Chapter 19
NINETEEN
QUINN
A car door slams and my heartbeat kicks up. I take one last quick look at the inside of the barn. It’s not opening day, far from it, but having fifty people out here for the first time pushes my need for perfection to the top.
Newspaper and disposable tablecloths cover long banquet tables, folding chairs scatter the room, a station of wood pallets and signs rests in the corner.
Every single craft item I own fills the tables—mason jars with paintbrushes, water, paper towels, glue, glitter, and everything in between.
Zoey said the church ladies were bringing items with them, too, thank God, because I don’t think I have enough supplies to keep them all occupied.
Even though I set everything up last night, I got here by seven this morning.
Honestly, I should’ve brought a sleeping bag and pillow here yesterday, because it was useless going home and staring at my ceiling until I returned.
Which is exactly what I did—stared at that yellowed spot on my ceiling, replaying the conversation with Zoey from yesterday, until my heavy eyelids finally closed.
After Zoey prepped the cookies yesterday, she made a really terrible excuse about needing to leave early to bake and run errands. It was painfully obvious after our chat that she forced herself to stay as long as she could, which was half the time as usual.
I saw her tear-streaked face after we talked, but didn’t say anything.
What could I say? She knows who I am. I told her in the beginning.
But yesterday, I had to hammer in the message.
She needs to know what will happen if we take this any further.
It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise. Inside, I held a sliver of hope that she’d tell me to shut up, that she didn’t care, that she was ready to try because I was worth it, and we’d figure it out together.
But she didn’t. And although she hugged me, and thanked me for opening up, the sting of rejection still burrowed deep. But also, I can’t blame her. Not only are we fundamentally different, but she’s also still so hurt over her ex that she’s rightfully cautious.
And Zoey still hasn’t told me that she read Josie’s letters. Not that she’s obligated to, but I want her to. I want her to open up to me, to share everything in her head, to let me in more. These thoughts torment me, poke me at night, poison me through the day.
But why do I want her to do that? Because I think, for her, I can change.
I already have changed so many parts of myself this last year.
I’ve discovered a new piece of myself, one that wants cuddles on the couch and to laugh about music, and sample cookies before moving into a bedroom.
But can I sustain that? Can I really be the exclusive, committed person she wants?
Even if I can, am I assuming that Zoey is thinking the same thing as me with just one kiss?
She knows I’m open and free, and maybe she was using the opportunity to test out a kiss on someone who told her physical things mean nothing.
I probably would’ve done the same thing.
So, what if I just sat down, communicated all of this, and she said, “I want to be with you.” And then, per every single encounter I’ve ever had with a woman, I clam up, shut down, and can’t do it. Then, friendship gone.
God, I’m overthinking all of this.
The sound of gravel crunching beneath tires breaks my thoughts—thank Christ. I rewrap my hair on top of my head and run to the door.
“Hey!” Zoey waves from her car with a box tucked in her arm, the wisps from her ponytail flying in the breeze. A woman, maybe mid-fifties or so, steps out of the passenger seat with an arsenal of canvas bags, as a cute little blond boy leaps from the back seat.
This must be Zoey’s mom and Noah. I scoot over to them, smiling. Yes, I’m glad they’re here, but I’m really glad Zoey is here. After the conversation yesterday, I couldn’t help but think she’d bail on me. “Hey, let me help. What can I grab?”
Zoey hands me a grocery bag, then points to her family. “Zoey, meet Debbie, my mom, and Noah, the best kid in the entire world. And I know a lot of kids.” She gives Noah a tousle on the hair, and he buries his head into her hip.
“Oh, Quinn.” Debbie drops the bags to the ground, opens her arms up wide, and rushes to me like I’m a child returning from deployment. “Finally, we get to meet! I’ve heard so much about you and this place. I cannot wait to see everything you’ve done.”
The warmth already fills me. Zoey gets her hugging skills from her mother, clearly. Frankie hugs me all the time, but I don’t remember the last time my mother hugged me. Years, probably?
