Spreadsheets and Bedsheets (Havenwood #1)

1

jules

E arly spring in Havenwood was a sensory ambush. The breeze carried faint hints of lavender, cinnamon, and freshly baked bread, mingled with the earthy tang of newly turned soil from garden beds. The sunlight filtered through the budding trees, dappling the cobblestones in soft, golden light. It was the kind of idyllic, picturesque scene you’d expect from a small-town postcard, or the opening act of a Disney musical.

Mid-March in Havenwood brought a cautious but welcomed shift toward spring. The air was still crisp, with a faint chill that lingered from the cooler-than-normal winter, but the sun broke through more often, coaxing people outdoors. Street vendors were set up along the cobblestone paths, their tables ladened with baked goods, handcrafted jewelry, and early spring produce.

Locals strolled by in light jackets and scarves, clutching steaming cups of coffee or hot cider as they browsed the stalls. Children darted between tables, their laughter blended with the hum of conversation. The trees were just beginning to bud; tiny hints of green peeked out, while a soft breeze carried the scent of fresh bread and the earthy promise of the season ahead. It was not quite warm, but it was enough to make people linger, grateful for the sunshine and the hint of brighter days to come.

I adjusted the strap of my tote bag. A sunflower I couldn’t resist buying from a vendor twirled idly in my hand, its bright yellow petals caught the sunlight as I walked. The Rivermere District hummed with life, just as I remembered it, yet somehow more vibrant now, like the years away have sharpened my view of it.

Children darted between stalls, laughed as they chased shimmering bubbles that floated lazily on the breeze. Street musicians strummed a jaunty tune near the corner café, their melody woven seamlessly into the sounds of the market, vendors chatted, the occasional clink of a cash register, footsteps on stone. The whole scene was so storybook-perfect that I couldn’t help but grin.

“This place is so… Beauty and the Beast ,” I muttered under my breath, spinning the sunflower. “Any second now, someone’s going to burst into song.”

I hummed a few bars of “ Bonjour !” quietly, half-expecting the townsfolk to start harmonizing as they bustled about. It was ridiculous, but the thought made me laugh softly to myself. And maybe it’s the absurdity of it all, but a part of me felt strangely like Belle, too, a queer protagonist returning home after years away, navigating the simultaneous familiarity and alienness of it all.

The Rivermere District felt unchanged in so many ways. Sweet Haven Bakery still smelled like cinnamon and sugar; its window filled with pastries that looked too perfect to eat. Bright Horizons Bookstore stood like a beacon on the corner, its teal-and-gold facade glowed in the morning light. The cobblestones beneath my feet were still slightly uneven, just enough to remind you to watch your step. And yet, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve changed too much to belong here anymore.

I paused near a trio of musicians whose violinist caught my eye and winked as I passed. I winked back, letting the rhythm of their song tug at my feet for a moment before moving on. Everywhere I turned, Havenwood felt alive, impossibly bright, impossibly perfect, like a painting that might dissolve if I looked too closely. Nestled just a few towns away from its more famous twin sister, Asheville, NC, Havenwood hummed with its own quiet Appalachian charm, even if it’s often overshadowed by the grandeur of Biltmore.

“Still as cute as I remembered,” I murmured to myself, the sunflower spinning lazily between my fingers. “Good job, Havenwood. You’re holding up.”

As I wandered further, a mural on the side of the bookstore pulled me in. It’s massive. It stretched across the entire wall in bold, sweeping strokes of color. A fantastical forest filled the scene, trees that morphed into dancers, rivers curled into laughing faces. Near the bottom, a burst of red and orange caught my eye. A fox, maybe? Or flames? The longer I looked, the more details emerged, like the mural was alive, constantly shifting.

“Whoever painted this?” I said aloud, my voice filled with admiration. “Brilliant. The energy, the colors, the vibe! Havenwood’s really stepping up its art game.”

A chuckle interrupted my musings. I turned to see a honey vendor leaning on the counter of his stall, his apron streaked with golden smudges of beeswax. He looked like he belonged in a Norman Rockwell painting, weathered but warm, with eyes that seemed to know all the town’s secrets.

“You sound like someone who knows a thing or two about art,” he said, his smile easy and knowing.

I shrugged, walking over with the sunflower still twirling in my hand. “I dabble,” I replied. “Just moved back to town. Figured I’d trade airport terminals and activist rallies for a little small-town charm.”

“Well, welcome home,” he said, picking up a jar of honey and setting it in front of me. “If you’re looking for charm, you should check out The Green Bean Café. Best coffee and people-watching in town.”

I picked up the jar, holding it to the light as if it might reveal some hidden truth. The honey inside glowed like liquid sunlight, warm and rich. “Local honey and good coffee? You’re really trying to sell me on this place.”

“Not selling, just stating facts,” he said with a wink.

