groan. “The radishes?”

  “It’s not a matter to be trifled with. The radishes cannot be put anywhere near the eggplant.”

  She nodded decisively. “When you’re right, you’re right. The political ramifications would be devastating.” She turned and faced her uncle’s helper. “Walker, the radishes go. Put them by the . . .” She glanced at Cletus, her eyebrows raised.

  He gave it a moment’s careful deliberation. “The green onions and celery. That should allow them all to ponder the prevailing economic climate.”

  “See to it,” she ordered briskly, then announced to the room at large, “Five minutes until we open. Let’s get the aisles cleared. Leroy, get this water mopped or we’ll be up to our asparaguses in lawsuits. Michelle, you’re on cash register one. Andy, get those potatoes sorted. Let’s go, people! We’re running late.”

  But then, they were always running late. Just once she’d like to have the market picture perfect when she opened the front doors to the first customer. Confusion and disarray bothered her. A lot. Unfortunately, in this business they were a fact of life, one she’d learned to accept.

  She hurried to the front of the store and stopped short, a small groan escaping her. Mrs. Swenson headed the line of customers, which didn’t surprise her. She’d started the day with a Viking, naturally she’d continue it with the Norse version of Attila the Hun. Heaven help the tomatoes, because dear Mrs. Swenson had a grip that could squeeze blood from a hazelnut.

  Jordan unlocked the doors and smiled a greeting. Within seconds the store filled with shoppers. As she’d predicted, Mrs. Swenson marched straight for the tomatoes. At the last minute she veered toward the eggplant. Jordan, knowing impending trouble when she saw it, followed. Combining Mrs. Swenson with her grip of iron and Uncle Cletus with his precious eggplant could only mean a combustion of the most elemental kind.

  Sure enough, Uncle Cletus took a defensive stance in front of his display, his arms spread wide. It didn’t deter Mrs. Swenson. The stocky woman brushed him aside with no more effort than it would take to swat a pesky fly.

  “Your eggplant looks tired,” she announced, picking one up and inspecting it with meticulous care.

  “Tired?” Uncle Cletus’s voice held a strangled quality. He snatched the eggplant from her and cradled it protectively in his arms. “My dear woman, I’ll have you know these eggplants are in their prime of life.”

  Mrs. Swenson sniffed. “What would you know about an eggplant’s prime, when you don’t even know your own? Men think their prime starts when they crawl out of their diapers and ends with the last nail in their coffin.”

  “You mean it doesn’t?” Uncle Cletus grumbled.

  The look she shot him could have shriveled watermelons. She picked up another eggplant and shook it at him. “A week ago these were in their prime. Today they’re just plain tired.” She dropped the mangled vegetable back onto the pile. “There’s nothing more pathetic than tired eggplant.”

  “Why, Mrs. Swenson, how nice to see you this morning,” Jordan interrupted. “Have you seen our wonderful deal on bananas?”

  “Good morning, Jordan. Yes, I’ve seen it. You know I only buy top-quality produce. Those aren’t even fit for banana bread.” She reached for a third eggplant, but was forestalled when another voice intruded on their conversation—a deep familiar voice, one that caused Jordan to stiffen in alarm.

  “Try this one, Mrs. Swenson,” Rainer Thorsen suggested. He cut neatly between them and plucked a large eggplant from the back of the display. He cupped it in his
hands and held it up so the overhead lights gleamed off the rich purple skin. Then he lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply. “Yes, this is the perfect one.”

  The Norwegian woman eyed him with equal parts curiosity and suspicion. “Do you think so?”

  “Yes. Definitely.” He took her work-worn hand in his, placing it around the vegetable with care. “Be gentle now. Eggplant is like a beautiful woman. Squeeze too hard and you’ll bruise her. And that would be a sin, don’t you think?”

  “Not another one,” Jordan muttered, rolling her eyes. “First politics, now sex. I swear these vegetables see more action than I do.”

  “I— Oh, oh yes,” Mrs. Swenson said in apparent fascination.

  “Even the shape is womanly,” Rainer continued. “Round and full-bodied, the skin, warm and firm and smooth.” He grasped her other hand so they held the eggplant between them. “Do you feel that, how it invites the touch? Eggplant is one of the most sensuous vegetables you’ll find.”

  Mrs. Swenson gave a deep heartfelt sigh and Jordan listened in amazement. Eggplant, sensuous? Apparently, the woman agreed with him, because she nodded, her faded blond topknot bobbing up and down.

  “Sensuous. Very sensuous,” she repeated breathlessly.

  Rainer eased the eggplant into the plastic basket she carried on her arm. “Not as sensuous as tomatoes, of course.” He slipped his hand beneath her elbow and spared Jordan a quick glance. “Coming?” he asked, before leading her customer toward the tomatoes. “You can’t buy your man eggplant, kjæreste , and not tempt him with love’s most infamous vegetable.”

  “Sweetheart.” Mrs. Swenson sighed again. “My husband used to call me that.”

  “Feed him more tomatoes,” Rainer responded promptly, “and he will again.”

  “Well I’ll be a pickled herring,” Jordan muttered, staring after them. She didn’t know whether to be grateful, annoyed, or suspicious. Suspicion won out. Who did he think he was, Svengali? And what had he done to her customer? At a guess, charmed Mrs. Swenson into buying more produce in one day than she had in the past month.