Chapter 33
CHAPTER 33
OLIVE
S aturday. It’s here. And I slept through my alarm.
It’s the day of the market, and I’m rushing around, trying to get out the door, late for work for the first time since I started at Pine Creek.
Also, for the first time, I don’t want to go.
Yesterday, I stayed so busy I managed to avoid any uncomfortable run-ins with Liam, but I hated every second of it. I wasn’t purposely avoiding him, but there was so much to do to get ready for the market. I should’ve found the time because while the market is important to me, not knowing where things stand with Liam is more important, and that’s what kept me up all night.
We could just call it good and go our separate ways. We probably should. He’s leaving. I’m staying. And it’s not like he wasn’t up front about it. I just didn’t think he would blame me for trying to help. I could be offended enough to let that ruin what we have. Had.
Did we have something long enough to lose it?
Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to do that. It’s juvenile, and I’m not in the habit of ending relationships, even new ones without labels, because I got my feelings hurt.
But I am going to give him a piece of my mind.
Because I did get my feelings hurt.
I sigh. I just want things to go back to the way they were. I don’t like being at odds with Liam. And I already miss kissing him.
As I pull in and park, the wave of excitement knocks the apprehension right out of me. I look around and see dozens of vendors arriving—trucks pulling trailers of everything needed to set up their booths—and I take a second to marvel at the variety of makers and small business owners who agreed to jump in.
One last, best market before Christmas.
Homemade jams and jellies, dog treats, tea and coffee, handcrafted candles, homemade sourdough bread, all kinds of baked goods—it’s a good mix, and I’m proud of it.
And not just food, either. Charming jewelry and necklaces, carved wood art, handcrafted charcuterie boards, turned vases . . . the variety is amazing.
Already, the market has made a significant profit, on the cost of the booth fees from the vendors alone. That doesn’t include the money that will be collected at the door, or the revenue the shop and café and activities will bring in.
This idea was a good one. It worked.
People are coming, and people coming to the farm is a good thing.
Sitting in that meeting Thursday night, listening to Lacey talk through so many of the ideas we’d come up with, I felt like I was a part of something amazing. I felt like what I contributed to her plans was notable. I felt valued.
I wonder if her presentation made the impression we were hoping for. On the town leaders. On her parents. I left too quickly to get a read on the response beyond how Liam felt about it.
A knot forms in my stomach at the thought. What if Liam was right? What if all I’d done was give Lacey false hope? What if my excitement was only delaying the inevitable?
I shake the thoughts away and get out of the car, grab my bag, and rush off toward the main barn which will serve as our headquarters for the day. I walk in and find Lacey standing behind the counter.
When she sees me, relief washes over her. “Thank God. I didn’t see you at all yesterday. Were you here? Was it your migraine? How’s your head?”
“Oh, I’m fine.” White lies are still lies, I think. Something my grandma used to say. But I can’t tell Lacey the humiliating truth that I ran home because her brother hurt my feelings and spent all day yesterday avoiding all signs of human life.
Act like a grown-up, Olive.
“Okay, here’s your vendor packet and swag bag.” Lacey hands me a small gift bag and a large white envelope identical to the ones I’ve been putting together all week. Inside the bag, there’s a Pine Creek keychain, a handwritten note thanking vendors for being a part of our Christmas Market, information on the other vendors, a coupon for twenty percent off lunch at the café, a voucher for an exclusive Pine Creek candle, two Christmas postcards from my stash, and a site map I designed and printed when we finalized the vendors.
“ My vendor packet? I don’t need one, I have the map memorized, and I know where all the vendors are going.”
She taps the name on the packet.
It reads Wit and Whimsy.
I pull the map out and look at it, noticing that someone has also written Wit and Whimsy in a little square at the end of the row of vendors.
“What did you do?” I look up and find her smiling .
“It’s time you get back on the horse, Olive,” Lacey says. “So, Phoebe and I decided to give you a little push.”
My embarrassment and fear kick into overdrive. “Lacey! I appreciate the thought, but I have way too much to do. I can’t work a booth. Plus, my art. It’s way out of date, and I don’t know if people are going to like it—if it’s what was there before. And the booth, I didn’t set one up—my stuff is all stashed in my garage.”
She gives me a comical grimace, reaches into her pocket, and pulls out my garage key. “You should really keep track of who has your key if you don’t want anyone to go inside.”
“Oh my gosh.” She pocketed it the day she and Phoebe were over at my house. Phoebe was right. Lacey is a sneaky genius.
“Don’t worry,” she says, reassuringly. “We’ve got it. Got everything set up early this morning so it’d be ready to go when you got here. And Phoebe and your mom are manning it, so you don’t have to.”
