Chapter 37
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It was the morning of the festival. We’d spent every waking moment over the past three days planning, preparing, and strategizing.
I’d moved out of my suite at the resort and moved into one of the old lodge cabins with my parents.
One without holes in the roof and with a still-functioning outhouse nearby.
Noah even let me borrow a surprisingly comfortable sleeping bag and loaned my parents a couple of fold-out cots.
The Adventure Center parking lot had transformed into a bustling hive of activity, with enthusiastic volunteers, busy vendors, wildlife photographers, and one very determined Chinese-American family wielding woks and fryers like they were about to take on the Mongol hordes all by themselves.
“No, absolutely not!” Mom waved her special wooden spoon, the one she claimed could detect dishonesty in both dumplings and daughters, at the portable kitchen setup. “This burner is far too weak! How are we supposed to get proper wok heat with a camp stove? We need fire!”
Dad nodded sagely beside her. “The restaurant burner gives ten thousand BTUs. This gives maybe ten. It’s like trying to get a tan with a flashlight.”
Diego, who had somehow appointed himself my parents’ personal assistant, portable kitchen fixer, and taste tester, crawled out from under the makeshift cooking station with grease smudged across his forehead. “Try it now, Mrs. Li.”
Mom turned the knob, and flames leapt up with enough ferocity to singe her eyebrows. She cackled with delight, the kind of laugh that usually preceded culinary magic. Or minor kitchen disasters. “Now we can cook proper food!”
“Let me know when you need more taste testing,” said Diego.
“That boy is skinny, but he eats like a teenage bear,” Mom observed, already mincing ginger at a speed that rivaled a commercial-grade blender.
I turned back to the makeshift fusion menu Noah and Dad developed.
They’d spent the previous evening gathered around the Adventure Center’s old wooden table, sipping Colorado craft beer, snacking on dumplings, and brainstorming dishes that would merge Colorado mountain cuisine with Chinese influences.
“So we’ve got Disco Chicken Dumplings,” I read off our list, “which, to be clear, are made with regular chicken and absolutely no trace of endangered sage grouse.”
“And High-Altitude Har Gow,” Noah added, pointing to the next item. “With trout instead of shrimp.”
“Sage Grouse Sage Buns,” I continued, choosing to ignore the hastily brainstormed pun. “Also not containing any actual grouse ingredients.”
“Mountain Mating Dance Momos.” Noah gave me a satisfied smile, clearly pleased with himself for that one.
“And for dessert, Huckleberry Egg Tarts and Migration Moon Cakes.” I chewed my lower lip, surveying the ambitious menu. “You think we can pull this off?”
Noah leaned closer, his shoulder brushing mine as he studied the list. “With your mom’s motivational techniques? Absolutely.”
“Yes, I’m familiar with Mom’s motivational tactics. Speaking of motivation,” I said, nodding toward the far side of the parking lot where Brie presided over a growing village of pop-up tents and tables. “Your sister has somehow transformed this place into a festival grounds overnight.”
Brie moved between vendors with clipboard in hand, directing traffic with the casual authority of someone born to organize chaos.
Local artisans who’d been left with a free weekend by the cancellation of the downtown festival had rallied to our cause, setting up booths to sell everything from hand-carved wooden grouse sculptures to “Save the Disco Dance” t-shirts that Parker had designed and rush-ordered from an eco-friendly printer in Boulder.
“Mrs. Miller’s bringing extra berries for your moon cakes,” Noah said, checking his phone. “And Al’s bringing over a taxi-full of flapjacks and syrups from Mabel’s Diner. Insisted he would be doing the syrup-making demonstration himself.”
The way the community mobilized made something warm unfurl in my chest. This wasn’t the carefully curated support of paid sponsorships and strategic partnerships I was used to. This was real people showing up because they cared.
“I still can’t believe we pulled this together so quickly,” I admitted, watching Jenn stride purposefully toward us, her muck-stained stable overalls exchanged for jeans and a t-shirt bearing a stylized grouse silhouette.
“Got an update,” said Jenn. “Local news is sending a crew. Nothing major, just the affiliate station from Grand Junction, but it’s something.”
