Chapter Ten A Whirlwind Of An Update
Caleb
Kitty arrived with a thick folder in her hand, and a tote dragging her shoulder down with even more paperwork.
The folder was stuffed so full that papers threatened to slide free every time she shifted her grip.
Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and her eyes had that steady look people got when they were running on stubbornness instead of rest.
“Hi,” she said, stepping into my shop carefully. “I just came from a meeting, so I’m sorry to bring all this stuff here.”
“Hi,” I replied. “Come in. Set your things wherever you want.”
She chose to sit at the stool near the counter, and let the tote slide to the floor with a thunk. The folder landed on the counter and immediately tried to spill its contents.
Kitty pressed a hand over the top as if she could physically keep order in place.
“You’re busy,” I observed.
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “That’s one word for it.”
I watched her for a moment, feeling the discomfort I had been carrying since our last lesson settled in my chest again. I had said what I needed to say, but I had said it too sharply. The boundary had been fair, but the delivery hadn’t.
I cleared my throat. “Before we start, I want to say something. I’m sorry about last time, about how I reacted when you asked me about helping with the talent show.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. She didn’t speak, which was her way of giving me room to keep going.
“I assumed you were asking me to perform,” I continued. “You weren’t. You were asking for help and I shut you down like you had done something wrong.”
Kitty’s expression softened, but she still held herself carefully. “You don’t have to apologize.”
“I do,” I said. “I’m allowed to have that boundary of not participating in the show, but I’m not allowed to make you feel like you crossed a line when you didn’t even know the line was there. It was wrong of me.”
Her mouth twitched, as if she was trying not to smile too soon. “I understand now why you reacted.”
“That doesn’t mean it was fair,” I said.
She nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the folder. “I wasn’t asking you to perform, I was trying to ask for organizing help. You just… seemed like someone who knows how to make things run smoothly.”
I exhaled, a quiet release of tension. “I do. That part is true.”
Kitty’s shoulders eased a fraction. “Thank you.”
I gestured toward the workbench. “Do you want to do the lesson first, or do you want to talk about the talent show before your brain bursts?”
“My brain is already burst,” she said, and the way she said it made me smile despite myself. “But I think I need the guitar first or I’ll start crying over spreadsheets.”
“That’s fair,” I agreed, picking a guitar from the display, quickly checking the tuning, before handing it to her. “I’ll give you this one on loan so you can practice.”
“On loan?” Kitty asked as she lifted the guitar into position. She placed her fingers on the chord shape we had worked on and strummed.
“It’s my way of getting you to like it so maybe someday soon you will choose to buy it,” I mentioned with a smile.
“Devious,” Kitty remarked before grinning.
We went through the last lesson, repeating so that she could remember what to do for practicing before building further on what she learned.
Kitty looked up at me then, and I saw the exhaustion behind her effort. It was not dramatic exhaustion. It was the kind that lived in the way her shoulders sat and the way she blinked a little too slowly.
“How much have you taken on with the talent show?” I quietly asked.
Kitty let out a long breath. “A normal amount, I guess.”
“That’s not an answer,” I said.
She hesitated, then reached for the folder and pulled it closer. “Talent show forms, scheduling notes, committee messages… Plus a list of things Lydia volunteered me for.”
“She volunteered you ?” I questioned.
Kitty’s mouth curved in reluctant amusement. “She meant well.”
I wondered why her sister didn’t do it herself instead of volunteering Kitty.
Kitty gave a small laugh, then tried to shut the folder but pages spilled out.
I reached over and caught a few pages before they hit the floor. One listed an act as surprise in bold letters. Another had been stamped with an inked star and the words approved .
Kitty took the papers from me, cheeks warming. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I murmured.
“I’m organizing the talent show,” she said, voice turning practical as she forced herself into task mode. “Right now we have too many acts and not enough clarity.”
“I can help with that,” I found myself saying, and I realized I meant it.
Kitty looked up sharply. “You can?”
“Yes,” I said. “And I want to be clear about what that means. I’m not going to be on stage. That’s still a hard boundary for me. But I can handle sound. I have all the equipment and I can make sure nothing screeches and ruins someone’s solo.”
Relief crossed her face so quickly it made something in my chest tighten. She had been holding so much alone, I realized.
“That would be amazing,” she said.
“I can also help you with the flow of the show,” I replied. “We start with a list. We can figure out what kind of acts you have, then decide what equipment each act needs and group those together. We build a run-of-show template with buffer time so you’re not feeling rushed.”
Kitty smiled, genuine now. “Thank you. I would really like that.”
I pulled a notepad and pen from beneath the counter and set it between us. “Tell me what you have. Musical acts first.”
Kitty flipped through her papers. “There are lots of singing acts. One kid with a violin. A group that wants to do carols but in harmony, which feels ambitious.”
“Okay,” I said, writing quickly. “Anything with music tracks?”
She frowned. “Possibly. And one man who wrote ‘emotional silence’ on his form.”
I paused. “What does that even mean?”
Kitty let out a short laugh, then covered her mouth like she was surprised by it.
“Good,” I said. “Laughing is allowed.”
She lowered her hand, still smiling faintly. “I can’t tell if he’s serious.”
