Love and Pumpkins (Festival of Hearts #1)

1. Chapter One

Chapter One

I love graphics, art, and chaos. That’s why setting up my vendor booth is time-consuming. I have three tables, tablecloths, and twenty-seven assorted soaps to display. Each soap has a name card including the price and the composition of ingredients listed on the back.

Then there are a variety of display methods, including vintage purses, seventies cartoon character lunch boxes, and ceramic flowerpots in vibrant colors. An eclectic mix full of visual appeal.

The record high heat for late September makes my T-shirt stick to my back as I pull the last container out of my vehicle.

I set the box on top of the stack and cringe as it sways slightly, a tad unbalanced.

Shortly, I’ll move my car to the designated vendor parking area, so it’s out of the way, and then I can set up my booth.

By the looks of it, I’m an early bird, which is not surprising as I try to arrive early to everything. I observe only four other vendors dropping off their stuff .

This is a three-day festival and vendor fair, probably the biggest fair of the year. The event organizers expect over forty vendors this weekend. I didn’t review the full list, so I’m not sure if I’m the only soap vendor or not. I hope I am, as I really, really need this to be a profitable weekend.

My fledgling boutique is on shaky ground.

I opened a multi-vendor boutique in downtown Lichtenberg, Illinois in a building that once belonged to my grandparents.

They’d run a craft supply store for years, yet in the late nineties, it failed to thrive in the online retail race.

They sold it fifteen years ago, and it’s seen its share of short-lived businesses ever since.

I bought the building three years ago, when the last store closed.

Originally, I bought it primarily to have a place to live, thinking I’d lease out the storefront. Besides the ground-floor retail space, single apartments make up the second and third floors. I live on the second floor, and my sister, Chloe, lives on the third.

She pays rent, not as much as I could charge someone who’s not related to me, but that’s okay; it’s great having her close by.

I slide into my baby-blue station wagon to move it out of the way of the other vendors, who’ll need to set up before the enthusiastic crowds descend on the annual festival. This is my second year taking part as a vendor at the local pumpkin festival; it won’t be my last.

Besides the sales aspect, this event is exceptional for catching up with old friends and newer acquaintances. The festival draws people from fifty miles away, maybe more .

It’s an even bigger draw than homecoming to bring former residents back to town. They come for the hayrack rides, the pumpkin pie-eating contest, the jack-o’-lantern displays, and the camaraderie.

A fresh face usually shows up each year.

Since graduation, I’ve run into everyone from my high school class of sixty-seven graduates, except for Hunter Young.

I’ve heard he comes back to visit his family once in a while, but he’s never come for a homecoming, sporting event, festival, or anything that I’ve seen. It’s odd.

He must dislike the small-town pace.

I’m content here. Lichtenberg is home. Sure, I did a brief stint in St. Louis after college, and I’ve had occasional fantasies of relocating, but most of my family is here, and I’d miss them if I left.

As I step out of my car, I hear, “Hey, Phoebe!” and I glance around.

Ah, friendly Mr. Curtis, the mayor.

“Good morning, Mayor!” I reply, turning towards the sound of his familiar voice.

He emerges from beside his pickup truck. “Not surprised to see you out here this early,” he says, walking towards me. He’s pulling a collapsible wagon filled with cases of water. If they looked cold, I’d ask for one.

“The early bird gets her booth set up before the early shoppers.”

Nodding, he says, “Smart kid.”

He was my high school driver’s education teacher, and he’s always called me kid, so I don’t take offense.

“I just hope my soaps don’t melt in this heat!” Commercial bar soaps have hardening agents, which keep them from melting, but my homemade soaps do not.

He adjusts his ball cap, which sports the Lichtenberg Lightning softball team logo. Mr. Curtis is the team captain, and rumor has it he is always recruiting new members. I try to stay out of his field of vision during the summer for that reason.

He shakes his head and looks up. “That might be a problem. This is the hottest the festival has ever been in my lifetime.”

Pointing towards the fairgrounds, he walks, and I fall in step. “That’s what my grandma said!”

