Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Dalene had been organizing this festival for three years.
She had inherited it from Vivienne, who had run it for twenty-two years before that.
Dalene intended to run it for at least another twenty-two, which meant getting through this particular meeting without anyone noticing that she was operating on four hours of sleep —if that much.
They covered vendor assignments in fourteen minutes, which was a personal record. Volunteer coordination: eight minutes. Arts and crafts booths took longer as there was a debate about whether to use markers or crayons. In the end crayons won due to their less permanent nature.
She was feeling genuinely good about the timeline when Mrs. Patel spoke up. "I have a new business item."
Dalene checked her agenda. There were no new business items. "Mrs. Patel, we're actually right on—"
"A celebrity ambassador for the festival," Mrs. Patel continued. "Someone with a public profile who can draw attention to the coverage. Widen our reach. I've been thinking about our newest addition to the community; Eliot Brooks. National television meteorologist."
"He hates clouds," Dalene said. Dalene had seen the footage. It had made national news; Weatherman rains on cloud parade. There hadn't been a cloud parade, just a play on words. Which was all she needed to know to reject Eliot Brooks from the role.
She did not mention that he hated good scones, too. And might even hate her. Though she did think hate was a strong word. She had no idea why the two of them hadn't gotten off on the right foot. Usually everyone loved her.
Though right now it was also nice having someone who didn't look at her with pity or treat her with kid gloves.
She'd never been accused of being a criminal before.
She'd actually felt a thrill at the thought of it.
But she hadn't been trying to take something that wasn't hers last night.
She was trying to get away from something that she no longer had a claim to.
"The sixty-third festival should have someone people are talking about, and people are currently talking about Eliot Brooks." Mrs. Patel folded her hands on the table. "I've already spoken to Nora. She thinks it's a wonderful idea."
Apparently, so did the others on the committee. And because this was a democracy, Dalene didn't even bother raising her hand to dissent. The meeting ended. Dalene gathered her folders.
As though the universe knew her forecast had gone cloudy, a ray of sunshine came into view.
Reed Cannon came down the long stairwell two steps at a time, which was impressive given that his prosthetic left arm sometimes affected his center of balance.
But the veteran had a reason to be head-in-the-cloud happy these days.
"Good meeting?" he asked, as he joined her in the main hall in front of the school's entrance.
"Mrs. Patel steamrolled me."
"Be lucky it's not her husband. Pastor Patel is responsible for nearly every marriage back on the Purple Heart Ranch."
Reed was the other science teacher at Valor Middle — computer science to Dalene's life sciences, which meant they shared a corridor, a prep room, a mutual appreciation for the scientific method, and a deeply held belief that eighth graders were capable of more than they were currently demonstrating.
He was sandy-haired and unhurried, with dark, intelligent eyes.
He was also, as it happened, the reason Dalene had survived her first year at Valor Middle, when he had appeared in the doorway of her classroom during a free period with two cups of coffee and the observation that she looked like she hadn't eaten since Tuesday. They had been friends since.
"Sarai's stopping by," he said, nodding toward the entrance. "Bringing us lunch."
"She doesn't have to keep doing that."
"Food is her love language, and she likes you."
Sarai Cannon was coming up the steps to the middle school, moving with the luminous grace of a woman eight months pregnant who had once walked runways in Milan and still carried herself like she knew exactly where the camera was.
She was wearing a yellow wrap dress that looked like it had been designed specifically for her, which it probably had been, because Sarai had spent a decade in an industry that shaped itself around her before she had decided, firmly and publicly, to reshape herself instead.
Her beauty blog had three hundred thousand followers. Her most-read post was titled The Scale Lied To Me For Ten Years. Dalene had loved her immediately and completely after reading that article.
"How's the festival prep?" Sarai asked, leaning in for a hug that Dalene accepted.
"On track," Dalene said. "Mostly."
"Mrs. Patel got her way about something," Reed informed his wife.
Sarai laughed. Then she winced, but it was the kind of wince that came with a smile. Her hand rubbed at her belly. Reed went on instant alert.
"I'm fine, sweetheart. Just getting karate kicked by the little one."
"You're due in four weeks, right?" Dalene asked.
"Three weeks. Reed is pretending to be calm."
"I am calm," Reed insisted, eyes never leaving his wife.
"He has a spreadsheet," Sarai said.
"The spreadsheet is because I'm organized, not anxious."
"It has a tab called 'contingencies.'"
"That's just good planning."
The Cannons had the easy back-and-forth of two people who had chosen each other so thoroughly that even their disagreements sounded like affection.
Something moved through Dalene's chest. Not envy, exactly.
A wanting. And then the sadness crept in.
She caught it before it could become self-pity. That would be the worst.
She opened her mouth to say something deflecting and smart and witty. And then she saw them.
Tristan and Brooke were coming out of the parking lot. Tristan was laughing at something Brooke had said, his head tipped back. It was the familiar laugh Dalene had once found irresistible and now found difficult to look at directly.
They hadn't seen her. She had approximately four seconds before they would come to the entrance.
She used those seconds to arrange her face into something that was warm and untroubled and entirely unaffected, which was the fastest she had ever done it, which meant she was getting better at it, which was either progress or a warning sign. Dalene chose to call it progress.
Tristan saw her first. "Dalene. Hey. How are you?"
"Great," she said. "Really great. How are you both?"
Brooke's smile was bright and unbothered. The woman truly had no qualms about coming into the middle of a relationship and taking what she deemed was hers. But she had been right. Tristan had never been Dalene's. Not if he could be swayed so quickly, so easily by another woman.
"We're wonderful," Brooke said. "Did you see about the wedding venue?"
"I did. It's beautiful."
Dalene meant it, which was the worst part.
"We'd love for you to come to the engagement party," Tristan said. "We're doing it here in Valor, so—"
"I'll check my calendar." Dalene smiled again, as bright as she could manage given the circumstances. "Festival season, you know how it is. Packed. I should get going. Class will be starting soon."
Classes were not starting until next week. It was prep week for the school system. But there was no way Dalene was going to stick around and admit to that mistake.
"Dalene—" Tristan started, but Dalene had seen and heard enough.
"It was so good seeing you both. Congratulations. On the venue. Bye."
She turned and heeded toward the stairs, and that was when she noticed them.
Two of the office secretaries leaned out the main office door. They watched her go with the sorrowful eyes. One of them — Kellianne, kind-hearted and entirely too perceptive — gave her a small, encouraging thumbs up, as if Dalene had just survived something requiring commendation.
Further down, Mr. Albright from the counseling center stopped mid-stride, looked at her, looked behind her where she was sure Tristan and Brooke remained, and pressed his lips together in the universal expression of a man who had decided not to say anything.
Smart man. Dalene made a point to remember to compliment his wife next time she saw her.
For now, Dalene kept her chin level. She kept the smile in place.
She rushed up the stairs to her classroom.
Inside her classroom, she breathed in for four counts, held for four, out for four, the way her doctor had suggested months ago when Dalene had described her sleep patterns and her doctor had used the word anxiety in a tone that suggested it was a diagnosis rather than a personality trait.
She did this four times. She did not think about the vineyard, or the way Tristan had said her name like she was someone he used to know.