Chapter Seven An Old Friend
Lydia
By late afternoon, my binder had started to feel like it was judging me.
It sat open on the front desk, pages spread out like evidence. Safety requirements with parade rules and submission forms. Ephram’s calm, professional voice echoed in my head every time I tried to pretend I could solve this with enthusiasm alone.
Tomorrow at noon.
I reread the deadline until the words looked like they belonged to someone else.
The lobby was busy in the way it always was now.
Renovation sounds came in waves, punctuated by laughter, raised voices, and the occasional thud that made me stop breathing for half a second.
Every time I looked up, I half expected to see Collin standing right in front of me, smiling politely, ready to suggest that marriage could solve the loan problem.
He had not proposed to me yet.
He had proposed to Jane. He had moved on to Lucy. Once he realized Lucy wasn’t available he would move on to the next Bennet until one of my sisters said yes or he came to me. And he had, very clearly, noticed that I existed.
It was like watching a storm build from a distance. You didn’t know exactly when it would hit, but you could see the shape of it forming.
I picked up my phone, put it down, picked it up again.
I had already called the last rental place two towns over. They had refused, politely, as if they were turning down a request for a table reservation rather than a desperate need for transportation.
I had called two local businesses. One had said their insurance did not allow it. The other had said their truck was “in the shop,” which might have been true, but I suspected it was also code for “please stop talking.”
I had asked my sisters, which felt like admitting failure.
I hadn’t asked my parents, because they had already risked everything to buy this inn and I could not stand the idea of adding ‘Lydia needs a parade vehicle’ to their list of burdens.
My phone buzzed with a notification from the Snowdrop Inn account. Someone had commented on our latest post, which was a cheerful picture of our wreath on the front doors.
“Cute! Are you guys open yet??”
I stared at it.
Open yet. As if we were a bakery that had just not flipped the sign.
I typed a polite reply. Deleted it. Typed a new one. Deleted that too. I could not afford to be snippy, even when my nerves were thin.
I was still staring at the screen when Lucy appeared beside me like a protective shadow.
“You look like you are about to stage a one-woman rebellion,” she said.
“I am about to stage a one-woman parade float,” I replied. “Possibly by dragging it behind me in sheer spite.”
Lucy leaned on the desk and glanced at the binder. “How bad?”
“Tomorrow at noon is the submission deadline,” I said.
Lucy’s eyebrows lifted. She looked toward the sitting room where Collin was hovering near my mother again, posture angled just enough to look helpful while being deeply in the way.
He caught Lucy’s gaze and smiled. Lucy’s expression did not change, which was the closest she came to snarling in public.
“He is still not giving up,” Lucy said quietly.
I lowered my voice automatically. “On you?”
“On the concept,” she said. “He asked me if I thought Jane might reconsider. I told him Jane is not a mail order bride. He did not understand the metaphor.”
I almost laughed, but I didn’t have it in me. “He is going to come over here next.”
Lucy’s mouth tightened. “Yes. And I do not like the way he waits for people to get tired. He wears them down until they simply agree.”
That hit something in my chest. Not because it was dramatic, but because it was accurate.
Collin did not argue loudly. He did not stomp around demanding attention. He simply persisted. He made it feel easier to surrender than to hold the line.
My throat tightened and I forced myself to breathe.
“I need to leave,” Lucy said suddenly. “I can’t stay here and watch him hover. I will say something unforgivable, and Mother will make that face like I have embarrassed her in front of royalty.”
“Mother would embarrass herself in front of the royalty,” I muttered. I felt a little bad at the uncharitable thought but it was true.
Lucy’s eyes flicked to my phone. “Can you leave for an hour?”
“Probably,” I admitted.
“Good,” she said. “Then we might as well go. If the outcome is the same, at least we can have coffee.”
I hesitated, because leaving felt irresponsible when everything was on fire, but staying felt worse. Staying meant staring at the binder until I started believing my own worst thoughts.