“Are you calling me old?” he asks.

“Not at all. Just adding credibility to your statement.”

He harrumphs, and I giggle.

“Well, if you have trouble with the heat, call Louise. We built a few cooling kits with plastic coolers, block ice, and fans. I thought they would come in handy today.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you!”

“Welcome. And if you’d like to return the favor, I need a right fielder for the game tonight.”

Oh, no! Caught!

“Um, Mr. Curtis, remember that time in high school PE when the softball hit me on the leg and left a bruise the size of a small squash?”

“Right, but you were playing shortstop then. I won’t make that mistake today. The game’s at seven. Bring your mitt. ”

“Yes, sir.” I give him a playful salute. I’m not a skilled player, but I don’t want to let the mayor nor the team down.

We part at the edge of the vendor area. He’s manning the ticket booth this morning. I’m sure if I hadn’t agreed to play, he would have found some unsuspecting festival-goer to stand in before noon.

How did I let myself get roped into softball?

Maybe being the early bird pays off in unwanted extracurricular activities.

Definitely something to remember for next year.

Maybe I’ll purchase a flatbed trailer, preload it with all my wares, and pull up into my spot ten minutes before shoppers arrive. That would be a clever solution!

Not that I can afford a big-ticket purchase anytime soon.

The furnace in our building broke, and if I don’t get it fixed before winter, I won’t be able to keep my store open.

Let alone the challenge Chloe and I will have living there with a broken furnace.

A wave of dread makes my skin shiver even in this heatwave.

Back at my booth space, I set up the three eight-foot tables and move them into a u-shape.

Covering the tables with the tablecloths reminds me to text Chloe to bring me the store-branded banners that drape over the tables.

I had asked her to iron them and forgot to get them from her when I loaded my car last night.

Chloe had asked me about the furnace, and it had put me in a funk. I forgot all about the banners.

Sighing, I decide to run home and get them myself. Besides, I could use a quick shower to cool off .

The risk falls not only to Chloe and me. Seven independent artisans have mini booths set up in my boutique, and the store is a critical income source for two of the seven.

If I think about it too much, I might have a full-blown panic attack. I push thoughts of the furnace aside and ruminate on the fact that I couldn’t come up with an excuse fast enough to get out of playing softball tonight.

Sorry, Coach-Mayor, I have a hot date tonight. We’ve rescheduled three times already; I can’t miss it!

He would have seen right through that excuse. It’s no secret that I haven’t dated in two years, not since my last broken engagement.

That’s right, the last one. One of two broken engagements.

Not only am I no good at saying no when the coach asks me to play softball, I haven’t been good at saying no when surprised by a sparkling diamond ring either.

Even though I knew in my heart in both instances it was way too soon, that I wasn’t ready for a lifetime commitment, I had said yes.

Like a pushover. It’s difficult to say no; that’s why I belong to three community organizations and volunteer for every good cause anytime I’m asked.

It wasn’t until I told my mom about each engagement that I knew it was wrong to accept their proposals.

She had looked at me with her large brown eyes and said, “Really, Phoebe?” and I broke down and cried. She’d hugged me tightly and told me that if that was my reaction, it wasn’t right, and I had to break off the engagement.

At least I know that my mom’s the ultimate sounding board for important life decisions.

If I can tell her important news—such as an engagement, or the decision to purchase an eighty-year-old building that needed “some” work in order to open a retail boutique after the previous nine businesses had gone kaput in under a year—and I don’t cry, then it’s probably a decent decision.

And I’ve been good with those decisions (the building purchase and starting a business, not the engagements), until now.

When I received the furnace repair estimate with the nearly five-figure price tag, I almost cried on Mr. Turner’s shoulder.

Though we’re living through a heat wave right now, the weather could turn cold within weeks.

The fate of my retail shop and my living arrangements rides heavily on a successful market this weekend. I’m really hoping the extreme heat doesn’t keep the shoppers away. Holding my head up in this town if my store closes before hitting its second anniversary will be next to impossible.

This weekend needs to be profitable, with no surprises.