Chapter Text
Steven adjusted his wide-brimmed hat as he waited with a dozen other pedestrians to cross Park Boulevard. Although he’d bought the white Panama hat shortly after moving to San Diego months ago, he’d had few occasions to wear it. Between frequent Moon Knight missions, Marc needing time with Jack, and Jake driving his cab, having time to accessorize an outfit was a rarity.
Wearing his origami-patterned, button-down shirt, khakis, and trainers, Steven continued west along University Avenue with his San Diego Natural History Museum tote bag on his shoulder. Judging from the number of people around him carrying reusable bags, many of them were headed to the Hillcrest Farmers Market as well.
The pride flags that Steven occasionally saw in the city became commonplace once entering the Hillcrest neighborhood. Same-sex couples casually touched and held hands. Steven was glad to see it, and not just because he was pretty sure he was bi. After indirectly meeting Bri he’d read a few books on gender and sexuality. The subjects were more nuanced than he’d realized. Restricting who people could love based on the equipment in their pants seemed more absurd than ever.
The wind picked up, prompting Steven to touch his fingertips to his hatband. The black-tipped, white ibis feather he’d tucked into the leather band was still there.
Shoulda hot-glued it, Jake said.
But then I couldn’t change it out with the glossy ibis one. The dark, iridescent feather was another of the souvenirs Steven had brought back from Florida. He’d carefully wrapped both feathers with some of the laundry stowed in Marc’s rucksack.
With the full moon so close, they’d gone straight to Port Hueneme to meet Jack. Steven, Jake, and Marc had been pleasantly surprised that the werewolf was willing to try a little exposure therapy to mitigate his travel phobia.
They’d camped overnight on one of the Channel Islands. In the morning they’d explored the rock cliffs and sand dunes before heading back to shore and driving home. After dropping them off at their apartment, Jack had gone to Abuela’s to ride out the full moon. That meant time for Jake and Steven to front, and for Marc to psych himself up to finally tell his partner about them.
Today Steven had meant to start the mile-long walk to the Hillcrest Farmers Market earlier in the morning, but time had gotten away from him again. He’d had only 100 pages left in The Alchemist. If he didn’t finish it before giving Marc control of the body at 4 PM, who knew when he’d next have the chance.
The wide sidewalk teemed with San Diegans and tourists by the time Steven walked around one of the barricades keeping vehicles out of Normal Street. Vendors, most of whom had set up colorful shade canopies, lined both sides of the street for two full blocks. Hundreds of shoppers browsed the food, crafts, produce, and other items for sale. Overlapping voices, music, and traffic made a cheerful din.
Reminds me of Cairo a little, Marc mused.
On a slow day, Jake added.
A pang of homesickness bubbled up. Steven said, Or the Bloomsbury Farmers Market.
Although he felt his brothers’ concern, neither of them spoke. Steven was fine with their quiet as well as his mild homesickness. They’d collectively decided to move to San Diego, at least for a short while.
Now the move seemed permanent. Jake’s network of contacts and acquaintances was growing. Marc had Jack and his friends. They all had Layla and Frenchie, and Steven was making an effort to get out more and talk to people. He wasn’t shy, just bookish and short on time due to being one third of a system.
After buying a lychee-flavored bubble tea with cash—the vendor thanked Steven for that—he joined the part of the crowd slowly heading north.
Do you miss London? Marc asked.
Steven chewed on a tapioca bead as he pondered the question. Parts of it. The museum, of course. He joined the handful of people browsing crates of fresh citrus. The vendors were a thirty-something Black couple and their young children. The youngest of the three kids cheerfully handed brown paper bags to patrons for their purchases.
But not Donna, Jake said as Steven picked out a nearly ripe grapefruit. Just one because he was the only one of them who liked the sour fruit.
The six-year-old girl missing one of her front teeth thrust a paper bag at Steven. “Mister!” she grinned. “Here!”
Steven accepted the bag with a chuckle. “Ta, luv.” As he dropped the grapefruit and a few lemons and limes into the bag, he said to his brothers, Heavens, no. But I do miss my library. Half of my books are still in storage.
I’m sorry, buddy, Marc said. We’ll get more of them moved now that things have settled down with Jack. A small amount of dread followed the mention of his partner’s name.
Steven knew its source and sympathized. Tonight, mate. You promised.
I know, Marc said. I’ll tell him. His tone was grim but determined.
After paying for his purchases and stowing them in his tote, Steven continued north. He loves you. It might take a little time, but he’ll accept us. I’m sure of it.
Right. Marc sounded less than convinced.
Steven wasn’t 100% certain himself, but was fairly confident. If Jack could accept swamp-creature Ted as a friend in a matter of hours, surely he could love a human with a few alters.