I squeeze Debbie back and release, and chuckle at Zoey’s cringing face. “Same. I’m so happy you all are here. Thank you so much for helping me… I’m still overwhelmed by everyone’s generosity.”
Debbie shoos away the comment. “Spending a fall day on this gorgeous property making crafts with my friends. I need to be thanking you.” Debbie picks up her canvas bags and scans the property. “Quinn, this property is absolutely beautiful. These trees, this land… Stunning, really.”
Yep. I am beaming. Wide and bright, and I don’t even care.
“Thank you. It was a ton of effort, lots of scratches and bruises, and even more tears, but everything is finally coming together.” I glance at Noah, who is still snuggled into Zoey’s side.
“And, Noah. Do you have any idea how much your auntie Zoey talks about you?” I ask, lowering myself to meet him closer to eye level.
“She says you are the best artist in the whole family.”
“Yep, I am!” He lifts his head, his smile spreading across his chubby cheeks. “Zoey said Santa is coming here. Is he here today?”
I peek at Zoey, who just shrugs, but there’s a soft twinkle in her eyes.
She’s watching me, watching this interaction, and she looks a bit nervous.
Not sure if it’s because she thinks her family will do something embarrassing—which wouldn’t bother me anyway—or if this is something more.
Nope… doing it again. Overthinking. If I keep doing this, I’m checking myself in for a lobotomy.
“No Santa today,” I say to Noah. “But we’re trying to make this place really special for him so he’ll visit.”
Noah moves his body away from Zoey’s hip, and is now really grinning. “I know Santa likes milk and cookies and reindeer and presents, so I’m going to paint all those things for him.”
If I could just bottle up this child’s wonder in one of my mason jars and release it on Christmas, my heart would be full. “I think that is a perfect plan.”
Zoey taps the bag in her arm. “This is getting heavy. I’m going to head inside. Noah, grab that plate of cookies and come with me. Quinn, can you help my mom bring in the crockpots and show her where the plug-ins are?”
“Absolutely,” I say, and follow Debbie to the car.
She pops open the trunk and a gust of hearty smoked meat hits me.
Not only does Debbie have a few crockpots, I’m pretty sure she’s emptied the grocery store.
I see buns, bags of chips, a cooler, fruit salad, paper plates, and… No way. “Did you make Minnesota sushi?”
Debbie’s grin rivals Noah’s. “Of course I did. When was the last time you’ve been to a potluck? We’d have a mutiny on our hands if I didn’t.”
The last time I was at a potluck, I was probably in diapers. My mouth is salivating at the dill pickles wrapped in cream cheese and deli ham. I wonder if I can sneak one before the rest of the crew arrives.
“I am so happy to talk to you, finally,” Debbie says as she loads up my outstretched arms. “Ever since you and Zoey met, she’s been Chatty Cathy about her time with you. I haven’t heard her so excited since we finally gave in and bought her a custom skateboard when she was twelve.”
Not only does my heartbeat speed up, but I also have so many questions. Skateboard? Zoey? What other little details is she hiding? Every morsel I uncover about her makes me want to dig for more intel. “Oh, really?”
“Oh yeah. She calls me at nights on the way home from being here with you. And well, I just think whatever you two have is something really special. It’s the happiest I’ve seen Zoey in a long time, and just warms my mama heart, you know?
” She grabs a crockpot, and we stroll towards the barn.
“I’m just glad she met someone so special to her. ”
I am swooning at this information overload, and bite back the urge to learn more.
I smile at Debbie, but a small pinch grows in my chest. Zoey is special to me, too.
So much so that I can’t do anything that will harm what we have.
For today, I need to stop thinking about all things Zoey and focus on the craft bonanza about to occur.
Inside the barn, Debbie stops in the doorway and drags her gaze across the space. “Quinn. Oh my gosh, this is beautiful!” She steps further inside, sets her crockpot on a table, and rests her hands on her hips, doing a full turn. “I really can’t believe it. You’ve done such a fantastic job.”
