Excerpt from All the Little Hopes by Leah Weiss, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Do you know chewing gum comes from the sapodilla tree? The gummy resin is called chicle. So you've got a tree in Central America to thank for your chewing gum."

Tiny Junior grins.

Though it has been nine days since Oma passed, Mama still collects condolences. Miz Elvira shops early so she can open the library at ten, and she's the first of a dozen who speaks kindly of Oma who stayed a foreigner all her days. She pickled everything and skewed her words peculiar. She was a gloriously odd soul, and I loved everything about her except when she'd poot in her sleep and smell of sauerkraut. The older she got, the more she pooted, the more she slept alone.

Another fascinating soul is Trula Freed, the consummate enigma of Mercer County, a mystery who is making her way among the market stalls on the far side. She is a butterfly among common houseflies. Tall and graceful, she carries her sweetgrass basket on her skinny arm that holds a dozen gold bangles. I wish she'd come to our table so I could study her up close. Today, she wears a long dress in purples and blues and an orange turban wrapped around her head. Gold hoops hang from sagging earlobes. Her skin is as smooth as an egg and her eyes the green of a regal feline. Everything about Trula Freed is rich and exotic. When she casts her glance my way across the crowd, I duck my chin and my cheeks flush. Mama doesn't allow Trula Freed's name to be spoken under our roof for reasons I honor but cannot fathom. The woman's magnetic pull is palpable.

Mama taps my shoulder so I stop daydreaming and help Violet Crumbie. The brim of Miz Violet's tattered straw hat is cocked over one side of her face to shield it. I'm shocked to see a nasty bruise and a split in her lip. One hand rests protectively on her pregnant belly and the other trembles when she picks up a jar of honey. "How much?" she whispers.

Before I can say, her husband, Larry Crumbie, wrenches her wrist. "Put It Down," he orders, and she obeys, docile as a child.

They turn away, but Mama picks up the jar and heads after Miz Violet. "Wait," she calls out and presses the jar into the shy woman's hand, saying, "It's a gift. Please take it. It's good to see you at market."

She doesn't even look at Larry Crumbie, and that doesn't sit well with him. He grabs the jar and says, "We don't take charity," and he hurls that pint of precious honey on the ground. The bottle shatters and honey splatters. Tiny Junior stoops and picks up the glass, and a mutt dog sleeping in the shade ambles over to lap up the sweet, shards and all.

I can't help myself but blurt, "Do you know that it took the labor of twenty thousand bees to make that one jar of honey?"

Larry Crumbie shoots a mean look at me, obviously not caring for knowledge or a girl speaking outright.

Mama pats my arm to calm me. She got talked to rudely, but my heart breaks extra for Miz Violet. To my way of thinking, Larry Crumbie is the worst kind of fancy man. A showy man who wears ironed shirts and pomade in his hair. Now that his wife is in the family way, instead of being kind and considerate to her, he's turned extra spiteful. I'm glad Mama was nice to her. Maybe that counted for something.

We sell out of eggs and honey and head home early because it's picture show day. The humid air from the open windows lifts the hair off my damp neck. I hear Mama sniffling. "What is it?" I say. "It's not that Larry Crumbie, is it?"

"No, no," she says.

"Is it worry for Miz Violet?" I try again. "There's nothing you can do for her really," I say like I know what I'm talking about.

When I say Oma's name, Mama nods, wipes her runny nose on her forearm, and gives me a watery smile. I miss my grandmother, too. She was wrinkled and wore flowered scarves tied under her floppy chin. She was soft and squishy and smelled of lilac powder she got every birthday and caraway used in cooking. With Oma gone, Mama needs something new and promising in her life.

Excerpted from All the Little Hopes by Leah Weiss. Copyright © 2021 by Leah Weiss. Excerpted by permission of Sourcebooks. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.