I play that whole explanation back in my mind. I start to protest, but can’t.
It’s different from before. Now I have people in my corner, lifting me up, filling in the gaps, and helping me succeed.
I swallow around the lump at the back of my throat. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’re excited about today!” She’s beaming.
“Okay! I am excited!” I match her enthusiasm. “Wait. You seem happy,” I say. “Does that mean you got a good response from the meeting?”
The smile falters, and she scrunches her face and shakes her head. “Unfortunately, no. Lots of people are excited about it, but no one has officially come forward to invest, so I guess now we just wait.”
I squeeze her arm. “Okay, so we wait. I’m not giving up hope yet.” The words false hope echo in my mind .
Lacey straightens and puts on a brave face. “Either way, I tried, right? I would’ve kicked myself if I hadn’t, so . . .”
“So?”
She shrugs sadly. “So, I guess you were right. This is actually the last, best Christmas at Pine Creek.”
My brain stumbles over the words. I hadn’t said last, best Christmas thinking it would actually be true. Somehow, I deluded myself into believing that we’d sort it out. That someone would change their mind. That we wouldn’t lose Pine Creek.
In just a few short weeks, this place has come to mean even more to me than it did before . . . and what? I’m just supposed to let it go?
My mind adds, Like Liam?
Someone walks up to the counter, pulling Lacey’s attention. “Sorry, Olive, I’ve got to get this. You good?”
I nod.
Her smile is back, and I have a very good feeling she’s learned to compartmentalize her feelings a lot better than I have. “The reindeer are here! Did you see them yet?”
I shake my head. The reindeer had been Lacey’s idea. She heard about a reindeer farm a couple of hours away and got the owners to agree to bring some of the herd to our market. Manny and his crew set up their pens earlier in the week.
I admit, I’m excited to see them. Real reindeer? My eight-year-old self would be giddy.
I hold up the white envelope. “Hey. Thank you for this.”
She nods and smiles. “Go see your booth. It’s fabulous!”
I walk out into the chaos of pre-market set-up, and an ache of nostalgia washes over me. Showing at markets was always exhausting, but always fun. I loved meeting other makers, talking about art, and chatting with customers. It became a little community, and as I wave to a few familiar faces, I realize I’ve missed it .
When my shop failed, I took every single thing I love and put it in a box. I’m starting to see that a critical piece of who I am has been missing—and the people who care about me are the ones who are gently, though not subtly, pointing it out.
I make my way up the hill toward Christmas Tree Row. I hear the familiar chatter of voices before I see the booths and the people and the excitement, but the second they come into view, I stop and watch. I don’t know what’s going to happen with the farm, but I do know that I’ve learned so much being here. And that will never feel wasted.
“Olive! It’s so good to see you!” Sally from The Honey Hut waves me over. She looks exactly the way I remember her. “How’ve you been?”
“Really good!” I say, and I realize I mean it.
We catch up for a few minutes when Alicia, the Sourdough Goddess, spots me and rushes into Sally’s booth. “I was so happy to get your email, Olive! It’s like the whole gang’s back together. Wes has got some new artwork over there you’ve got to see. And Annika has a whole display of vintage Christmas decor.”
“And then there’s your booth,” Sally says, knowingly. “It’s beautiful.”
I grin in appreciation. “I haven’t even seen it yet! I had nothing to do with that, my friend set it up for me. I found out about it this morning.”
“Oh, that was sweet of him,” Alicia says.
“No, my friend Phoebe,” I say.
Alicia frowns. “I didn’t see a woman, but there’s been a guy over there working on it since I got here.”
“A guy? Like my dad?” I ask.
“If your dad is a hot guy about the same age as you, then I guess that could’ve been him.” She laughs. “He hauled in bins and hung your cute banner and unloaded all those sweet things you always had on display, but all the new stuff is next level! Was it your idea?”
“The new stuff?”
“Oh, shoot—” she glances at something in the distance— “I have to run, but let’s catch up later!”
A hot guy about my age? I start to feel antsy, suddenly anxious to get over to my booth.
I look at Sally, who hands me a small jar of her famous local honey. It’s like nectar for gods, it’s so amazing. “My bees made this just for you.”
“Thank you, Sally.”
She smiles. “Happy Christmas, Olive.”
I walk off, greeting and waving to so many old friends, wondering how I could’ve let go of this wonderful community.
I’ve judged myself and my failure so harshly, and I falsely assumed everyone else did the same.
That was a mistake. These people don’t care that I no longer have a storefront or that I have a pile of debt to work off. They’re just happy to be here, to see me here.
I pick up the pace, walking toward the end of Christmas Tree Row, right at the spot where customers will enter the market, because I know from the map that’s where Lacey put my booth.
