Chapter 21
VIOLET
A couple of hours later, we all pile into my car and drive over to the town square for the festival.
It feels nice, doing this together, even though I know it’s just for appearances.
It’s like when we were running errands, showing up together like a united front.
Like a unit, so that people get an eyeful and have something to talk about.
“I can’t believe we’re back here for another holiday festival,” Sawyer says, looking out the window. The clouds are heavy in the sky, like it might snow, but it’s been holding off so far.
“You’re not excited about it?” I ask him, glancing over. “I am.”
He quirks a smile at me. “That’s not a surprise. You love this kind of thing.”
“I know it’s silly, but… I don’t know. It feels like one of the nice things about living in a small town.
There are a lot of downsides—” I don’t have to go into detail about being insular and everyone being in everyone’s business and having to drive into the city to get things that aren’t sold here, the three of them already know and probably left for similar reasons.
“—but then there are things like the festivals and events to make the holidays feel special, and I love the tradition of it. It’s a way to get the most of out of every season, you know?
It’s part of why I love having a bakery. I get to do the same thing at my shop.”
“It’s not silly,” Rhett says quietly from the back seat. “There’s nothing wrong with being excited about traditions that aren’t hurting anybody.”
Lennox snorts. “If Mrs. Henderson still does her rendition of ‘Santa Baby’ every year, that might count as me being hurt,” he says.
We laugh, and I don’t tell him that even years later, she still insists on singing it every year. That can just be a fun surprise for later.
At the head of the square is the town hall. It’s a big, old building, and all the elders of the town like to say that Sweetwater Lake was built around this one building, in an effort to preserve it.
It’s where town hall meetings are held, and the yearly produce auction, and pretty much every other important thing that happens here.
It’s also heated, so it keeps the worst of the cold out during the holiday festival.
Some of the vendors have set up around it, but most of the festivities are inside.
The four of us park and head in, making our way through the throngs of people heading in the same direction.
It’s hard to say if people are looking at us or not.
I know there are some people, like those who saw us out when we were running errands, who already have some speculation, but I don’t know if anyone else has figured it out.
Do people in town know about our supposed relationship? And if they do, what are they saying about it?
As always, the town hall is just about bursting with people.
The decor is an amalgamation of the town’s own supply of decorations and whatever has been donated since the last time, giving it the appearance of several Christmases slapped together.
But that has its own kind of charm to it, if you ask me.
There are at least six different Christmas trees, in addition to the real one the town puts up every year.
Each is strung with lights and circled with piles of wrapped boxes.
More lights hang from the rafters, twinkling merrily above us all.
Garlands of greenery and tinsel loop along the walls, and up on the raised stage, there’s a setup of a family of deer in lights, which I know for a fact used to be in someone’s yard a couple years ago.
Lennox smiles as he looks around, and there’s something almost like nostalgia on his face. “This hasn’t changed at all,” he murmurs.
“Nope,” I say, smiling back. “Same as every other year. It’s great.”
“Hot cider?” someone calls, and I turn to see a woman with a bright smile, ladling hot apple cider from a crock pot at her table.
“Depends,” Sawyer asks her, stepping closer. “Is it just cider, or is there anything to make it a little more fun?”
She laughs, her eyes sparkling up at him. She’s definitely old enough to be his mother, but she gives him a flirtatious look. “Are you looking to get merry this holiday season?”
“Isn’t that what it’s for?” he asks back.
She doesn’t confirm or deny if there is alcohol, but at Sawyer’s word she pours four cups of steaming cider and takes his money.
We each take a cup, and I wrap my fingers around the Styrofoam, feeling the heat seeping through. The steam smells good, like cinnamon and apple pie, and I inhale deeply before taking a sip.
“Sorry, Sawyer,” I say. “This is pretty un-merry cider.”
He just shrugs, taking his own sip. “Still good, though.”
We wander on, looking at booths and tables where people are selling all kinds of things. Handmade wooden ornaments, Christmas stockings that are soft to the touch, hats and scarves and gloves that are hand knitted and crocheted.
Tradition dictates that the best way to approach the Holiday Festival is to do a lap of everything first, so you can see it all, and then go back and check out the stalls and tables that interested you the most. Then you can avoid the crushes of people trying to get at everything all at once.
