2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
N ot only was I fully set up an hour before the festival began, I had time to dash home to shower and toss the sweat-drenched denim shorts and heavy T-shirt in the hamper.
I changed into a pair of lightweight cotton shorts and a baby blue tank top.
I may look more ready for the gym than a vendor fair, but at least I no longer have the giant wet spot on my back.
Mrs. Johnson kindly kept an eye on my booth while I was gone.
Her booth is directly across from mine, and she’s selling her famous apple, pecan, and pumpkin pies—all with a heavy dash of cinnamon to tickle one’s taste buds.
Those are three separate kinds of pie, not all in one.
Though an apple-pecan-and-pumpkin pie might be delicious.
While I was gone, which was only thirty-three minutes (I timed myself), the booth owner on the left side of me arrived and set up their tables, but there’s no sign of product or vendor around .
Curious, I stroll over to Mrs. Johnson to see who my neighbor will be for the event.
“Oh, that was some young man I didn’t recognize,” she said, waving her hand, holding a small placard displaying her prices. Ten dollars a pie—a bargain! I’ll have to purchase a pumpkin pie before they sell out.
“Hmm. Well, do you think the heat will keep people away?” I ask. Mrs. Johnson has been a vendor here since I was a little kid; I consider her a reliable source.
“Maybe a few, those who can’t tolerate the heat. But it will be busy, don’t you worry.”
She looks at me as if she knows the number on that repair proposal. Has Mr. Turner, the HVAC repairman, spread the word?
“I hope so. Going to see if I can get an apple cider shake-up. Want one?” I ask.
“No, dear. I have a thermos of coffee back here. I’m set.”
Coffee? In this heat? Yikes!
I stroll down the lane towards the food vendors, saying hello to everyone I recognize. Okay, that’s almost everyone. It’s a small town, after all.
The food vendors are abuzz, and the scents of pumpkins, coffee, and cinnamon fill the air. My stomach growls pathetically. I should have eaten a protein bar for breakfast.
I grab a four-pack of apple cider donuts and a shakeup from Ms. Ferrell. She owns the Lil’ Pumpkin Café, which sits across the street from my boutique—I’m a frequent patron.
She also pops into my boutique regularly. I’m diligent in rotating the store products so that customers keep coming back to view new inventory. If I let the store get stale, foot traffic drops and sales shrivel up like a pumpkin left on the porch well past Thanksgiving.
I smile to see the crowd forming at the entrance gate, as I hurry back to my booth.
Five feet from my booth, I stop mid-stride and accidentally squeeze the plastic cup in my hand so tightly that the lid pops off, and sticky apple cider goodness sloshes over my hand.
“Gross!” I shriek. I’m not even sure if this is regarding the drink mess or the “young man” standing in the booth next to mine.
It’s not just any man. It’s Hunter Young: my on-again, off-again nemesis since the seventh-grade science fair when his display on “Evapotranspiration” beat out my dissection of a starfish for first place. Who cares about crop sweat?
Then there was the time during our junior year when he won first place in our regional speech team debate competition.
Did I mention he received the local bank’s five-thousand-dollar scholarship? I took second prize and got a five-hundred-dollar scholarship. It helped, but not as much as the grand prize scholarship would have.
Through the years, I’ve heard stories about his return visits home, but I haven’t seen him since our high school graduation.
Although it’s been thirteen years, I recognize him instantly.
It’s not his features, exactly; yes, his hair is still the same light brown, cut short, and his build is the same (maybe he’s gained a couple pounds since graduation—haven’t we all?).
It’s more in his movements, the quick tilt of his head as someone calls out a hello.
The hand raised quickly in a slight wave.
There’s an ease in his demeanor. He’s comfortable in his own skin. Not arrogant. Not cocky. Comfortable.
I dart into my booth, counting on the tent’s shade to shield me from being recognized. Hurrying to the back of the booth, I put my drink and donuts down. I grab a hand wipe to clean my hand and the side of my calf where the sticky liquid dripped.
Why is Hunter next door? Is he an early shopper? Is he helping someone out? He doesn’t live here. Last I knew, he was a number cruncher in Chicago, lost in the daily life of the city grind. Why would he be a vendor at the pumpkin festival?
I don’t understand. One Hunter plus this festival is not adding up. Typical. Numbers are not my thing. Sure, I graduated with a business degree, but accounting was my least favorite subject. Yes, I can balance my books with a little effort. Addition, I can handle. Complex equations? No, thanks.
I don’t recognize the person he’s talking to. I casually glance around his booth. Oh, no! Bars of soap! I see a table of bottled products; that’s helpful; it’s not all soap. Why in the roasted pumpkin seed is Hunter Young selling soap right next to my booth?