Lydia Bennet couldn’t do one thing right. It was depressing.
“I should stay and brainstorm any ideas where I can conjure up a vehicle and trailer,” I murmured.
“You need a break. Sometimes I think better after I step away from a problem for a little while. Also you need coffee. And a plan that does not involve you carrying an entire float on your back." Lucy grabbed her coat, and tossed me mine.
I snorted. “Do you think the parade committee would allow that?”
“Only if you are wearing reflective tape,” Lucy said.
Despite myself, I smiled.
We left the desk to my mother, who protested vaguely but was clearly relieved to have something else to manage besides our facial expressions. Outside, the cold hit my cheeks and made my eyes water. It was bracing. It made everything feel sharper, more real.
We had barely gotten into the car when I stopped and pulled out my phone again.
Lucy glanced at it. “What now?”
“In desperation,” I said, “I am going to ask the internet.”
Lucy’s eyebrows rose. “That is either brilliant or catastrophic.”
“Yes,” I said. “Exactly.”
I opened the Snowdrop Inn social account, switched to selfie mode and aimed my camera at my face.
My hair had been in a bun for hours. A few strands had escaped. My cheeks were pink from the cold. I looked like a woman who had made too many lists and solved none of them.
Perfect.
I recorded a short story as Lucy drove into Maple Ridge.
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound upbeat. “Maple Ridge friends. I need a favor. The Snowdrop Inn is trying to put a float in the Christmas parade. I need a vehicle for tomorrow. A truck, a pickup, anything that can safely carry a display. If you have ideas, message me. Please be kind, I am one minor inconvenience away from becoming a seasonal villain.”
Lucy covered her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking.
“Post it,” she said.
I posted it.
The first replies came in under a minute.
“My cousin has a truck in Ohio!!!”
“Just rent a U-Haul.”
“Borrow the mayor’s truck. He owes you.”
“Walk and strap a Christmas tree to your back. It is called marketing.”
“Drop out. Protect your peace.”
“What is up with your hair?”
I stared at that last one.
Lucy leaned in, reading over my shoulder. Lucy tapped the screen. “Reply: It is under stress, like the rest of us.”
I stared at her. “No.”
Lucy grinned. “Yes.”
I put the phone away before I made choices I would regret.
We parked downtown, with coffee and temporary escape ahead of us, and the float problem following close behind like a shadow I could not shake.
Even with Lucy beside me, even with the ridiculous comments already piling up, the deadline sat in my mind like a weight.
Tomorrow at noon.
I was going to have to find a way to make this work.
The café windows glowed warm against the early dark, light spilling onto the sidewalk in a way that made everything outside feel briefly survivable. Lucy slowed as we approached, her steps stuttering just enough that I noticed.
“Oh,” she said.
I followed her gaze.
A woman stood behind the counter, wiping it down with efficient, practiced motions. Her hair was pulled back, her sleeves rolled up, and she moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly where everything belonged. She looked up, startled, then smiled and waved.
Lucy opened the door entering the warmth of the cafe as I followed.
“Lucy?” the woman said.
Lucy’s face lit up. “Charlotte.”
They met halfway between the counter and the door and hugged, the kind of hug that came from shared history without lingering resentment. I stood there, suddenly very aware of how tired I felt, until Lucy pulled back and turned to me.
“This is my sister Lydia,” she said. “Lydia, this is Charlotte Lucas. One of my favorite people.”
Charlotte smiled warmly. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I said, meaning it.
We ordered coffee and slid into a small table by the window.
Lucy and Charlotte fell easily into conversation, the years between them folding in on themselves as they caught up.
Charlotte talked about buying the café, about leaving behind the city job that paid well but hollowed her out.
Lucy listened with the kind of pride usually reserved for siblings.
I watched Charlotte as she spoke. She didn’t sound reckless. She sounded deliberate. Calm. Like someone who had chosen risk with her eyes open.
At some point, Charlotte’s gaze shifted to me. “You look like someone who has had a very long day.”
