Chapter Thirty-Three
The air buzzed—word of the gala’s cancellation travelled down Main Street in minutes. People moved with new ease, looser somehow, like a cord had been cut. Mr. Henderson strung the last lights at the end of the street, and I could see puffs of smoke from the food trucks as they began to prepare.
Even the cobblestones seemed to hum, the shopfronts and booths alive with their own pulse.
A cluster of familiar faces waited at the curb, none of them looking thrilled.
Joe, arms crossed, lips pressed in a thin line.
Dot with her sunhat drooping so low it looked like it was scowling for her.
Florence held her crossed arms tight to her chest, her chin tucked down like she might fold into herself if no one said anything.
Behind them, a couple others—Mrs. Grady from the music store, and even Hank from the corner pet shop.
I didn’t need to think. I crossed the street and planted myself in front of them, hands on my hips.
“You’re coming with me.”
Joe blinked. “Where?”
“Here. The festival.” I motioned to the carnival games going up at the end of Harbor Street, to the filled-to-the-brim booths lining the road beside us. “This whole thing is for Bluebell Cove, and you’re part of that. The gala is cancelled—so what? You still have a place here.”
Dot scoffed, peering down her nose at me. “We don’t have booths, Georgie. I’m not about to squat on a curb and peddle blankets like some… flea market.”
“Not booths,” I replied, a burst of excitement flipping my stomach. “Stores.”
Florence’s head jerked up. “Stores?”
“Yes. Your stores. People are going to be here all night, and half of them will wander around looking for someplace quieter or someplace warmer.”
Joe frowned. “How will they know we’re open?”
That’s when I spotted Kenzie and Wyatt across the street, sprawled out on a folding table with a set of paints and poster boards meant for the balloon darts stall. A wide smile spread across my face. “Kenzie! Wyatt!”
They jogged across, paint already smeared on Wyatt’s cheek and some splattered on Kenzie’s hands.
“Any chance you two are available to help out?” I asked.
Wyatt grinned. “Always.”
“Okay.” I clapped my hands together. “We need signs to let everyone know their shops are open for business. Use arrows, make it colorful. Tape them up on lampposts or their windows, string them on rope, whatever you can think of.”
Kenzie’s eyes lit up. “Anything we can think of?”
“Yes.” I laughed, hesitating for a moment to wonder if I should be worried. “Within reason. Make it impossible for people not to find them,” I added.
Dot sniffed, unimpressed. “Hand-painted posters?”
Turning to her, I raised a single eyebrow the way Margot did so often. “You’re welcome to enjoy the festival with the rest of the visitors, Dot.”
She shrugged, muttering something about readying the Button Jar before storming back down Main Street. Florence, looking as if she might cry, clutched her purse and whispered, “Thank you, Georgie,” before rushing to follow Dot.
I received a handshake from Hank and a watery hug from Mrs. Grady. Joe watched me, chin in his hands as I directed Wyatt and Kenzie some more and wheeled back to him.
“What?” I said, tucking a curl behind my ear and checking to see if the dress was alright.
Joe shook his head and unbuttoned the jacket to his tux. “You’re extraordinary, Miss Wheeler. Look at who you’ve become.” Taking his glasses off, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his eyes. “Marigold would be proud,” he finished, reaching for my hand and squeezing it.
I had a feeling that the smile on my face would be hard to wipe off for a while.
By dusk, Main Street had transformed.
Light strings flickered to life overhead, weaving golden nets between the buildings.
The air shimmered with the smell of grilled corn, cinnamon sugar, and woodsmoke drifting from the fire pits Rhett and Frank had set up on the beach.
Kids shrieked with laughter as they careened down Harbor Street between the balloon darts and beanbag games, their pockets stuffed with saltwater taffy.
Emma, dressed in a pink, floral sundress, was more than happy with her assignment at the ring toss stall. She even brought Shelby to keep her company.
And the signs… it was safe to say the signs worked.
I saw Dot and Florence’s shop door propped open, people streaming in and out with little paper bags clutched in their hands.
Joe’s bookstore had a line down the block, the promise of a handpicked literature sale too tempting to pass by.
When I peeked through his window, he turned to me, pressed his palm to his heart and mouthed, “Thank you.”
“This is chaos,” Janice muttered as she appeared at my elbow, dressed in a pale yellow sundress.
“The best kind,” I replied, smiling so wide my cheeks hurt.
