5. Melody #2
Her proud head jerks back, and she peers at me. For a moment, she seems speechless, but when the puppy sniffs in my direction, clearly seeking affection, she recovers.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Give him a pet,” she urges me.
Nervously, I raise a gloved hand and scratch the fur ball between his golden ears.
“He looks a little like you, you know? Maybe you should adopt him.”
I chuckle and eye the pup affectionately. “I don’t know if I have the patience to train a puppy. I barely have the will to get myself out of the house most mornings, let alone take a dog on three walks a day.”
“Then go to the shelter and get an older dog, one that can keep you company while you write. They don’t need a lot of exercise, and the shelter is full of them because everyone wants puppies, not the old ones.” She says this with a hint of sadness.
“You know I’m a writer?” I ask warily.
"Of course." Edna lets out a derisive snort, adjusting the puppy in her arms. "Lucy couldn't stop talking about her writer granddaughter. Every time one of your books came out, she bought every single copy from the local bookstore and distributed them to practically everyone in town."
My cheeks flush crimson at the confession, my eyes suddenly darting around the slowly filling gallery as if everyone were staring at me. But it’s just like that moment in Holly Beans—no one is paying any attention to me. It’s all in my head.
“All proper artists should have a pet. They’re the real inspirations we need.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Or a couple of cats. Writers love cats, don’t they?”
I swallow a laugh. “I’ll look into it. Do you know where Eli Barton’s booth is?”
Understanding floods her wise eyes, and she holds up a slightly gnarled finger, pointing toward the back of the gallery.
“Thanks,” I say, offering the puppy another stroke. “I hope you’ll come over for a cup of coffee one day.”
Her jaw slacks at the suggestion. “Me? Visit you?”
“Of course. Any friend of Gran’s is a friend of mine.”
“Be careful what you wish for, young lady, or you just might get it.” Even with her gruffness, she can’t hide the look of genuine pleasure in her eyes.
“I hope so. See you later, Mrs. Monroe.” I head toward the far side of the gallery, but I can still feel her watching me as if she’s stunned.
A small group forms around Eli’s booth, making it difficult for me to easily see his creations until one family filters off with their purchases.
I gasp in surprise at the display of old-time wooden train cars and Christmas ornaments.
Each one is handcrafted and finely detailed, painted in a variety of colors.
It must have taken him months to create them all.
“Oh, Eli!” I choke when he glances up from his display, his face brightening to see me. “You’re so talented! You did all this yourself?”
“Me and my tools,” he jokes, standing from his stool to greet me. “I’m glad you made it.” He looks me over appreciatively, his smile widening. “You look great.”
My cheeks pinken at the compliment, and I turn to collect two glasses from a wandering server to cover my embarrassment.
"How's it going?" I gesture toward the noticeable gaps on the display table. "Making many sales?"
"It's already been a lucrative morning." He runs his hand over a wooden train car, a hint of pride in his eyes. "At this rate, I won't have much to sell by tomorrow."
“That’s good. Maybe you’ll get a day off,” I offer brightly.
He waves me behind the booth and accepts the glass of cider I offer him, the two of us toasting to the craft fair with a chuckle.
His booth is met with a steady stream of customers, and he’s not wrong about his sales.
I absorb the details of his craft as he explains his creations to curious shoppers, watching his eyes light up when describing the intricate woodworking techniques behind each piece.
He tells little kids about the tools he used, the soldering irons and planers, offering to show his shop if anyone wants to visit.
My respect for him doubles by the early afternoon.
He’s so talented. It must take so much patience to do all this!
Meanwhile, I’ve been struggling for a month to get a single chapter written.
“I should probably wrap up a little early,” he says regretfully once more than half his items disappear from the selection. “I want to have something left for tomorrow.”
"Or you could keep going," I suggest, leaning closer. "You never know when this kind of sales momentum might suddenly disappear."
I’m speaking from personal experience, but Eli is determined to spread out his show over two days. “If it doesn’t all sell, so be it. It’s not like these things won’t keep. I can always hold on to them for next year.”
Shrugging, I help him pack away his booth, and we amble away from his spot to take in the other vendors.
I'm smitten by the landscape paintings by one artist and handcrafted ceramic ornaments by another.
Eli insists on buying me one—a delicate snowflake with intricate blue and silver details—even though I protest.
"It's your first craft show," he says, carefully wrapping the ornament in tissue paper before handing it to me. "I want you to remember it."
I sneak him a sidelong look as we retreat out of the gallery. Stepping away from the door, we stand at the side of the building.
Sunlight fades fast at this time of year, splaying orange rays between the triple peaks beyond the building tops and showering a million diamonds over the snow. I lean against the brick wall and look at the keepsake in my hand.
“I will remember it, for sure,” I reassure him, running a bare finger over the intricate design.
Eli leans beside me, and I’m distinctly aware of how close he is to me. His warm, sporty scent overtakes me, and I peer into his warm chocolate eyes.
“Thanks for inviting me today.” I lower my gaze.
“Thanks for coming after what happened last weekend.” He turns away from me to look at the people passing by on Main Street.
I want to tell him not to worry about it, that I understood, but I don’t. Honestly, I’m curious why he bailed so quickly after setting the date. But I don’t ask. If he wants to tell me, I’m sure he will.
Instead, I follow his gaze toward Main Street and smile.
"It's so pretty here." I gaze out at the twinkling lights lining the street, breathing in the crisp mountain air.
"I wish I'd spent more time here over Christmas with Gran, but we always ended up meeting in Florida for the holidays.
It kind of reminds me of 'Miracle on 34th Street'—as weird as that sounds. "
He spins to face me, eyes brightening with excitement. “I love that movie! It’s my favorite Christmas movie!”
“Mine too!” I laugh.
Our eyes lock, and he reaches up to brush one of my stray curls away from my face, our smiles fading. But when I lean in closer, hoping to touch his lips to mine, he pulls away and takes two steps toward the street.
“It’s cold.” He stomps his feet dramatically, rubbing his gloved hands together and blowing into them. “We should get going.”
But I’m not cold.
The burn of humiliation is keeping me plenty warm.