I laughed and handed him a few bills, slipping the jar into my tote bag. “Alright, you’ve convinced me. The Green Bean Café it is.”

As I stepped back into the flow of the market, the sunflower bobbing with every step, I let my gaze wander across the Rivermere District. Everything here felt impossibly neat, like it had been arranged to make me nostalgic. The colors, the sounds, the scents, they swirled together in a way that felt magical, but also a little overwhelming.

And yet, beneath all the perfection, there was a quiet hum of something real. Something honest. Maybe it’s in the way the kids laughed as they stumbled over uneven cobblestones, or the way the musicians’ notes sometimes faltered before coming together again. It reminded me that perfection wasn’t the point, it was the life, the messiness, the way the story kept unfolding.

I inhaled deeply, the scent of lavender and cinnamon filling my lungs, and for the first time in years, I felt like I might be able to belong. Havenwood wasn’t just holding up, it was thriving. And if this place can thrive, maybe I can, too.

Spring afternoons in Havenwood had a way of slowing time, and as I stepped into The Green Bean Café, it felt like the rest of the world melted away. The door’s bell jingled overhead, its cheerful chime as much a greeting as the hum of voices and the hiss of a milk steamer behind the counter. The café smelled like heaven, freshly brewed coffee, buttery pastries, and something floral I couldn’t quite place. Lavender, maybe? It was cozy and chaotic all at once, a perfect reflection of the Rivermere District.

The place felt alive. Every table and chair were mismatched, like someone raided a dozen garage sales and brought back the most eccentric pieces they could find. There was a round table with peeling yellow paint in one corner, surrounded by metal chairs, while a plush armchair with faded floral upholstery claimed the coziest spot by the window. A cluster of dangling light bulbs cast a warm glow over the room, and the walls were an explosion of personality. Local art, bold abstracts, delicate watercolors, black-and-white photos of Havenwood, covered nearly every inch, giving the space a patchwork charm that felt both curated and entirely accidental.

Behind the counter stood Morgan, the barista, with a bright yellow bandana tied loosely around their curls and a black apron that looked like it had been through a hundred busy mornings. Their name tag, written in colorful sharpie, read Morgan (they/them), and their easy smile was instantly disarming.

“You’ve got that ‘new to town’ look,” they said, leaning on the counter as I approach.

I laughed, dropping my tote bag at my feet. “Technically, I’m an old-timer making a comeback. Born and raised here, left to explore the world, find myself, yadda yadda, insert cliché here. Now I’m back, and I need coffee to make sense of it all. Suggestions?”

Morgan tilted their head toward the chalkboard menu hanging on the wall behind them. It was handwritten in looping, colorful chalk, complete with little doodles of coffee cups and croissants. “Lavender Honey Latte,” they said confidently. “Smooth, creative, and just the right amount of kick. Kinda like you, I’m guessing.”

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the counter. “You get me. One Lavender Honey Latte, please, and maybe a muffin. You know, for balance.”

Morgan grinned, grabbing a mug. “Coming right up.”

While they worked, I wandered toward a crowded bulletin board near the entrance, scanning the kaleidoscope of flyers and notes. There was a lost pet poster with a blurry photo of a cat named Tinkerbell, a yoga class schedule with a hand-drawn lotus flower in the corner, and a flyer for a knitting circle promising “craft and community.” But it was a bold orange flyer that caught my eye: Havenwood Playhouse presents A Midsummer Night’s Dream ! The text was surrounded by whimsical doodles of fairies, stars, and a crescent moon.

My fingers brushed the edge of the flyer as I pulled it closer for a better look. Beneath the title, there was a line that read: Seeking volunteers for all roles, onstage and off!

“Caught your eye?” Morgan’s voice drew me back. I turned to see them setting a steaming mug and a muffin on the counter, their expression one of amused curiosity.

“Big time,” I admitted, walking back with the flyer in hand. “Theatre’s kinda my thing, well, one of my things. Directed a few shows, painted some sets, wrote a couple of weird plays no one understood. What’s the vibe over there?”

Morgan leaned on the counter, chin resting on their hand. “They do great work. You’d fit right in. They’re always looking for people to help out. Are you thinking about jumping in?”

I shrugged, though my grin gave me away. “I mean, I just got here, but why not? This town’s not gonna know what hit it.”

Morgan chuckled, sliding the mug toward me. “That’s the spirit. Good luck shaking things up.”

Later that afternoon, the Havenwood Playhouse stood before me like a relic of another time, charming in its modesty. Ivy crept up the brick exterior, curling around the windows and framing the small marquee that read: Coming Soon: A Midsummer Night’s Dream . The lettering wasn’t perfect, some letters leaned a little too far left or right, but that just added to the place’s character.

