18. Liquefaction
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LIQUEFACTION
Claire
Ethan’s spending more and more time at the theater. Most nights, I’m already asleep by the time he comes home.
It’s a strange reversal. Just a few months ago, I was the one arriving home late, buried in work while he waited for me.
His texts become almost routine.
Running late.
Grabbing dinner with the cast.
Don’t wait up.
Before I know it, it’s the week of the fundraiser, and every spare minute is swallowed by last-minute preparations.
One afternoon, I’m directing the event company’s crew where to set up the banquet tents when I spot Lucy outside the barn, her phone pressed to her ear. The look on her face tells me something has already gone wrong. “What’s the crisis?” I ask.
“The florist is delivering Saturday morning instead of Friday night.”
“That’s the crisis?”
“Claire, I have centerpieces planned around those flowers.”
I wrap an arm around her shoulders as we walk toward the barn. “You realize most people wouldn’t consider that a crisis.”
“Most people aren’t trying to host a fundraiser for hundreds of people.”
“It will be okay. There will still be plenty of time to get them in place before the gala.”
Inside the barn, Uncle Jeremy and my dad hang sponsor banners from the rafters.
The space has changed greatly from the week before.
I can almost picture what the venue will look like once the reception tents are assembled—white tablecloths draped over every table, and twinkle lights strung overhead.
I step outside to call Ethan, but it goes straight to voicemail, so I text him.
Hey, did you get held up at the office?
I get side-tracked sorting through paperwork Sloane left for me, and an hour passes before I glance at my phone. My text to Ethan is still unread, so I call Reid.
“Hey, Claire.”
“Hey, Reid. Has Ethan left the office yet? I assume since he’s not responding to my messages, he’s with a client.”
Silence.
“Reid?”
“Yeah, I’m here. Claire—he left early this afternoon.”
“Okay—hmm. I thought he was coming straight to the ranch after work today to help with setup.”
“I can come help. Give me thirty minutes.”
“Thanks, Reid. I appreciate that. We’re getting so close and can use all the help we can get.”
For three hours, Reid and I work in a steady rhythm, transforming a mountain of donated items into neat auction packages.
He doesn’t mention Ethan again, just wordlessly hands me twine for a gift basket or helps me lift a heavy quilt.
By the time we finish, my feet ache, but it’s the quiet solidarity that resonates.
“Thank you,” Lucy says, her voice tired but grateful as we stack the final basket.
Reid walks Ellie and me to our car. Once Ellie is inside, I close the door and turn to him. “Reid, I—I can’t thank you enough.”
He brushes imaginary dirt from his shirt, mouth opening and closing before speaking. “Claire, ah… is everything okay with you and Ethan?”
“Things have been difficult, but I’m sure we’ll get on track once things slow down,” I manage.
“Okay, good. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for either of you.”
“Thanks, Reid.”
The remaining days bring their own challenges.
A sponsor dislikes their logo placement on the event banner and requests repositioning. The caterer has table placement questions I can’t answer, so I refer them to Lucy. I can usually find her in the arena, looking overwhelmed.
“Tell me where you need me,” I say, as she hands me a stack of seating charts.
“We have to rearrange the tables.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
Slowly, the space is transformed from rustic into something worthy of a formal event.
I spend an hour arranging photographs showcasing the equine therapy program.
One photo shows a small girl, once timid, now beaming as she leads a towering chestnut mare.
Another captures a veteran, his shoulders relaxed for what might be the first time in years, his hand resting on a horse’s neck.
As I study the photos, Lucy joins me beside the display, her arm brushing mine. “Pretty incredible, isn’t it?”
“Sometimes it’s easy to forget how many lives this place touches.”
She glances around the barn. “I feel the same about Juniper House, and that’s what I want people to remember Saturday night.”
The following day, the auction software isn’t cooperating, several donated items arrive without descriptions, and the guest list changes three separate times.
I find Lucy and Sloane sitting at a table with their heads resting in their hands, and a bottle of wine open between them.
I slide into a chair across from them. “Are you both okay?”
“Do you want the honest answer or the supportive answer?” Lucy asks, lifting her head.
“Supportive,” I reply.
“Everything is going to be wonderful,” she says. They both nod in agreement.
“And the honest answer?” I ask.
“Saturday can’t come fast enough.” Lucy replies.
By the end of the night, hundreds of tiny lights illuminate the venue, auction displays fill one side of the tent. As we add the finishing touches, it’s far more beautiful than I imagined.
Lucy walks up beside me as I’m getting ready to leave, her boots clicking against the asphalt. “We did it.”
“You did it.”
A wisp of hair falls from her braid. “No. We did.”