Chapter 27

The September sun had barely crested over Austin’s skyline when Juliet Chevez arrived at the Austin farmers’ market, her pickup truck loaded with crates of produce and a carefully selected assortment of wine from her winery. She parked behind the Chavez family’s regular booth. Her brothers Miguel and Edward were already setting up their colorful display of late-summer vegetables.

“You’re late,” Miguel teased, hefting a crate of heirloom tomatoes onto the table.

Juliet rolled her eyes at her brother and jumped out of her truck. At five-foot-seven, she moved with athletic grace, her olive complexion glowing in the morning light. Her dark chestnut hair was pulled back in a practical braid that reached halfway down her back, with a few stubborn tendrils already escaping around her face.

Unlike many of the vendors who dressed for comfort alone, Juliet wore a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows, dark jeans, and leather boots that had seen their share of vineyard soil but were polished for the occasion.

“I was checking the viognier before I left,” she explained, reaching for a crate of peppers. “The acidity is finally where I want it.”

Carlos glanced at the wine bottles she’d brought. “Grandmother said you should be bringing home phone numbers, not trying to sell wine to strangers.”

“Then her and mom can come sell the wine themselves! They are the worst busybodies. Why’d you two have to get married? Now I’m the only one left for them to pick on,” Juliet replied without missing a beat, though her bright blue eyes — a gift from her German grandfather — flashed with momentary annoyance. She softened it with a quick smile. “Besides, I have a plan.”

Miguel and Carlos exchanged knowing looks. Juliet’s ‘plans’ were legendary in the family. They were meticulously researched, precisely executed, and usually successful despite everyone’s doubts.

As the market filled with early shoppers, Juliet arranged her wine display at one end of their stand. She’d brought printed cards describing each varietal, with tasting notes and food pairing suggestions. Every detail was considered, down to the custom labels featuring a watercolor of the family vineyard painted by her youngest cousin.

A young couple stopped to admire their produce, and Carlos launched into his usual friendly banter. Meanwhile, Juliet spotted Matthew Conner, the man her cousin Anna had said had turned Alma’s back to its place as one of the city’s iconic restaurants. Juliet had done her homework. Chef Conner was known for his commitment to local sourcing and had been quoted in a food magazine lamenting the limited selection of Texas wines that complemented his Asian-influenced cuisine.

“Miguel, take over the register for a bit?” Juliet asked, already moving around the table. Her brother started to protest, but clearly recognized the determined set of her jaw.

A customer approached with questions about the squash varieties, momentarily delaying Juliet. She answered patiently, her genuine knowledge of farming evident as she explained growing methods and suggested recipés, but her eyes occasionally darted to track the handsome man’s progress through the market. He was a lot younger than she thought.

“And these are my brother’s specialty,” she concluded warmly to the customer. “He can tell you more while I...”

“Jules!” Carlos called out, interrupting her. “The Johnsons need ten pounds of peaches for their jam-making and we’re running low. Can you grab another box from the truck?”

Juliet’s expression tightened momentarily. She glanced at the Chef, now only two stalls away, then back at her brother. The box he needed was heavy and awkwardly sized—it would take her brother half the time to fetch it himself, and he knew it.

“Now?” she asked, not bothering to hide her frustration.

“They’re waiting,” Carlos shrugged, gesturing to the elderly couple who had been buying their peaches for preserves since before Juliet was born.

With a controlled exhale that her family would recognize as her counting to five in her head, Juliet nodded to the Johnsons and headed to the truck. This was family ... messy, inconvenient, but ultimately more important than any business opportunity. She’d catch Chef Conner another time.

She returned moments later with the box balanced easily on one shoulder, her posture straight as a vineyard post despite the weight. A small crowd had gathered at their stand in her absence, and she navigated through with practiced ease.

“Here you go,” she said, setting down the box next to Carlos with a thud that conveyed her lingering annoyance. Then she turned to help Mrs. Johnson select the best peaches, her irritation dissolving into genuine warmth as the older woman asked about her father’s health.

“He’s having a good month,” Juliet replied, her voice softening. “I’ll tell him you asked about him.”

As she finished with the Johnsons, Juliet looked up to see Chef Conner standing directly in front of her, examining a basket of unusual purple bell peppers that were another Chavez specialty.

“Those are extraordinary with grilled fish,” Juliet said, seizing the moment. “They develop a smokiness when roasted that pairs beautifully with a minerally white wine.” She reached for a bottle of her Viognier. “Like this one.”

“That’s quite a claim. You sound like you know your wines, as well as your vegetables.”

Juliet’s smile was genuine, reaching her eyes and revealing a small dimple in her right cheek. “I should hope so. I grow both.”

Matthew had developed a Saturday morning ritual during his eight months in Austin. He walked the downtown farmers’ market, talking with producers, examining seasonal offerings, and occasionally finding unexpected ingredients that might inspire new dishes at Alma’s.

Even though his time was finished at Alma’s, he still kept to his habits. This particular September morning, he was browsing for whatever might catch his attention. He had recently been experimenting with expanding Alma’s predominantly Tex-Mex foundations to incorporate broader regional influences, and the farmer’s market had become an essential resource for this evolution.

His methodical exploration had already yielded several finds ... microgreens from a young couple’s urban farm, and some freshly milled corn from a third-generation miller. As he approached the Chavez Family Farm stand, he was initially drawn by their impressive display of late-summer produce, particularly the vibrant array of chilies and peppers.

When the woman with the striking blue eyes spoke to him about the purple peppers, his professional interest was immediately engaged. Her assertion about their flavor development and wine pairing wasn’t the typical vendor pitch; it contained specific culinary knowledge that suggested genuine understanding rather than sales technique.

“I grow both,” she said, and the simplicity of her statement carried unmistakable confidence.

“Matthew Conner,” he introduced himself, extending his hand. “I did some work at Alma’s.”

“Juliet Chavez,” she replied, her handshake firm and direct. “I know who you are. You’ve done remarkable work at Eduardo’s restaurant.”

“You know Eduardo?” Matthew asked, his interest deepening.

“Austin is still a small town in some ways,” Juliet explained. “The Chavez and Vega families go back three generations here. Eduardo used to buy exclusively from my grandfather before commercial suppliers became more convenient.”

This connection to Alma’s history immediately elevated the conversation from casual market exchange to a potentially meaningful relationship. Throughout his culinary journey, Matthew had learned that such connections often provided crucial insight into the cultural context of cooking traditions.

“I’ve been trying to rebuild those local supply relationships,” he said, examining the purple peppers more closely. “Eduardo’s original recipés were clearly developed for ingredients with specific characteristics that the commercial versions lack.”

Juliet nodded, pleased by the observation. “That’s exactly why my father maintained these heirloom varieties, when most farms switched to higher-yield commercial strains. The flavor complexity is worth the additional effort.”

As if to demonstrate, she selected a pepper, produced a small pocketknife, and deftly cut a sliver for him to taste. The pepper’s flavor was revelatory layers of sweetness giving way to moderate heat with distinctive floral notes entirely absent from commercially grown varieties.

“That would transform the chile relleno recipé,” Matthew said, almost to himself, already mentally adjusting the dish to showcase this ingredient’s unique qualities.

“It’s what my grandmother uses in her version,” Juliet confirmed. “Along with a particular type of creamy cheese that my aunt still makes in small batches. I could bring some by the restaurant if you’re interested.”

Her offer seemed motivated by genuine interest in culinary tradition rather than mere business opportunity. Something about her direct manner and evident knowledge reminded Matthew of Mrs. Chen from the fish market in Chicago, someone who understood their ingredients with deep intimacy born of years of careful observation.