I think he will too, Jake said. And if he doesn’t, better to find out and move on.
Marc winced and retreated slightly.
Jake, Steven gently scolded, that’s not helpful.
You said the same thing!
Steven sighed; he had said the same in private. Let’s enjoy the market, yeah? I’m ready for lunch. He smelled as much as saw several vendors selling everything from vegan dishes made with locally grown produce to deep-fried Oreos.
Is that barbecue? Pulled-pork barbecue? Jake’s interest was making their mouth water.
“Gods, no,” Steven groaned.
A knot of teenagers passing by looked at him askance.
“Sorry,” he said with a sheepish grin. “Just thinking aloud.”
Steven moved toward the vendor selling Thai food under a yellow canopy. I’m fronting, so we’re eating at least vegetarian. He skimmed the menu handwritten on a dry-erase board attached to one of the canopy’s legs. Marc, how does pad Thai with tofu sound?
Good, he replied. It has scrambled egg though.
S’alright. I can tolerate a little egg.
Gratitude pulsed from his brother. Thank you, Steven.
Spring rolls too, Jake said. With extra hot peanut sauce.
Steven facetiously sighed. Why do you want your food to hurt?
It’s better that way.
It’s not, Steven rebutted, but I’ll tolerate that sauce on one spring roll. You’re a menace.
Jake chuckled. Yeah.
Eating the rice and noodle stir-fry dish standing up was awkward, but worth it. Not only was it the best Thai food they’d had outside of Thailand, but small talk with other diners standing out of the flow of foot traffic was enjoyable. Steven got a few compliments on his hat, too.
They browsed the stalls, picking up a jar of za’atar for Marc, a badly rusted model of a 1960 Pontiac Ventura that Jake vowed to nurse back to health, and only four used books for himself. Steven was proud of his self-restraint despite his brothers’ teasing.
While moving his now-heavy tote bag to his other shoulder, a scent Steven hadn’t smelled in years brought him to a halt: old-fashioned licorice. He and Mum had shared a rope of the soft, dark candy occasionally.
Since neither Jake nor Marc remembered the licorice, Steven figured it was one of his less-than-factual memories. Dr. Renquist had helped Steven come to terms with them. As long as the memories were benign, she’d advised Steven to accept them and not fret over their origin. He and his brothers could tell reality from fantasy and take care of themselves. They were gestalt: more than the sum of their parts.
Feeling a bit like Jack, Steven followed his nose to a stall with a bright green canopy and table skirt. Flowing, hand-painted script on a chartreuse banner spelled “Cornucopia.” Between the handful of customers standing in front of the table, Steven spotted a few of the shop’s namesakes. The woven and ceramic cornucopias bore bundles of fresh herbs, tubers, and yellow, daisy-like flowers. Canning jars and brown paper bags bearing labels with the same flowing script filled the space between the themed displays.
Standing behind the table was a plump Black woman wearing a loose, lavender dress that flattered her figure and skin tone. Her long hair was done up in dozens of tiny braids, several of which were embellished with beads. She laughed with one of her customers, her soprano carrying on the breeze.
His heavy tote bag bumped the table, making the items for sale tremble and Steven realize he’d walked up to the vendor’s stall. “Sorry!” he blurted as he shifted the bag behind him.
The woman, who appeared to be about thirty, pressed both hands to the table top. Her fingernails were trim and unpolished, Steven noticed. One hand sat on top of a closed cash box, and the other beside an irregularly shaped piece of reddish wood. Nearby were wood shavings and carving tools.
The woman met his eyes and smiled genuinely. “No harm done. Looks like you’ve done some shopping.” She spoke with a neutral American accent.
“I have!” Steven agreed, glad that she wasn’t upset. “There’s so much great stuff here! Got a spice mix for my brother and a model car for my other brother. It’s more rust than metal at this point, but Jake’ll fix it right up, just like he does with real…”
The woman listened attentively. Her initially polite smile had become a bemused grin.
“…cars. Right,” he said, taking a breath. “Got to babbling there, didn’t I?” He stepped back, bumped into a heavyset older man, apologized, then turned back to the flowers and herbs and other wares on the table. “Let’s see. Those flowers are lovely, and I smell licorice from somewhere. Love black licorice.”
“Me too,” the woman said, her cheeks dimpling from her smile. She gestured at a small ceramic bowl with what looked like inch-long bits of straw. “Fresh licorice root, if you'd like to try some.”
“Oh!” Steven said, squinting at the bits of root. “You can eat it?” He picked up a bit with his fingers and sniffed it. The yellow fibers smelled like licorice without the molasses.