Alicia’s comments have lit a fire under me, and I’m anxious to see if the “hot guy” is still there, but when I reach the booth, it’s only my mom and Phoebe inside.
And the booth. Wow.
It looks like a cottage, with a false front that mimics the exterior of a house—white planked siding with shutters and windows on either side of a wide opening. On the siding, there are doodles and quotes from my art (did someone trace them?) and above the door hangs the old Wit and Whimsy sign from my garage. Inside, shelves that look like built-ins perfectly display my cards and 4x6 notes, and at the center, there’s a large wood table that Phoebe and my mom are standing behind, both engrossed in arranging my artwork.
I’ve done these markets before. I know what it takes to set up a booth, and this clearly took a lot of planning and a lot of work.
“Hey,” I say to get their attention.
They look up, wearing matching worried expressions, undoubtedly waiting for my reaction to the surprise. My mom seems to be holding her breath.
When my face lights up with a bright smile, they both smile back. “You guys!” I shout at them.
Phoebe grins. “I told you that you needed a booth out here.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d just go ahead and make it happen!” I walk over and hug her, then hug my mom. “This is absolutely stunning. She roped you into this too?”
Mom squeezes me. “I’d do anything to see you making art again.” She smiles. “The world needs the joy you put in it.”
If anyone has a right to think my art is frivolous and expensive, it’s my parents, the ones who co-signed on my loan and then gave me a hefty sum when things started to go south at the store. My parents aren’t wealthy people, so I know it was a sacrifice. Sometimes thinking about that keeps me up at night.
To think that my mom still sees the value in my art in spite of that heals a part of the wound my failure forged. I can’t process it without tearing up.
“If you’re okay for a minute, I’m going to go get some coffee,” Mom says. “Dottie’s Coffee Truck is parked down the hill.” She holds up her phone. “Text me your orders!”
I turn back to Phoebe, shaking my head. “This is . . . I can’t even. It’s amazing.”
“Well, we had help,” Phoebe says.
Help. There’s that word again, doing everything it can to remind me that success isn’t found alone.
My eyes meet hers, and understanding passes between us .
“He did everything. Most of it before we even got here. I don’t think he slept at all last night.” Phoebe points to the beautiful display in the back corner. “Even set all that up.”
I go still, looking over the display. “There’s no way.”
“I mean, I had to, you know, make a few adjustments,” she says. “But yeah. He picked up everything this morning before I was even out of bed. Lacey asked if he could just get everything in here so all we had to do was make it pretty, but he did a lot more than that.”
“When did he have time to make the frame? He must’ve been working on it for days.” I press my lips together and look around the booth. At the back, the handmade wreath we made together is hanging on the makeshift wall.
I move closer to get a better look.
Behind the wreath, sketched on the faux interior cottage wall is something that most people would totally miss. And even if they saw it, they wouldn’t know what it means.
There, tucked away behind the wreath, is a drawing of a little boy in a propeller hat. It’s like a signature on a love note, sent in the kindest, most selfless way.
My heart swells.
“Any idea where he is now?”
Phoebe shakes her head.
The sound of a loud bell draws our attention to the front gate where Jo is standing with a bullhorn. “Attention vendors, we are opening the gate in two minutes! Everyone get your game faces on!”
“You go, do what you need to do,” Phoebe says.
“You sure?” I ask, feeling guilty for leaving her.
“Yes, we’ve got this,” she says, waving a hand. “You’re not allowed to come back until the end of the day!” She beams at me, then takes her red lipstick from her pocket and reapplies it.
“You are not putting out vibes at a Christmas Market,” I say. “ The only men who come to these things come because their wives or girlfriends force them.”
“Seth with the homemade dog bones is here.” She pumps her eyebrows. “And that guy who makes soap.”
I lift my hand in a wave but make a point of rolling my eyes. “You’re insane.”
Jo gets on the bullhorn and calls out, “Gates are officially open! Have fun, everybody!”
I turn to go but stop short, because a few yards away, moving straight through the row of vendors, is something that I never expected to see—two very large reindeer with equally large antlers. The bells on their collars jingle as they happily trot in my direction.
They make a sharp turn, most likely spooked by the people, and head into the trees.
Like everyone in the immediate vicinity, I just stare.
Then a man in overalls runs in and wildly shouts, “My reindeer are loose!”
I glance back at Phoebe, whose eyes are wide.
At the same time, a crowd of people rush through the open gate.
Liam appears in the clearing, along with two teenagers who help wrap and load trees on the weekends.
Our eyes meet, and my mind floods with all a million things I want to say, but when I open my mouth, I say the only thing that makes sense.
“The reindeer are loose!”