I laughed weakly. “I think I have had a very long week.”
Lucy tilted her head. “Tell her.”
I hesitated, then gestured vaguely. “Parade float. No vehicle. Deadline tomorrow.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows lifted, but she did not look alarmed. “That does sound… exciting.”
“That is one word for it,” I said with a grimace.
“I do not have a truck,” she said before I could even wonder. “But I do have sympathy.”
“I will take it,” I said.
We lingered longer than we should have, the warmth of the café and the normalcy of it all easing something tight in my chest. Eventually, reality nudged us back out the door.
The drive back to the inn felt colder, the lights harsher, and the deadline heavier. I checked my phone again out of habit. More messages. More suggestions. A few earnest offers that were, unfortunately, located several states away.
When the inn came back into view, my stomach dipped.
Lucy noticed. “If he looks at you funny, I am biting him.”
“That will escalate things,” I said.
“Only briefly,” she replied.
Inside, the lobby was full. Voices overlapped. Someone laughed loudly. And right near the center of it all stood Collin, posture alert, eyes already scanning.
Dex appeared near the staircase, coat half on, clearly on his way out. Lucy spotted him and, without hesitation, crossed the room.
She grabbed him by the front of his coat and kissed him.
It was not subtle.
It was not brief.
It was very clearly meant to be witnessed.
I froze mid-step.
Dex made a startled noise before recovering quickly, one hand coming up to her waist out of reflex more than intention. Lucy pulled back just enough to grin at him.
“Hi,” she said.
Dex blinked. “Hi.”
Lucy turned her head just enough for me to see Collin watching them, his expression shifting through several emotions in rapid succession. Surprise. Calculation. Reassessment.
Then his gaze slid to me.
Speculative.
I did not think, I reacted.
I turned and fled up the stairs, my heart pounding as if I had actually committed a crime instead of a strategic retreat. I didn’t stop until I reached the landing, pressing a hand to my chest and breathing hard.
I waited a full minute before peeking back down.
Collin was still downstairs. Lucy was talking animatedly to Dex, who looked amused and faintly bewildered. Collin’s attention flicked between them and then, once more, toward the staircase.
I ducked back out of sight.
A soft knock sounded nearby.
“Lydia?”
I turned to see Dad standing a few feet away, concern written across his face.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “I just needed a moment.”
He nodded, accepting that without question. “Lucy told me you are having trouble with the float.”
I laughed, a little hysterically. “That is one way to put it.”
He hesitated, then motioned toward the back of the inn. “Come with me.”
Curiosity outweighed exhaustion. I followed him down the back stairs, through a side door and into the garage, the air colder and smelling faintly of oil and dust. He flicked on a light.
In the corner, under a tarp, sat a truck.
A very old one.
William pulled the tarp back with a flourish. “This belonged to my father. It hasn’t run in a few years. But if I can get it started…”
My breath caught.
It was beautiful in a stubborn, boxy way. Faded paint. Solid lines. A truck that looked like it had stories.
“If I can get it running,” William continued, “you are welcome to use it. There’s no trailer, but the bed should hold a display.”
Relief surged through me so fast it made my knees weak.
“Yes,” I said immediately. “Absolutely yes. Thank you!”
He smiled. “It will need a new battery. Fluids checked. Tires looked at. Don’t get your hopes up until we hear the motor start.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “I will help. I will hold tools. I will provide moral support.”
He chuckled. “There is one thing.”
I paused. “What?”
“It’s a manual,” he solemnly said. “Stick shift.”
The word landed between us.
I stared at the truck.
“I don’t know how to drive a stick,” I said slowly.
Dad tilted his head. “You can learn.”
I laughed, the sound half hysteria, half exhilaration.
Tomorrow at noon.
A truck.
A float.
And now, apparently, a driving lesson.
I rested my hand against the cold metal of the door and smiled despite myself.
“Of course I can,” I said.
And for the first time all day, the problem felt hard but solvable.