I hesitated for a moment at the entrance, inhaling deeply. There was something sacred about places like this, small community theaters where art was made not for money or prestige but for love. I ran my fingers lightly over the worn brass handle before stepping inside. Immediately, the familiar scent of sawdust and fresh paint washed over me, wrapping me in a strange sense of nostalgia.

The theater’s interior was small but brimming with potential, its worn wooden floors and patchwork curtains spoke to decades of passion and creativity. A small group of staff and actors milled about on the stage, their voices overlapped as they debated lighting cues and blocking. Ladders were propped against the walls, half-painted set pieces stood like unfinished thoughts, and scraps of fabric were scattered over the seats, organized chaos, the way all theaters seemed to live and breathe.

A rush of longing pressed against my ribs. It had been too long since I’ve felt this, the energy of a space mid-creation. My fingers itched to take hold of something, to sketch a set piece, tweak a monologue, adjust a light cue. To belong to it.

“Can I help you?”

The voice belonged to a man in a slightly rumpled cardigan that draped over his tall, lean frame. His dark curls were speckled with silver, and his round glasses sat slightly askew on his nose, giving him an air of effortless charm. His friendly smile immediately put me at ease.

“You look like someone with ideas,” he added, his rich, warm voice carrying a hint of amusement as he approached with an outstretched hand. The faint scent of coffee lingered around him, and a clipboard tucked under his arm suggested he was already juggling a dozen tasks.

I laughed, shaking it. “Guilty. Jules Moreno. Just moved back to town, saw the flyer, and figured, ‘Why not?’ Theater’s been my life for as long as I can remember. I’d love to help out, directing, painting, random creative chaos. You name it.”

“Creative chaos, huh?” he said, his grin widening. “I’m Darnell, the manager here. And chaos is exactly what we need. Welcome to the team.”

Before I knew it, I was swept into the energy of the Playhouse. Someone handed me a stack of costume sketches, and I pulled out my own sketchpad to throw out bolder, more daring ideas. Titania in shimmering silvers and greens, Oberon in moody indigo with sharp, modern accents. I pitched tweaks to Shakespeare’s dialogue, modernizing it just enough to make the humor land harder and the drama cut deeper.

Darnell glanced over my shoulder at the sketches. “You’ve got an eye for this.”

“I like to think so,” I admitted, flipping the page to start another concept. “I used to direct back in Chicago. Community and semi-pro. Then life happened, and…” I trailed off, but Darnell didn’t push. Instead, he nodded like he understood more than I was saying.

The team picked up on my energy, and soon, the room felt like it was crackling with possibility. Despite the playful chaos, I felt something settle deep inside me, a quiet determination, a need to prove to myself that my spark hasn’t dimmed.

The hours flew by in a blur of ideas and laughter, the kind that left you breathless but buzzing with purpose. Sketches were passed around, notes scribbled, and bold suggestions tossed into the air like confetti. Every now and then, someone paused to question an idea, only for another to leap in with a way to make it work. It was messy, exhilarating, and exactly what I didn’t realize I needed.

“You’re good at this,” one of the younger actors, a girl with cropped pink hair, told me as she sorted through fabric swatches. “You sure you’re not already running this thing?”

I smirked. “Not quite. Just lending a hand.”

By the time we called it a day, my fingers were smudged with pencil marks, my bag was bursting with papers and fabric swatches, and my heart felt… lighter. Fulfilled, even. It was not just the work, it was the people, the shared excitement, the spark of something new being created together.

Then, as we were packing up, the unexpected news landed like a thunderbolt: the director originally hired had quit on the spot after a heated disagreement with the board president.

Darnell sighed, rubbing his temples. “Well, that’s a disaster.”

“What happened?” I asked, my heart already hammering.

He exhaled sharply. “Creative differences, allegedly. But honestly? It’s a miracle she lasted this long.”

A silence fell over the group, uncertain and heavy. Then, Darnell turned to me, eyes thoughtful. “Jules… you ever thought about taking this on?”

My breath caught. “Wait, you mean…”

“Directing,” he clarified. “You clearly know your stuff. And we need someone now.”

I stared at him, at the expectant faces around me. This wasn’t the plan. I was just easing back in, testing the waters. But then, wasn’t that what I always did? Held back, hesitated?

The answer was already there, thrumming beneath my ribs. “Yes.”

By the end of the day, the offer came: Jules Moreno, the new director.

And with that spark still glowing inside me, I stepped out into the evening, the world quieting as the sun began its descent. As I walked home through the Rivermere District, the sky was painted in streaks of orange and pink, the warm light softened the edges of the ivy-covered cottages I pass.

Outside my small studio apartment, I paused, catching my reflection in the window. My grin faded into a softer, more thoughtful smile. This place wasn’t much, but it was affordable and exactly what I needed to get back on my feet after moving back.

“Alright, Havenwood,” I murmured, my voice barely audible above the evening breeze. “Let’s make some magic.”

For the first time in years, I felt like I just might.