“Every bit helps,” Noah said, his gaze drifting toward the large screen Parker set up at our main stage area.
Parker stood on a ladder, directing two volunteers with the authority of a Hollywood director. “The projector needs to be angled three degrees higher. And make sure those speakers are positioned for maximum acoustic dispersion!”
For someone who usually spent his days taking artful photos of anime figurines, Parker had morphed into a surprisingly competent technical director.
He’d created a multimedia presentation that would showcase the grouse footage between music sets, complete with infographics about habitat loss and conservation efforts.
“Marketing update!” Parker called, spotting us. He scrambled down from his ladder perch and jogged over, tablet in hand. “We’re trending regionally on all platforms. The hashtag #SaveTheGrouseDance has been used over ten thousand times since yesterday.”
“And the crowdfunding campaign?” I asked.
“Just hit twenty thousand. People are donating from all over the country.” Parker swiped through analytics on his tablet.
“Your original video has been viewed over half a million times, and we’ve got commitments from influencers with a combined following of twelve million to share content from today’s event. ”
The sound of a guitar being tuned drew my attention to the makeshift stage. Jenn and Diego had eventually convinced Maya to go to Denver to convince the mystery man she had apparently dated once to join forces with the Wayward Sons at our festival, a story worthy of its own someday.
I watched as Maya led the leather-clad man with tattoo sleeves and artfully disheveled hair toward the microphone stand set in the middle of the stage. “Is that …”
“Yup,” said Jenn. “The one and only.” I found myself unable … perhaps unwilling … to pull my eyes away from his colorfully tattooed, sleeveless shoulders.
“This was a bad idea,” Noah growled. “I told him if he ever came back here, I’d kick his ass.”
“Wait,” I said. “You know Axel Ryder? Like, personally?”
“You could say that,” Jenn answered for Noah.
Everyone knew Axel Ryder from the music charts. And the tabloids. And on the evening news. He was one of those stereotypical bad boy rock stars. Money. Fame. And the appetites that came with them.
“Well, I think Axel Ryder is watching you,” I noted, nudging Noah with my elbow. “Or more like glaring at you.”
Noah grimaced. “Let him glare. As long as he stays away from me.”
“Is there a story I should know about?” I asked, curiosity piqued.
“Oh, there’s definitely a story,” said Jenn. “But whether you’d want to know about it … that’s up for debate.”
Before I could press Noah or Jenn to elaborate, Axel hopped off stage and started coming toward us. As Noah curled both hands into fists, Axel scooped Jenn up in a hug, which I noticed she didn’t seem to mind. “Hey there, mountain girl! Still hanging out with this mountain hermit?”
“He’s kind of like a bad habit,” said Jenn. “Hard to get rid of, I guess.”
Axel met Noah’s gaze with a challenging grin. “Speaking of bad habits, you ever dust off that Martin guitar of yours, Barrett? Or is it collecting cobwebs like your social skills?”
Noah’s posture shifted at the mention of the guitar. Like Axel had just pressed on an old wound.
“You told me you didn’t play guitar.” I gave Noah a curious look.
“I don’t know that ‘play’ is the right word,” said Axel with a smirk that carried more history than humor.
“The guitar’s fine, Ryder,” said Noah. “Unlike your ego.”
Axel twirled a guitar pick between his fingers, then clapped Noah on the shoulder with a familiarity that suggested their antagonism masked something deeper. “Good to see you, too.”
“And who’s this?” There was a twinkle in Axel’s eye as he seemed to notice me for the first time.
“Someone smart enough to stay away from you,” Noah answered.
“Samantha Li,” I said, ignoring Noah. “My friends call me Sam.”
“Nice to meet you, Sam.” Axel took my hand in his, then lifted it to his lips. When I glanced over at Noah, he stared at Axel’s hand like he was planning to break every bone in Axel’s fingers.
Axel let go just in time. “Any friend of Noah’s is … well … I’m not sure because he doesn’t have any friends, so we’re in uncharted waters here. Good to see you again, buddy.” Axel gave Noah a good-natured jab in the arm. Noah looked like he wanted to give Axel a different kind of jab. In the face.