The place is coming together, finally. And thank God, too, because we are at t-minus three weeks before opening day on Thanksgiving weekend.
Besides severe lack of inventory—which will hopefully get supplemented today along with the shipments of wreaths, cloths, and candles coming in next week—I can almost see the holiday spirit fill the place.
The huge, artificial trees in the corners of the barn drip with light, Santa’s photo op station is nearly complete with the large wooden chair and painted signs, and the display stand is built and ready to get filled.
“Thank you.” I’m beaming so hard it’s embarrassing. I plug the crockpots in at the prep station and reach for some serving bowls for the chips. “I could not have done all of this without Zoey’s help.”
“Oh gosh, stop. You totally could have. I’ve never seen anyone move so fast in all my life,” Zoey calls from where she’s sitting by Noah at a craft table.
“Well, you two are certainly capturing the magic of Christmas,” Debbie says. “And that is something to be really proud of.”
It’s official. I am asking Debbie to adopt me.
Within a few hours, the space fills quickly with kids from Debbie’s school, parents, grandparents, and the church ladies.
The children scatter among two tables, most painting small wooden ornaments of Santa Claus.
Debbie assumes a teacher stance and bounces between tables, helping kids, wiping hands, and filling up paint stations.
The church ladies are almost louder than the children, and it cracks me up.
One, with the help of her husband and few other folks, even lugged in this insanely fancy sewing machine that auto-sews a Christmas message on dishtowels.
Another small group is in the corner, ironing embroidery stencils on dish rags, and others are either painting ornaments or putting together foam snowmen with top hats.
As the chatter sounds below, and Alexa booms holiday music, Zoey and I are on ladders on the opposite edges of the room, wrapping the last string of lights across the beams.
“Higher?” Zoey calls out to her mom, who dashes to each corner of the room to check the angle.
Debbie cups her hands around her mouth. “Yes, a few inches, no, lower… There! Perfect.”
“Thank you!” I call out and carefully lower myself from the rungs. The very last thing I need is to pull a Zoey and crack my foot before opening night. When I reach the bottom, I clap my hands off and allow my gaze to fall over the room.
This… is life. People chatting, BBQ and sloppy joe scents swirling in the air, Christmas music, the children proudly putting their ornaments on the drying table.
The church ladies stack towels and rags in a corner, some hang things on a tree, others decorate the display case.
My heart is so full I think it’s gonna burst.
It feels like a family. An actual family. Support, community, the type of environment people talk about, probably what Frankie felt like on her sports team, but I’ve never had this. It feels full. Wonderful.
My chin trembles. I can’t believe I almost risked this all by kissing Zoey.
“You doing okay?” Zoey says as she steps to me and hands me a bottle of water.
“I am. I just… I’m shocked all these people came here.
” My voice cracks and I suck in my cheeks.
When she lays a warm hand on my back, filled with some sort of power that transfers healing messages to me, I sigh.
Before she got here today, I thought I screwed everything up with her.
But right now, as I lean back into her touch, I’m so grateful that the kiss didn’t ruin anything.
And I vow that I will never do anything stupid like that again. This, right here, is enough.
We lean against the back wall, shoulder to shoulder, and watch the scene.
“I can’t believe this is my last day here with you,” Zoey says, twisting the cap back on her water.
“I’m having visions of figuring out how I can create a craft station at my bakery so you can be there with me during the day.
Or maybe make Zoey’s a chain, and I’ll open a second location in your shed. ”
“I fully support both those ideas. Give me a week to develop the business plan, and we’ll go to the bank together.
” Even though I’m grinning, my gut is dropping, twisting low and sad inside me.
Something about this feels so final. Will we stay friends?
It’s easy to build a relationship when you are together ten to twelve hours a day.
But I can’t help this aching sense in my stomach that this chapter is closing.
Might not be a Christmas miracle after all.