13. A Crown of Cypress
Chapter thirteen
A Crown of Cypress
"So here's the thing about the Founder's Festival," Jasper said, appearing at my door for what was becoming our morning ritual.
"It's technically a celebration of the town's founding.
But really, it's an excuse for everyone to eat too much, drink too much, and pretend we're all one big happy family. "
He was leaning against my doorframe in a way that highlighted the breadth of his shoulders, his dark curls catching the morning light.
Today's shirt was forest green, the color bringing out the warmth in his eyes, and it fit him in a way that suggested he'd had it tailored or had simply won some kind of genetic lottery.
"That sounds exhausting," I said.
"That's because you haven't tried Mrs. Henderson's jambalaya yet." He grinned. "Trust me. It's worth the social effort."
"Is that the highlight of the agenda?"
"No set agenda, I want you to experience a Magnolia Creek tradition with an expert guide." He straightened, his expression softening. "I also want you to have a good day. You've seemed tense lately. This might help."
He didn't mention the text messages. The conversation we'd had about Marcus. But I saw the awareness in his eyes, the way he was trying to give me something normal, something joyful, to hold onto.
"Fine," I said. "But you're buying me whatever food you promise."
"Deal." His grin returned, brighter than before. "I'll pick you up at three."
I spent an embarrassing amount of time deciding what to wear to a small-town festival. Not because I cared about impressing anyone, I told myself firmly, but because I wanted to be comfortable. And possibly look nice. For practical reasons.
I pulled out three dresses, two pairs of shorts, and a romper I’d forgotten I owned before finally settling on a sundress that Tara had talked me into buying last year, soft blue cotton that made my eyes look bright.
Sandals that I could walk in. Hair half up, because it was fucking hot and the humidity would play havoc with my hair, anyway.
I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to remember the last time I’d dressed for someone. Not Marcus, dressing for Marcus had been a different thing entirely, a careful calculation of what would please and what might provoke. This felt lighter. Less like armor and more like anticipation.
I texted Tara a photo.
Tara: OH. This is for the festival guy?
Me: It’s for a small-town community event.
Tara: You curled your hair.
Me: Humidity.
Tara: Sure. Have fun with your ‘humidity.’ Send photos.
I put down the phone before she could ask more questions I didn’t want to answer.
At 2:45, I heard movement downstairs: the sound of Rowena’s voice, the low rumble of male responses. I couldn’t make out words, but there was laughter in the tone. The simple rhythm of a family that had been together long enough to develop their own language.
I checked my reflection one more time. Told myself I wasn’t nervous.
Liar.
When I came down the stairs at three, Jasper was waiting by the magnolia tree. He looked up when he heard my footsteps, and something flickered across his face: a quick inhalation, a widening of his eyes.
"You look—" he stopped. Started again. "That's a nice dress."
"Thanks."
He was wearing dark jeans, a white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he looked fucking hot. He also looked like he’d spent some time in front of a mirror. His hair was still artfully tousled, but there was a deliberateness to it that hadn’t been there this morning.
“You clean up well,” I said.
“I always clean up well.” But his ears went slightly pink, which told me everything I needed to know.
Behind him, through the kitchen window, I glimpsed Eli at the table with a book. He looked up, his expression unreadable behind his glasses. He raised a hand in a small wave, then went back to reading.
Jasper offered his arm, mock-formal. "Shall we?"
I took it. His body was warm against mine, solid and reassuring, and I tried not to notice how perfectly my hand fit into the crook of his elbow.
The walk to town was filled with his easy chatter, stories about festivals past, local characters I'd encounter, things to try and things to avoid.
“Stay away from Mr. Patterson’s booth,” he warned. “He makes his own hot sauce, and he’ll insist you try it. I lost three days once. Couldn’t taste anything.”
“You ate hot sauce so spicy it took three days to recover?”
“It was a matter of pride. Callum dared me.”
“Of course he did.”
“He didn’t think I’d actually do it. The look on his face when I finished the entire bottle was worth the suffering.” He grinned, and it belied a fondness for his brother that ran deeper than sibling rivalry. “That’s the thing about Callum. He underestimates how stubborn I can be.”
“I don’t think he underestimates you.”
Jasper glanced at me, something shifting in his expression. “No?”
“The way you talk about each other, you and your brothers. It’s different from most families I’ve seen.” I struggled to find the right words. “Like you actually know each other, not just the surface stuff.”