The table laid out with fresh pastries and holiday cookies is harder to walk away from though, and I eye the apple hand pies and the brownies decorated like yule logs with interest.
“Which one should I get?” I ask the guys, biting my lip.
“Chocolate,” Rhett says.
“Apple pie, obviously,” is Sawyer’s pick.
“Why choose?” Lennox asks.
The other two pause and then nod their agreement. “No such thing as too many pastries,” Sawyer says.
“I don’t know about that.” I’ve definitely heard otherwise. Mostly from my mother.
That seems to solidify their decision even more, and the three of them order both pastries for me and then pick out their own treats. Rhett presses the wrapped brownie and hand pie into my hands, and I smile, feeling my cheeks flush.
Every time he looks at me now, it feels like I’m in that bathroom with him all over again. But I need to keep it together. This is not the time or the place for that to come out.
“Thanks,” I tell them, unwrapping the hand pie and taking a bite.
It’s still warm, and the apples are bursting with juice and flavor.
The cinnamon and clove are a pleasant spice on the tongue, and the pastry is flaky and buttery.
It’s good, and I make a mental note to add hand pies to my menu one of these days.
Maybe berries, for spring and summer.
“I know that look,” Rhett says softly. “You’re thinking about experimenting.”
I smile at him, nodding. “Eventually. Not tonight, though. Tonight is for this.”
Of course, as soon as I say that, someone taps the mic and we all turn to see the infamous Mrs. Henderson, dressed from head to toe in sparkly, sequined gold.
“No,” Lennox groans. “Still?”
I can’t control my laughter, and I press a hand over my mouth to try to stifle it. “Sorry. It’s tradition. At least it’s just the one song?”
Her voice isn’t bad, husky and rich, but Mrs. Henderson was in her sixties the last time Lennox and his brothers were in Sweetwater Lake for one of these festivals.
She’s even older now, and there’s something unsettling about watching an old woman in a tight evening gown croon about wanting special presents from Santa.
Lennox shudders and turns away. “Come on,” he says. “At least if we’re moving, we won’t be watching the performance.”
So we keep looking, and I make a note of things to go back and get as gifts for people. Getting presents for my family is always an ordeal.
Dad’s easy, he’ll take whatever and be happy for it, but Mom and Isabelle are notoriously picky while also being stingy on top of it. At least with other people.
As if thinking about them somehow summoned them, when we turn another corner, my parents are there. Mom is in a conversation with a man selling soaps and body butters, and Dad stands off to the side, holding bags already laden with purchases.
He sees me first and waves, but then spots the guys behind me, and his face does something complicated.
When my mom finishes her conversation, she turns and sees us as well.
“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, mostly under my breath, but Lennox, who is standing closest to me, hears and puts a hand on my arm.
As a unit, we walk up to my parents, and I force a smile. “Hey Mom, Dad. Enjoying the festival?”
Dad smiles back. “It’s a good one this year. Lots to see. And old Mrs. Henderson has still got it.”
“Got what, is the question,” I reply, making him laugh softly.
“Violet,” Mom cuts in, giving me a tight smile. “It’s good to see you and your… partners.” The word comes out like she’s trying to make it sound as neutral and bland as possible.
“Hi, Mrs. Bentley,” Sawyer says, turning on the charm. “It’s great to see you two again.”
“And you, of course.” Mom can’t be rude in public, even though I can tell she wants to. “How is your visit to Sweetwater?”
“Been great so far,” he replies. “Violet’s an amazing hostess, and being here tonight reminds us of all the things we loved about living here.” He drapes an arm over my shoulder, pulling me in close. “Although she’s the best thing by far.”
It’s funny, watching the emotions play out in my mother’s eyes while she keeps her face locked in that smile. “Of course,” she replies. “Violet, can I speak to you for a minute?”
“Oh, uh. Sure,” I say. I look to the guys. “I’ll be right back.”
Mom grabs my arm and practically tows me off to the side, to a quiet corner of the hall. I’m anticipating something about the wedding, some last minute favor she or Isabelle needs, and I brace myself to be roped into something irritating.
“What’s up?” I ask her.
“Do you really have to be here with all of them tonight?” Mom asks, keeping her voice low.
“What?”
“You’re making a scene, Violet.”