I send my sister a quick text.
Phoebe : Help. Freaking out. Need your sanity! Call me, please.
Hope she can call me soon. She’s always a buffer between me and a meltdown. Yes, I’m the older sister, but she’s the only one who can calm me down when I freak out.
It’s after nine o’clock, and I hear laughter and voices; the crowd is descending upon the vendor booths en masse.
Hopefully, the day is going to be a madhouse, and there will be no time or need to engage with Hunter.
“Phoebe!” It’s his voice. That deep timbre is unmistakable.
It wasn’t deep and smooth back in second grade when we were reading aloud in Mrs. Bell’s class.
His voice changed around sophomore year.
One day he was the scrawny kid down the block, and the next day, all the girls took notice of this attractive male specimen.
I have no desire to talk to him, but I can hear him clearly, and pretending otherwise would be rude.
Turning, I put on what I hope is a surprised look. “Hunter?” I ask. “Is that really Hunter Young? Returned to Lichtenburg for the great pumpkin fest?”
“It’s me.” He walks into my booth, hand extended, and the anxiety I felt earlier slips away.
It’s Hunter. I’ve known this man since kindergarten.
We’ve known each other with skinned knees, braces, and driving permits.
So what if his dark green eyes make me feel overexposed, like a photo with washed-out images?
If I can forget the occasions of competitiveness between us, vying for top of the class or first place in science fairs, speech team debates, or a thousand other races, I can focus on the early years when we were best friends.
“It’s been forever since I last saw you.” It was high school graduation. “What brings you back?” I think I sound sophisticated and nonchalant. I feel childish and prattling .
“Helping my sister, Joy, out,” he says.
He is close enough now; he shakes my hand. I have a sudden urge to hold on, but I let go like a normal person.
“She committed to being a vendor this weekend,” he continues, “but she wanted to attend her friend’s last-minute wedding in Vegas. She asked me to cover.”
“Ah, that must be Megan White’s wedding. I heard she was eloping.”
“That’s the one. You look great, Phoebe! It’s been a while.”
It’s been over a decade; I guess that counts for a while.
“You missed the ten-year reunion. Planning to come to the fifteenth?”
I notice a particular glint in his eyes. Unbelievably, it looks like guilt. Is he upset about missing the reunion?
“I hope to be there.” He smiles, and I don’t like the fluttering sensation that zips up my spine. “How have you been?” he asks. “What are you doing now?”
Before I can answer, a powerful gust of hot wind causes his canopy tent to shake and tilt. At the same moment, we turn to look.
“Oh, no!” I shriek as I hurl myself to grab the closest pole.
Hunter is two steps ahead of me and grabs the tent frame at the top. Fortunately, we saved the tent from tipping over.
“Wow. That was close!” Hunter says, glancing around.
“Please…” I draw out the word. “Tell me you have weights to hold this thing down.”
“Weights?” he asks, and I try not to gloat at the chagrin on his face .
“It was in the rules. You need weights to anchor these tents, or they’ll blow over.”
“I didn’t read the rules. Know where I can get some weights?”
Mr. Curtis approaches. “Hey, you need some weights.”
I look at Hunter and raise my eyebrows.
“I’ve been informed,” Hunter says to Mr. Curtis. “Any suggestions? My sister didn’t tell me I needed them.”
Mr. Curtis laughs. “She must have forgotten about it in all the hustle and bustle. I’ve got some concrete blocks that you can use. I’ll be right back.”
Mr. Curtis hurries off. During their brief discussion, my eyes skimmed over the booth Hunter is managing for his sister. I smile to see her soap prices are a dollar more than mine. Hopefully, her high prices will boost my sales.
Three ladies approach my booth, and I mumble a quick “Gotta go!” to Hunter. I’ve seen the ladies around, but I don’t know them personally. As I answer their questions and share ‘free smells’, I watch Hunter out of the corner of my eye.
My brain is spinning with the incredulity that he’s here and in the booth next to mine.
I hope the weekend is going to be busy, because I don’t want to have lengthy catch-up conversations with him.
He’s probably dating a gorgeous, smart city girl.
She’ll probably show up at some point and hang on his arm like she worships him.
Every time I glance in his direction, my heart jolts, as if I jammed my finger in an electrical socket.
In high school, most of the girls worshipped him. He was witty, smart, and outgoing .
I didn’t worship him. I’d seen through Hunter Young’s charming personality years before. He could be cold and calculating, looking for an edge. A win-at-all-costs kind of guy.
Not. My. Type.
After two broken engagements, maybe I hadn’t found my type yet.
But it would definitely not be Hunter Young.