13. Wendi
13
Wendi
Wednesday
The scent of lemon polish filled the air as Wendi adjusted the framed pastel for the fifth time, stepping back to squint at it.
Crooked. Again.
She exhaled, nudged it a fraction to the left, and stepped back.
Better.
She glanced at the wall clock. Two hours from now, she’d know if The Painted Shell had a future.
As she moved to a collection of hand-carved wooden figurines donated by a local artist, her phone buzzed. Another message from Laurel. The third today.
Laurel : Have you decided yet?
The old Wendi wouldn’t have hesitated—she’d have already texted her back with a “yes” and started packing. Instead, she stuffed the phone back into her pocket. New York could wait.
Max pawed at one of the displays, dangerously close to a ceramic vase.
“Max, bed.” She tapped her leg.
He hit her with the look—the one that usually got him out of trouble—then made a break for the watercolor palettes.
Too late. He crashed into the table, and the palettes clattered to the floor.
“Max!” She dropped to her knees, gathering them up. “Unbelievable.”
The dog licked her cheek, clearly thinking he’d been helpful. As she returned the last palette, her stomach twisted.
What if no one comes? What am I even doing?
The bell above the door chimed. Miles stepped inside. “Fear not. The cavalry is here!”
Wendi smiled at his dad joke. “Okay, General Custer. You’re early.”
“Ouch. That didn’t end well for him.”
She smirked. “Fine. Julius Caesar?”
“Eh, that might be worse.”
“General Washington?”
“That’s definitely better.” He nodded, glancing around the transformed space. “This looks great.”
“It’s getting there.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I was about to move those tables.”
Miles waved her off, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ve got it.” He hoisted the first table effortlessly and carried it where she pointed.
Side by side, they arranged chairs in rows facing the podium she’d borrowed from the library. Their hands brushed as they reached for the same chair. That spark again—that thing that happened every time they touched.
Not now. Focus, Wendi.
The bell chimed again. Arthur shuffled in, clutching a canvas covered with a sheet. “Hope I’m not interrupting.” Arthur’s eyes twinkled. “Brought something special.”
Wendi stepped away from Miles, feeling heat in her cheeks. “Perfect timing. Here, let me—”
“Ah-ah,” Arthur said, hugging the canvas close. “This stays under wraps till auction time. A surprise, you understand.”
“Of course.” Wendi nodded. “We’ll save it for last.” She struck a pose, hand over heart, and mouthed a lyric from “Save the Best for Last.”
Arthur’s bushy eyebrows knotted. “What are you doing?”
“Vanessa Williams? ‘Save the Best for Last?’ 1992?” His blank stare didn’t budge. She gasped and clutched her chest, staggering back. “Tragic. Absolutely tragic.”
Arthur shook his head. “Kids today and their music. Now, Patti Page—that was a voice. ‘The Tennessee Waltz’ could break your heart.”
Miles chuckled, and something in Wendi’s chest loosened at the sound.
Just as Arthur set his covered painting on the easel, the lights flickered. Once, twice, then again.
“Of all nights.” Wendi pressed her fingers to her temple. “You’ve got to be kidding me right now.”
“Where’s your fuse box?” Miles asked.
“Storage.” She gestured toward it. “But I wouldn’t know what I’m looking at.”
“Let me check.” Miles headed to the back, and Max trotted after him.
“Nope. Not this time.” Wendi caught his collar. “Let Miles work.”
The dog whined, straining toward the back-room doorway Miles had disappeared through.
Arthur chuckled, easing himself into a chair. “Guess someone’s got a new favorite.”
Wendi looked downward. “Et tu, Max? Thought Arthur was your favorite?”
“Ah, I’m not worried. Little guy still loves me, I’m sure.”
As Arthur reached down and patted Max, she paced the length of the shop, checking her phone.
Still no new RSVPs.
The names on her RSVP list weren’t exactly promising: Marjorie from the Chamber of Commerce. A couple of council members who’d said they’d “try to stop by.” Mrs. Finch, whose “confirmation” was a rambling text about her granddaughter maybe coming.
Wendi sighed, scrolling through the sparse responses again. RSVPs were one thing; showing up was another thing entirely. She’d learned that lesson the hard way after the holiday craft fair, when half the vendors who’d confirmed never showed, leaving her with an embarrassingly empty shop and too much mulled cider.
The lights flickered again. Her pulse spiked. If the power went out mid-auction ... game over.
Might as well text Laurel now.
At last, Miles emerged from the back.
“Well?” She winced at her own tone.
“We’re good for tonight, but you’ll need an electrician to stop by first thing tomorrow.” He wiped his hands on a rag. “The wiring’s BC-era old.”
“Fantastic. Just what I needed.” She exhaled, then softened. “Really. Thanks, Miles.”
“You know I’ve got you. Everything else all set?”
They did a final walkthrough, adjusting displays and double-checking the bid sheets. Arthur’s mystery painting stood front and center, sure to draw attention.
“I think we’re good.” Wendi glared at Max, who had tangled himself in ribbon.
Almost good.
“Come on, troublemaker.” She scooped up Max’s things, shaking her head. He followed her to her office, tail between his legs.
“You know why you can’t be out there tonight, right?” She lined up his food, water, and a mangled blue chew toy. “Let’s review your rap sheet, shall we? Mrs. Peterson’s stolen biscuit. Councilman Baker’s coffee—RIP, his new suit.” Max tilted his head. “And the craft fair? A full-blown hostage situation—three people tangled in yarn, Max. Three!”
He wagged his tail.
“And we agreed never to speak of the police chief’s toupee incident.” She scratched behind his ears. “This is too important for Max-imum chaos, okay?”
Wendi stared at her small dog, marveling at how a thirteen-pound Yorkipoo could create such disproportionate havoc. It was almost magical, his uncanny ability to steal the spotlight—even if for the wrong reasons. She bent down and kissed the top of his head. “I’ll be back soon. Be a good boy.”
As she closed the door, his whine rose behind her—relentless, guilt-inducing.
The show must go on.
Back in the main area, Wendi glanced at her phone. A new text.
Emma: Sorry girl! Stuck at a train. Save me a seat. Be there soon!
Wonderful.
Fifteen minutes until start time. Her mouth went dry.
“They’ll show,” Miles said.
Arthur nodded. “Patience, young lady.”
The bell chimed, and Wendi’s heart jumped—only to plummet when she saw it was just Marcy and Jim from the Gazette, notepads ready.
“Evening, Wendi.” Marcy peeked around. “Are we early?”
“Nope, you’re right on time.” Wendi managed a smile. “Make yourselves at home.”
As the reporters wandered, Wendi checked her phone again. Another text from Laurel.
Laurel: At least think about it, Wen. You’re wasting your talent down there.
The clock dragged forward. Five minutes. Then ten.
Seriously?
She scanned the empty chairs, then the carefully curated artwork. So much work. So much hope. And still, just the five of them.
Marcy and Jim shared a look. Wendi could practically see tomorrow’s headlines: LOCAL ART SHOP’S LAST GASP FALLS FLAT or SAVE THE SHELL FUNDRAISER: NO-SHOW DISASTER.
Where’s everyone at?
“Wendi?” Marcy’s voice sounded far away. “Should we wait a little longer?”
The walls pressed in.
A familiar prickle crawled up her arms.
Her breaths grew erratic, shallow, fast.
Paintings blurred, edges smearing together.
She clung to the edge of the table.
Not now. Not tonight. Please.
Laurel’s text flashed in her mind: You’re wasting your talent down there.
Footsteps approached. The scent of bay rum and cedar. “Wendi?”