“You could,” the woman grinned, “but I suggest just chewing on it.”
Steven smiled back. “Well, you’re the expert!” He popped the sliver of root in his mouth.
Nice, Marc said.
Steven bit down on the bit of root. Huh? he asked as licorice flavor filled his mouth.
You’re flirting, hermanito.
I’m not… Realization and the root’s pleasant taste prompted a grin. I suppose I am.
The woman asked, “What do you think?”
“Very nice,” Steven replied. Suddenly he remembered double entendres, not that he intended to make a full-on double entendre just yet, maybe later if there was a later, so he met the woman’s dark eyes and thought of her dimples and how talented she was. “Quite lovely.”
“Like your hat,” she said, then cringed a little. “I mean I like your hat. Especially the feather.”
Steven beamed even as he wondered what to do with the bit of licorice root. He couldn’t spit it out in the middle of flirting—that would be gross—so he shifted it between his gum and cheek and tried to ignore it. “Thank you!” He removed his hat and regretted it immediately. It had been sunny and over 26C for hours, so not only was his hair mussed, but a little sweaty.
Don’t worry about it, Marc encouraged. Keep going!
Nodding, Steven held his hat in one hand with the feather facing the woman while trying to fix his hair with the other. “It’s an ibis feather I found in Florida. Just an American white ibis, I’m afraid. Not a proper one.”
The woman’s bemused smile returned. She reached for the hat. “May I?”
“Of course!”
Holding his hat with both hands, she studied the feather. After a few moments she looked at Steven. “It looks fine to me. What would a proper feather be?”
“One from an African sacred ibis.”
Jake groaned.
Shh! Marc scolded.
The woman giggled, and Steven wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Maybe the feather was dumb. He ought to think before he spoke more often.
She moved the hat forward and up. Steven ducked his head to accept it. “Maybe I’ve watched too many documentaries,” the woman said as the hat settled on his head, “but I’m imagining Thoth wearing a Panama hat.”
“Thoth?” Steven blurted, jerking his head up to blink at her.
“Yes, sorry. He’s the ancient Egyptian god of—”
“—knowledge and writing,” they said together.
Their eyes had met and she was smiling that dimpled smile. For once Steven found himself speechless.
Jake grumbled Dios and gave him a mental nudge.
“Brilliant!” Steven enthused, adjusting his hat with one hand. “That you know Thoth. I’m not a follower, of course—”
“Of course.”
Khonshu would have a conniption, Marc chuckled.
“—but I do like him. All scholarly, isn’t he? I dabble in Egyptology.”
Understatement, Jake quipped.
Shut it, you lot! I’m trying to flirt.
Then introduce yourself! Marc said.
He offered his hand. “‘m Steven. Steven Grant.”
The woman’s handshake was firm and her skin soft. “Monique Abrams.” Her cheeks flushed as she pulled back, still smiling. “You’re a breath of fresh air, Steven.”
Grinning, Steven said, “That’s mostly the licorice root, I think.”
Monique threw her head back and laughed.
Niiiice, Marc cheered.
An older white woman with a Karen haircut stepped up beside Steven. “Excuse me, miss?” She motioned at the jars of red preserves. “Manzanita? Like the tree?”
Steven noticed Monique’s lips purse for a split second before shifting into a polite smile. “One moment,” she murmured to him, then turned to her potential customer. “Yes. Manzanita berries are delicious. Sweet and a little tart. I harvest them, dry some—” she gestured at the brown paper bags “—and make the rest into jam.”
“They’re edible?” the woman asked. “You’re sure?”
Monique’s full lips pursed for a bit longer this time. “Yes.”
“Absolutely!” Steven interjected. “Monique is an expert. Did you know that licorice root is edible too? I mean,” he said, waving at the bowl with bits of yellow root, “you just chew on it. It’s very good.”
“I grow it myself,” Monique said. “All organic. No pesticides or herbicides.”
The woman wrinkled her nose. “I don’t like licorice.” After eyeing the jars of manzanita jam, she gave Monique a cursory half-smile and wandered off.
Other than heaving a sigh, Monique didn’t react. She turned back to Steven with a smile. “Thanks. You’ve worked retail, I take it.”
“I have,” Steven said, “at—”
Four more people strode up to the table. Monique gave him an apologetic smile, then turned her attention to her customers.
Steven stepped back to make room for the others and waited. He felt foolish, lingering there. The customers had lots of questions that would likely lead to sales, so he edged further away. He’d thought that he and Monique had connected, but maybe he’d misread it. Perhaps she was being nice to make a sale.
After drawing a deep breath, Steven shifted the heavy bag on his shoulder and stepped into the flow of foot traffic.
“Steven!” Monique called.