He was quiet for a moment. The road curved ahead of us, the preserve visible through the trees on our left, and I could hear the distant sound of music drifting from town.
“We grew up close,” he said finally. “Closer than most.”
I felt his attention on me, steady and warm. When we rounded the corner and the festival came into view, he paused.
"Ready for chaos?"
"Bring it on."
The Founder's Festival was exactly what Jasper had promised: organized chaos on a grand scale.
The town square had been transformed into a maze of booths and stages, the air thick with the smell of frying food and fresh-baked sweets.
A bluegrass band played on the main stage while children ran past with cotton candy and sparklers.
The first thing I noticed, after the bunting, after the string lights beginning to glow as the sun dipped lower, were the crowns.
They were everywhere. Children wore them, circles of twisted ribbon in pink, yellow and sky blue, trailing streamers that caught the breeze.
Teenagers clustered in groups, their crowns more elaborate: paper flowers woven into wire frames, silk ribbons layered in gradients from sunset orange to deep violet.
Even adults wore them, though theirs tended toward simpler designs: a single band of ribbon, a twist of braided paper in muted golds and greens.
A little girl darted past me, her crown askew, its purple streamers flying behind her like a comet's tail.
"What's with the crowns?" I asked.
"Festival tradition." Jasper adjusted something on his collar, I realized with a start that he was wearing one too, a simple band of deep green ribbon that I hadn't noticed against his dark hair. "Everyone wears one. Prince and princess for a day."
"You're wearing one."
"Obviously," he grinned. "I'm a prince. Didn't you know?"
"Your humility is inspiring."
"It's one of my best qualities." He tugged me toward a booth draped in ribbons of every color imaginable. "Come on. You need one too."
The vendor, an elderly woman with silver-streaked hair and nimble fingers, looked up as we approached.
Her booth was a riot of color: simple paper crowns for five dollars, more elaborate ribbon-and-wire creations for twenty, and a few truly stunning pieces displayed on velvet stands; intricate weavings of silk, wire and tiny crystals that caught the light like trapped stars.
"Jasper Voss." She smiled, showing a gap between her front teeth. "Back for another year."
"Wouldn't miss it, Miss Delphine." He gestured to me. "This is Serena. She needs a crown."
Miss Delphine's eyes sharpened on me with the same assessing look I'd been getting all day. "The girl staying at Thornwood."
"That's the one."
She studied me for a long moment, then nodded slowly. "Blue, I think. To match her eyes." She was already reaching for ribbons, her fingers moving with practiced speed. "Sit down, child. This won't take but a minute."
I sat on the stool she indicated, and her hands began working above my head, twisting and weaving. The ribbons were cool against my hair, soft as flower petals.
"First festival?" she asked.
"First festival."
"Then I'll make it special." I could hear the smile in her voice. "The crowns are an old tradition here. Goes back to the founding, they say. Everyone wears one on festival day: prince and princess, king and queen. For those who will never wear a crown of cypress, this is their day to be—"
"Serena!"
Jasper's voice cut through the moment. I turned to find him standing a few feet away, his hand extended.
"The band's playing our song."
"We don't have a song."
"We do now. Come dance with me."
"Miss Delphine isn't finished—"
"Done." The vendor's hands lifted from my head. When I reached up, I felt something lovely: ribbon twisted into loops and whorls, secure but light. "Go on, child. Dance while you're young."
Jasper pulled me to my feet before I could ask her to finish her sentence. What was a crown of cypress? Who were those that would never wear one? And why?
But then we were in the crowd, and the questions scattered.
The band had shifted from bluegrass to something slower, sweeter; a fiddle weaving through a melody that seemed to catch in my chest. Jasper's hand found my waist, his other hand catching mine, and suddenly we were moving.
He was an excellent dancer. Of course he was. He led with confidence, spinning me under his arm and catching me when I stumbled, laughing when I stepped on his foot.
"You're thinking too hard," he said.
"I'm trying not to embarrass myself."
"Impossible. You look beautiful." His eyes dropped to the crown on my head, and something flickered in them, something warmer than his usual playfulness. "Blue suits you."
"Miss Delphine picked it."
"Miss Delphine knows what she's doing." He pulled me closer until I could feel the heat of him through his shirt. "She's been making crowns for fifty years. She has a gift for seeing what people need."