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her studio, letting Hoot take care of cleanup even though she knew he never remembered to wipe the countertops. In bed that night, lightly sleeping, she dreamed vivid, yearning dreams she could not remember in the morning.
    Over lunch hour Hoot walked to Farmers’ Market with the intention of getting some sort of little gift for Larque, if he could find something that felt right. Certainly not a dildo, no matter how much she joked. And not flowers or anything mushy like that. There were limits. But within those limits, Hoot had a feeling his wife needed something. He could tell she was going through a rough patch right now. Not that this can’t-paint thing worried him; he didn’t understand it, but he knew Larque would get her act together soon. He had faith in her, and she had never let him down yet. She just needed to have more faith in herself.
    Her latest doppelganger did not bother him either, no matter how mouthy it was. He guessed most people would think a wife who doppelgangered things was pretty weird, which was why he didn’t talk about it, but personally he figured, what was the harm? Who had she ever hurt? Everybody is entitled to a hobby. Larque had been doppelgangering since he had known her, and he had married her realizing he was in for some strange times. If you’re going to fall for somebody, you have to love her the way she is.
    No, what worried him and sent him across Soudersburg to Farmers’ Market was the way she had dressed yesterday. It didn’t matter to him what she wore; she could go around in burlap and he would still think she was damn good-looking, because she was. What bothered him was, whenever a woman changed the way she dressed so much so abruptly, it was a sure sign of heavy weather ahead.
    Anyway, he always liked having an excuse to visit Farmers’ Market. Loved the place. Ah, the aromas. He could whiff them now, still a block away, the warm moist siren smells of chicken corn soup, pot pie, hot pretzels, cheese bread.
    He hurried up the brick sidewalk and pushed his way into the heavenly scented echoing brick building. Crowded. Always, on market day. People knew a good thing. Rows and rows of stalls—cut flowers, little wicker baskets, pecan pie, lemon meringue pie , dollhouse furniture, hot German potato salad with bacon dressing , quilted pillows, deer bologna, sweet Lebanon bologna, fresh-baked poppy seed rolls, pickled eggs, spiced apple rings —
    Hoot noticed the italics in his head and decided to get himself something to eat. Maybe then he would be able to concentrate on buying a gift for Larque.
    â€œYo, Hootenanny!” The guy at the crab cake stand knew him.
    â€œHey, Schrummy, wie geht es? ”
    â€œ Gut, es geht gut .”
    Strange, Hoot thought as he spread spicy brown mustard on two large crab cakes, he wasn’t originally from Soudersburg, but because he was Deutsch he felt one hundred percent at home here, like he’d lived here all his life. Larque, though—she really had lived here most of her life, yet because she had that damn Irish mysticism in her, she always seemed to feel like she came from someplace else.
    He bought himself some vinegar fries and a slice of shoofly pie to go with his crab cakes, then headed up some open metal stairs to where there was a sort of loft with a few card tables and folding chairs. With an instinct born of watching lots of John Wayne as a kid, Hoot positioned himself with his back against a wall to eat.
    Yum. Hoot pitied anybody who had never eaten real crab cakes.
    â€œI mean, to me it explains everything, do you know what I mean?” A woman’s bright-colored voice floated to Hoot from somewhere nearby. “I mean, for instance, this chronic pain in my bladder, the doctors can’t explain it, but reincarnation does, you know? All it means is something traumatic happened there in a previous life, like I died of urinary rupture or something.”
    Hoot’s