“He might be,” I said, and kept writing. “If you have enough acts, I would tell him he has to audition, then if you don’t like it you can axe him from the show.”
Kitty nodded, the tension in her shoulders easing as we worked. For the first time since she walked in, she looked like she could breathe without remembering everything she was responsible for.
As the list came together, I felt good about it. I gave advice and let Kitty take the ownership of the decisions.
The bell over the door chimed, and the quiet rhythm we had settled into fractured instantly.
Marjorie stepped inside with a gust of cold air and enthusiasm. She stopped short when she saw Kitty and clapped her hands together.
“Oh good,” she said. “You’re here.”
Kitty stiffened beside me.
“We were just going over sound needs,” Kitty said, polite and hopeful, as if that might somehow redirect whatever was coming next.
Marjorie beamed. “Perfect. That actually ties in very nicely with the update I have for you.”
“What update?” Kitty wondered.
Marjorie adjusted the scarf around her neck and glanced between us. “Well, as you know, the Winter Carnival is fast approaching.”
Kitty nodded cautiously. “Yes.”
“And since you’re already organizing the talent show,” Marjorie continued, “it made the most sense for you to oversee the rest of the activities as well.”
“Excuse me?” I questioned.
“The rest?” Kitty echoed.
“Yes,” Marjorie said cheerfully. “Just to keep everything cohesive.”
I leaned back against the counter. “What does ‘the rest’ include?”
Marjorie ticked items off on her fingers. “The skating events, obviously. Vendor coordination for the marketplace. The snow sculpture contest. The hot cocoa crawl and the cookie exchange.”
Kitty’s hand tightened on the edge of the folder.
“What is the cookie exchange?” she said faintly.
“Yes,” Marjorie replied. “The one with the cards. Very clever, by the way.”
Kitty looked at me, eyes wide. “I have no idea what she is talking about.”
“It’s a town tradition,” I grimly replied.
“And everyone loves it,” Marjorie blithely told us. “Oh, and the cocoa crawl signage still needs to be finalized, but that should be simple.”
“That is not simple. That is an unreasonable amount of responsibility to put on one person,” I told Marjorie.
Marjorie frowned slightly, as if this perspective had not occurred to her. “Well, the previous organizer had to step away.”
“Step away, how?” Kitty faintly asked.
“She quit,” Marjorie said. “Abruptly. It’s very unfortunate.”
Kitty swallowed. “So… all of it is mine now.”
Marjorie smiled with relief. “Yes. You’re so capable, dear.”
I watched Kitty absorb the word capable. The compliment that doubled as a trap.
“That’s too much,” I said, more firmly now. “She’s already planning the talent show.”
Marjorie tilted her head. “We assumed the committee would help.”
“Who is the committee?” I wondered.
Marjorie hesitated. “Well, there’s Kitty, Mr. Humphrey, and me. Plus, Kitty’s sister Lydia.”
Kitty made a small noise that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t sounded so brittle. She took a deep breath. “I can manage. It’s okay.”
I turned toward her. “It isn’t okay.”
She gave me a look that was half warning, half gratitude. “Caleb.”
Marjorie clasped her hands. She turned to look at me expectantly. “Unless you would like to officially volunteer to help with the committee?”
The word committee landed heavily.
I felt the familiar tightening in my chest. Public responsibility, visibility, with expectations that didn’t end.
Kitty rushed to fill the silence. “He’s already helping me with sound. That’s more than enough.”
I looked at Kitty. She was trying to look composed, trying to make herself capable in the face of another obligation she hadn’t asked for. It wasn’t right to have her shoulder this alone.
“I can help,” I slowly volunteered.
“You don’t have to,” Kitty protested, probably recalling my earlier words about talent shows and my boundaries.
“I know,” I said. “I’m choosing to.”
Marjorie’s face lit up. “Wonderful.”
I held up a hand. “With limits.”
“Of course,” Marjorie said, already nodding.
“I’ll handle sound and staging,” I said. “I can also help with the scheduling of the talent show. I’m not running vendors or managing the cookie exchange.”
Marjorie considered this, then smiled. “That will be very helpful.”
Kitty looked torn between relief and guilt. “Caleb—”
“It’s fine,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
She searched my face, as if checking for resentment. Whatever she saw there made her shoulders loosen.
“Thank you,” she replied gratefully.
Marjorie clapped again. “This is coming together beautifully.”
I wasn’t sure I would use that word, but I let it go as Marjorie headed for the exit.
Kitty laughed softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to become all of this.”
“I know,” I said. “But it did. So we deal with what’s in front of us.”
Kitty nodded, pulling the folder back toward her. “I don’t know how I went from helping to… whatever this is.”
I watched her for a moment, then said, “It will be okay. We can figure this out.”
She looked at me, thoughtful. “Thank you.”
I picked up the notepad again and slid it closer to her. “All right. If you’re organizing a Winter Carnival, we’re going to need to triage.”
Kitty leaned in, focus sharpening. “What do we start with?”
As we bent over the list together, her worry eased into determination. I could see it in the way she wrote, the way she asked questions instead of apologizing for not knowing answers.
And somewhere between vendor lists and microphone counts, I realized that volunteering hadn’t trapped me.
It had given me an opportunity to get to know Kitty even better.