Chapter 3
Mornings used to be a kind of punishment for me.
Now, thanks to the shop, they’re routine, not that I’d ever call it a gift—it feels more like a curse, especially today.
The second I’m conscious, my brain is already queuing up yesterday’s conversation with Jordan on a relentless, crystal-clear loop.
“One month,” their voice echoes. I stare up at the ceiling—the same plain white that’s hung over my head for decades, even before I was born.
There’s still that little crack by the light fixture; I’ve been meaning to fix it for two years, but it never seems urgent.
Drew would have patched it the same day, like it was nothing.
I throw off the duvet and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
My hair’s doing its usual morning firework impression: white-blonde, wild, all awkward angles and post-electric-storm energy.
One swipe of my hand just shifts a fleck of dried paint from my temple to my palm.
Blue. Ultramarine, pretty sure, straight from the half-done canvas in the studio—the one that’s been giving me nothing but attitude lately.
The mirror catches me as I shuffle past. There’s the usual: a woman in her mid-thirties, not enough sleep, a chronic case of existential fatigue. I stick out my tongue. My reflection returns the favor. Can’t blame her.
The dress is waiting where I left it, draped over the closet door—a vintage wrap, florals bright against soft cotton, one of my comfort uniforms for summer heat.
I pull it on, cinch the tie, then step into my white sneakers, the battered, paint-splattered ones that refuse to quit.
There’s a spot of cerulean on the left toe, courtesy of forgotten ambitions and a March project I’d rather not talk about.
I think about cleaning it, but honestly, what’s the point?
“Good morning,” I say to my reflection—and to the empty room. “Today, you are a project. Congratulations.”
Reflection: unmoved.
It takes eight minutes to reach the store if I meander, six if I cut through the alley behind the bank.
Today I take the long way. Maybe I need the fresh air; maybe I just want to avoid the moment when Jordan’s words catch up to me.
“Give me one month,” they’d said, already certain of the future.
The town is sleepy, just waking up: a couple of delivery trucks, the coffee shop across from the hardware store already steaming up their windows, and Mrs. Hemsley’s cat posted like a sentry on her porch, eyeing me with the kind of judgment you only get from cats—or retired English teachers.
The front door of Springs maybe not.
Sleighbell Springs Farmers’ Market is a July tradition: white canvas tents standing guard, hand-chalked signs at playful angles, buckets of sunflowers saluting the entrance.
The air is thick with fresh bread, hot coffee, just-mown grass, and sunscreen—a cocktail of summer, Vermont-style.
Our booth is at the end of the row, right next to the tool-lending library tent, which feels like either a sick joke or a cosmic test. Or both.
“Tote bags face out,” I say, lining up the stack for what’s probably the third time. “Logo visible. No one wants to dig through a mystery pile.”
Jordan, hefting a crate of promotional gear that’s heavier than it looks, puts it down exactly where I point. Their forearm flexes. Ink shifts along the wrist—a mountain range perhaps, though I’m never sure, never let myself look too long.
I fuss with our sign, which is already straight.
I know it isn’t crooked. I rearrange it anyway, pretending my attention isn’t stuck on the way Jordan moves, the easy strength, the knowing competence that could probably toss me over their shoulder and carry me up Main Street without breaking stride.
The market crowds quickly. By nine-thirty, the whole green is alive: parents with reusable bags, tourists with phones, kids with melting ice cream.
I take my spot behind the table, customer-service smile in place, bracing for the usual: polite nods, sympathy, pity reserved for the widow who runs the store.
But Ruthann Kowalski from the garden club is first, all silver bob and laser focus, grabbing my hand before I can say a word.
“That sage green—the one for my sunroom? Maddie, you changed my life. My book club won’t quit talking about it. Dorothy—you know Dorothy, Elaine’s mother-in-law? She begged for the color code, but I told her only you have the magic touch.”
I blink, caught off guard. “I’m glad it worked for you.”
“Worked? It’s a miracle, honey.” She pats my hand and disappears into the paint samples.
Then Mr. Okafor, the retired English teacher, with his gentle cane and crinkled smile.
“The theater held up through spring. Not a chip on that arch you patched, even after those maniacs in the cast gave it hell. You’re a magician with that paint.”
I pause. “I worried about the finish, with the lights.”
He waves it away. “Kids were thrilled. You’ll do workshops again? My granddaughter’s restless.”
Before I can answer, he’s gone, swept off toward berries and sunshine, leaving me a little dazed and a little grateful.
Next, a woman I vaguely know (bank? pharmacy?), picks up a paint chip. “Your holiday window last year—the tools arranged like a Christmas tree? Made me cry. In a good way.” She glances up, sheepish but sincere. “My dad was a carpenter. He’d have loved it.”
I find myself smiling, the honest kind, not the one I put on for strangers. “Thank you,” I manage, and I mean it.
A teenager, bold in a Sleigh Queen crop top, flanked by pals, leans in. “Are you running the workshops again? I want to redo our bathroom backsplash but Mom says I need to actually know how. YouTube isn’t helpful.”
“Yes,” I say, then something in her sparks another answer out of me. “August. Second and fourth Saturdays. Signup at the store.”
She beams, grabs her friends, and vanishes, leaving me with the smallest sense of victory in my chest.