Chapter 2
The Hope Hollow Public Library had a community room in the back.
Meghan had been in it exactly twice—once for a chamber of commerce mixer she’d attended for the salon, and once for a town meeting about sidewalk repair that Brynn had talked her into three years ago, back when Brynn still talked her into things.
Tonight, Mayor Richard Tillery had claimed the room for his parade committee.
He stood at the front with a whiteboard and a printed agenda. His energy said he’d been planning this since January.
Knowing Richard, that tracked.
Meghan took a seat in the second row of folding chairs arranged in a loose semicircle. Jessica Payne was already there, notebook open, pen ready. She was the librarian, so technically this was her building, but Richard had a way of making every room feel like his office.
Celia Shepard sat in the front row with her reading glasses on, studying the printed agenda like it was a zoning petition. Cal Maddox was in the back corner, arms folded, hat still on.
The room filled in slowly. A woman from the garden club. A man Meghan had seen at the hardware store. Two teenagers who looked like they’d been voluntold by a parent. Greg Morrison came in and sat near the back, nodding at her as he passed. She nodded back.
Then Wyatt walked in.
He looked different. Not because of the haircut, though that was part of it. The ragged patch was gone, blended into the shorter cut she’d given him, and he’d cleaned up since she’d seen him ninety minutes ago. Different shirt. No dust on his jeans.
He still carried himself the same way, though—shoulders slightly forward, hands at his sides, moving through the room like he was trying not to take up too much space for a man his size.
He scanned the semicircle, found an open chair on the far end of the front row, and sat down without making eye contact with anyone. Then he folded his hands in his lap and looked at the whiteboard.
Meghan looked at the back of his head.
She’d had scissors in her hand since she was twelve.
Her mother’s clients first, then cosmo school, then nine years behind her own chair.
Hundreds of heads. She’d shaped and trimmed and styled people she saw every day without thinking twice about it.
The work was the work. Her hands did what they’d been trained to do, and she went home and didn’t take any of it with her.
She took this one home with her.
Not in any way she could explain. Nothing had happened. He’d sat in her chair, she’d fixed the damage, they’d talked about horses and hair and grandfathers. He’d thanked her. She’d locked the door behind him.
That was it.
But she kept seeing his face in the mirror when she’d mentioned his grandfather.
The way his hands had tightened under the cape.
He probably didn’t think she’d noticed, but noticing was part of the job.
You felt it in the chair when someone tensed.
You learned when to keep talking and when to leave it alone.
She’d left it alone.
He’d been grateful. She could tell because he hadn’t said so.
Richard cleared his throat, which in Richard’s world was the equivalent of a gavel. “Thank you all for being here. I know it’s a weeknight, and I know some of you would rather be somewhere else…”
His gaze drifted to Cal, who tipped his hat but didn’t deny it.
“The Fourth of July parade is thirty-one days away,” Richard continued. “That sounds like a lot of time. It’s not.”
He turned to the whiteboard and uncapped a marker. The agenda was already printed and distributed, but Richard liked to write things down where everyone could see them. It made him feel official. Meghan had learned this not by asking but by watching.
“First order of business,” Richard said. “The mounted unit.”
He laid it out like he’d been rehearsing in his bathroom mirror.
The sheriff’s mounted patrol. A historical reenactment group from Sevierville.
A horse-drawn carriage for the grand marshal, who hadn’t yet been announced but who Richard assured them would be “someone this town will be proud to honor.”
“All of those horses need to be shod and parade-ready.” Richard turned and looked directly at Wyatt. “Wyatt Haynes has agreed to handle that.”
Wyatt gave a small nod. It was the nod of a man who hadn’t agreed so much as run out of ways to say no.
Richard moved down his list. The route. The staging area behind the Baptist church. The timing. Parade steps off at ten, which meant horses on-site by eight, which meant loading at seven, which meant someone had to be at the farms by six.
Meghan was doing the math on that when Richard said, “Meghan Asher has generously offered to coordinate hair and styling for all parade participants.”
She’d done no such thing. She looked at Richard. He didn’t even blink.
“Riders, float participants, the grand marshal, anyone who’ll be in front of a camera,” Richard continued. “We want everyone looking sharp. I spoke to Meghan about this earlier today, and she’s on board.”