As Axel strode back to the stage, Noah watched him go with an expression that mingled irritation with something else I couldn’t quite place.
“You two friends?”
“No.” Noah’s tone left no room for debate, but I caught the way his hands unconsciously flexed. “Not anymore.”
Looking back toward the stage, I saw Maya laughing at something Axel said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear in a gesture I’d never seen from our normally composed resort manager.
She looked like a backstage groupie. As we watched, Axel handed Maya his guitar, and she slung it over her shoulder like she’d done it a million times before.
“Maya plays?” I asked, watching her fingers move confidently across the strings.
“Maya has all kinds of secrets,” Noah replied cryptically.
The opening chords of “Landslide” drifted across the parking lot as Maya and Axel leaned toward the same microphone, their voices blending in harmonious counterpoint.
“They seem good together.” On stage, Maya and Axel shared a smile that definitely wasn’t just about music.
Noah grunted, but when his eyes met mine, they softened in a way that made my breath catch. For just a moment, his walls were down completely.
Something warm and unexplored passed between us.
“Noah!” Dad called from the cooking station. “We need your mountain man muscles to move these propane tanks!”
“Be right there!” Noah answered, but his gaze lingered on mine for a heartbeat longer. “We’ll talk,” he said, like he could read my mind. “After the festival.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, a mixture of anticipation and anxiety warring in my stomach. “After the festival.”
When Noah went over to help Dad, I surveyed the transformed parking lot, taking in the cumulative efforts of our unlikely coalition.
Booths lined the perimeter, colorful banners announcing everything from wildlife photography exhibits to conservation education stations.
A small army of volunteers in matching t-shirts moved between stations, hanging signs and distributing flyers.
But as if they had a mind of their own, my eyes drifted back to Noah, where I was treated to a nice view of him bending over to pick up a propane tank.
“That mountain man is a very hard worker.” Mom appeared at my elbow, somehow having navigated the crowd without me noticing. She had an uncanny parental ability to materialize exactly when you were thinking inappropriate thoughts.
“More important, he’s a good man,” she said, nodding approvingly toward Noah, who was now efficiently directing the placement of picnic tables. “Strong hands, too.”
“Mom.”
“What? I see how you look at him. The same way I look at a perfect batch of fresh xiao long bao.” She made a slurping gesture and a sucking motion with her lips that I desperately hoped Noah couldn’t see from his position across the lot.
“I’m not looking at him like anything,” I protested. Weakly.
Mom’s expression turned unexpectedly serious, her hand tightening on my arm.
“Samantha. For many years, you’ve shown me pictures of fancy food, fancy hotels, fancy everything.
All pretty, no substance.” She waved her free hand dismissively.
“But here? With these mountain birds and this mountain man? You have purpose in your eyes. This is not nothing.”
Her words hit me hard. For the first time, Mom wasn’t criticizing my career choice or questioning my life decisions. She was seeing something in me that I’d only just started to see myself.
“I’m just trying to help a good cause.”
“Mm-hmm.” Mom’s skeptical hum contained multitudes of disbelief. “And I just make hundreds of dumplings because I’m hungry.”
Luckily, a commotion near the entrance caught our attention before I lost it completely. I wiped away the one tear that dribbled down my cheek.
“They’re here!” Brie called, waving frantically. “First festivalgoers are arriving!”
A small crowd had already gathered at the parking lot entrance, carrying homemade signs with slogans like “Let the Grouse Get Down” and “Dance Like Nobody’s Bulldozing Your Home.”
“Showtime,” I murmured, a mixture of nervousness and excitement bubbling in my chest.
Mom squeezed my arm once more before releasing me. “Go. Save birds. Win hearts. Multitask like a true Li woman.”
As I moved toward the entrance to greet our first supporters, I caught Noah’s eye across the crowded lot. He gave me a thumbs up, that rare genuine smile transforming his face from brooding mountain man to something that made my heart stutter in my chest.
Whatever happened next with Victoria, with LuxeLife, with Noah, at least we’d created something real together. Something authentic.