He stopped short, barely dodging a woman pushing a pram just behind him.
“Excuse me for a moment” Steven heard Monique say to her customers as he turned to face her. She smiled and motioned for him join her on the far side of the table. “I’ve got an extra chair back here, if you like.”
Oh, he likes, Jake drawled.
Hush, Steven thought, grinning, and took Monique up on her offer.
For over an hour they talked as much as they could between customers. Monique was great at sales. Better than he was, Steven realized, because she let her customers do most of the talking. With his brothers’ encouragement he discreetly watched her work: answering questions, suggesting which of her herbs, flowers, fruit, or tubers the customer might enjoy, and gently pushing for the sale. She closed nearly all of them, sometimes making deals by throwing in extra product. Steven was impressed even as he wondered where she grew her plants, how many berries it took to make a pint jar of jam, and other practicalities.
After asking if she minded, he’d picked up the piece of manzanita wood she’d been carving. Although Steven didn’t know the first thing about woodcarving, he suspected that this gnarled piece of wood was difficult to carve. As he turned the piece over in his hands, he noticed how her cuts accentuated the piece’s contours. She was working with its shape, not fighting it.
Monique glanced at him as she packed a dozen jars of jam in a cardboard box for her latest customer. “Like it?”
“I do,” Steven said, certain he had a smitten smile on his face and not caring one bit. “It reminds me of something. Trying to put my finger on it.”
“It’s—”
“Don’t tell me,” Steven said on a whim.
Monique gave him her dimpled smile. “All right.” After setting the box on her chair which she rarely sat in, she addressed the young lady who really liked manzanita jam. “A hundred even,” she told her.
As Monique thanked her customer and put the money in the cash box, Steven returned the carving to its spot on the table. The piece of red and buff-colored wood sat evenly on the table thanks to its wider, roughly circular base. Its overall shape suggested a dome of overlapping layers around a central point. “A lotus,” he said, grinning at the form he saw in the whirled wood.
“You got it.” Smiling delightedly, Monique sat and turned her whole body to face him.
Steven traced the carving’s nascent petals with his eyes. “Brilliant,” he murmured. “The Egyptians revered the lotus. It symbolized beauty, honesty, rebirth, and the sun.” He shifted in his seat to address Monique. “But you already knew that, I’m sure.”
She shrugged. “Some of that. I think of the lotus along Buddhist lines. It’s is one of the auspicious symbols of the Ashtamangala.”
“The Ashtamangala,” Steven repeated, leaning closer. “I’m not familiar with that. Please, explain it to me.”
Monique considered him for a long moment, then shook her head. “No.” She was grinning at least.
Steven sat up straight. “No?”
“Not now. It’s almost 2:00. I need to pack up and be out of here by three.”
He breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Oh, I see. Do you, um, want some help? We could get tea afterwards.”
“I’d love to, but I have my work cut out for me on market days, and mondays aren’t much better. But…” She reached into one of her dress’s pockets and pulled out a business card. After jotting something on the back of the card, she handed it to Steven. “Call me, or text, if you want.”
“I want,” Steven said, then chuckled at how silly the phrase sounded by itself. Monique’s giggle indicated that she felt similarly. “I will. Thank you.”
He grinned at the phone number she’d written in neat handwriting, then flipped the card over. The front had the same color scheme and flowing script as her booth’s banner, as well as a different phone number. After frowning at it, he asked, “You have an office?”
“Lord, no,” she chuckled. “That’s a Google Voice number. I don’t give my real number to just anyone.”
Steven felt a blush color his face as he indulged in a smug grin. “If that’s not an auspicious sign, then I don’t know what is.”
Monique’s lilting laugh rang out. Steven gazed at her, glad that no customers were at the table at the moment.
Somewhere nearby a church bell tolled twice, ending the moment.
Monique stood up, and Steven followed suit. “All right, smooth talker,” she grinned, handing him a box with his purchases. It wasn’t terribly heavy, but considering his weighty tote bag and the long walk home catching a cab might be in order. “Off with you. I have a method for breaking all of this down and you’re distracting.”
“In a good way?” Steven asked, shouldering his tote and moving around the end of the table.
Grinning, she said, “In a good way.”
“Well then,” Steven chuckled. On impulse he tipped his hat. “Milady.”
Monique giggled, then curtsied. “Milord.”
His brothers’ groans didn’t dampen his good mood.
Smiling from ear to ear, Steven strode away from Monique’s Cornucopia. Having the card with her number that she didn’t give to just anyone kept him from looking over his shoulder. He asked his brothers, Aren’t you glad we checked out the farmers market?
NO, they replied in unison. Their amusement and affection came through loud and clear.