He had spoken to her. He’d stopped by the salon at lunch and said, “You know, it’d be nice if the parade folks looked polished this year.”
She’d said, “That would be nice.”
Apparently, that constituted a binding agreement.
She opened her mouth, closed it, and looked down at the printed agenda in her hands. There was her name, typed and centered under Styling Coordinator. He’d printed this before the meeting. Before he’d even made the announcement.
Richard was already moving on. Float construction. Banner design. The middle school marching band. Trash cans along the route, because Richard Tillery had never met a detail he couldn’t turn into a public discussion.
Meghan sat in her folding chair and processed the fact that she was now responsible for making sure every person on a horse or a float had camera-ready hair on July Fourth. Which meant she’d be at the staging area behind the Baptist church.
With the horses.
With Wyatt.
She glanced across the semicircle. He was watching Richard, his face neutral, one hand resting on his knee. He didn’t look at her. But something about the set of his jaw suggested he knew she was looking.
The meeting ran another forty minutes. Jessica took notes. Celia asked three questions about historical accuracy for the reenactment costumes. Cal fell asleep and woke up when the teenager next to him dropped a water bottle.
When Richard finally said, “Any last questions?” nobody raised a hand.
Not because there were no questions. Because everyone understood Richard would not stop talking if given additional material.
People stood. Folding chairs scraped against the carpet. Meghan gathered her bag and made her way toward the door, stopping to say good night to Jessica, who was already straightening the chairs Richard had disarranged.
The parking lot was half-empty by the time Meghan pushed through the library’s front door.
The air outside was still warm, the sky a dark blue that hadn’t quite given up the last light.
Crickets chirped in the bushes along the building’s foundation.
Her car was parked under the one lot light that worked, three spaces from the entrance.
“Meghan.”
She turned. Wyatt was walking toward her from the far end of the lot, keys in hand. His truck was behind him, a big Ford with HAYNES FARRIERY painted on the door in letters that looked like they’d been there a while.
“Thank you,” he said. “Again. For the haircut.”
He stopped a few feet from her, hands in his pockets now, keys looped around one finger. In the lot light, the cut looked even better than it had in the salon. She’d done good work. She knew that without needing to hear it. But hearing it didn’t hurt.
“You clean up well,” she said. “You’d never know a horse tried to eat you.”
His mouth shifted. Not quite a smile. The left corner moved, and then he caught it and looked down at the asphalt for a second, like he needed to collect himself. Something about that got to her more than it should have.
“Richard really told you about the meeting this morning?” he asked.
“He told everyone this morning. I’m pretty sure he has a phone tree.”
“Did he also tell you that you were volunteering to do hair for the entire parade?”
Meghan shook her head. “I found out about that the same time you did.”
His almost-smile came back. This time, he let it stay a second longer.
“He got me at the diner,” he said. “Talked for forty minutes. I agreed to shoe the horses just to get my coffee back.”
“He caught me between clients. I said ‘that would be nice’ about something, and now my name is on a whiteboard.”
They stood there in the parking lot, a few feet apart, not quite smiling at each other about the same man who had railroaded them both. The crickets filled the silence.
It should have been awkward. She’d had her hands in his hair less than two hours ago, and they’d spoken maybe fifty words to each other in the years before that.
But it wasn’t awkward. It was easy in a way that made her aware of how few things in her life felt easy right now.
“I guess I’ll see you at the staging area,” he said.
“Guess so.”
He nodded. Took his keys from his pocket. Turned toward his truck, then stopped.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “you did a better job than Brynn.”
He walked away before she could answer.
Meghan stood there under the lot light, watching him climb into his truck. The headlights swept across the asphalt as he backed out. When he passed her, he lifted two fingers off the steering wheel.
Not a wave. Just an acknowledgment. Somehow, that was better.
The library door opened behind her, and Jessica leaned out. “Night, Meghan.”
“Night.”
Meghan walked to her car, got in, and sat with her hands on the wheel. The meeting agenda lay on the passenger seat. Her name, typed and centered. Styling Coordinator.
She thought about Wyatt looking at himself in the mirror after she’d finished the cut. Not vain. Surprised. Like he hadn’t expected something broken to turn out right.
She started the car and drove home.