Just then, a ripple went through the crowd. Onlookers turned, whispers moving faster than light.
“The Governor,” someone murmured behind us.
And there he was, striding down the middle of Main Street, flanked by two aides who looked far too serious to be carrying corndogs.
He stopped every few feet, shaking hands, taking pictures, laughing in that practiced-but-effective politician way.
At his side, wrapped around his arm like she belonged there, was none other than Claire.
When they turned to us, I could’ve sworn I was momentarily blinded by the collective whiteness of their teeth.
I didn’t know which was more shocking: the Governor at a Bluebell Cove festival, or Claire somehow managing to rise from the ashes in the span of a day.
Janice and I watched in disbelief as they moved from booth to booth, purchasing something here and there, the jacket of his tux slung over his shoulder.
I glanced at her, and as if reading my mind, she said, “The first time that’s ever happened.”
That was it. Bluebell Cove would officially be on the map, and not just as a seasonal tourist destination. Maybe next year, we wouldn’t even need the Summer’s End Festival to survive until the next one. Something told me, though, we’d still be putting it on no matter what.
As the Governor drew the crowd, my eyes drifted toward the far end of the street. Behind the row of booths, sandwiched between the glow of The Button Jar and Gulliver’s Books.
Marigold’s.
Light spilled through the windows—how had I missed it?
My feet moved before my mind caught up. I hadn’t touched the breaker box since the day I closed everything down. And yet… was I seeing things? A line of people streamed from my stoop and down the sidewalk. Curious eyes from the queue stuck to me as I passed them. I wanted to ask what was going on—
No sign hung above the door. Not Marigold’s. Not anything. Just the glow spilling through the papered front windows.
My breath caught.
Janice called after me, but I barely heard her. I slipped through the rest of the line, murmuring apologies, and pushed the door open.
The bell chimed.
And the world stopped.
I stepped into a dream.
Gone were the piles of trash, empty buckets, and floral coolers that had no place to go.
In their place stood wooden shelves and tables, sturdy and simple, every surface filled with pottery.
My pottery. Bowls in ocean blues, mugs glazed in honey gold, vases speckled like sand.
Each piece set carefully, somehow more perfect than I could’ve imagined.
I lifted a hand to my mouth, knees growing weak.
“Thought you’d find your way in here eventually.”
The voice came from the back.
Rhett stepped out from behind a display, wiping his hands on a rag. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, a splotch of yellow paint smudged near his wrist. He wore that grin—crooked, steady, warm—aimed right at me.
“Rhett,” I whispered.
He didn’t rush. He just walked toward me, like he had all the time in the world, like he knew I’d wait. “It was a bit of a late night, I’ll admit. But I think it was worth it.”
I spun slowly, taking it all in. “You did this.”
Rhett nodded, tracing a palm over the glossy sheen of the stained wood as he stepped closer. “Suppose I should thank the storm, since it kept you out of here for a while.”
“But… why?” I turned back to him, breath catching in my throat.
He stood only a foot away.
“If you have to ask, I’m not sure I did my job well enough,” Rhett replied with a lopsided smile.
That flip-floppy, rollercoaster feeling returned.
Uninvited tears sprang to my eyes as I looked up at him. “Don’t say anything. I can’t—” I dragged in a shuddering breath. “I can’t hear it when you’re only going to leave.”
His eyes softened as they danced across my face. “Now where’s that relentless optimism I know and love?” He paused for one, suffocating second, close enough now that I could see the flecks of sawdust in his hair. “I’m staying, Wheeler. How could I leave when you’re here?”
The sentence should have been cathartic. Instead, it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever said. My chest went hollow and full at the same time. I swallowed and let the world narrow to the arc of his mouth and the golden hue of his eyes.
“Rhett—” I started, but his name snagged in my throat. I hesitated, then turned away before I could lose my nerve. “Wait here.”
In the backroom, my fingers found the paper bag I’d hidden days ago.
The tissue crinkled softly as I pulled it free—a little wooden duck, no taller than my hand, smoothed and sanded until it gleamed.
His uncle’s initials were carved on the underside.
I meant to give it to him before everything fell apart.
Before I thought I might never see him again.
When I stepped back out, the light caught the faint grain of the wood between my fingers. “I found this at the antique shop,” I said quietly, holding it out to him. “I think it belongs to you.”
Rhett’s expression shifted—something tender and unguarded passing through—as he turned the duck over in his palm. “Guess it’s only fair,” he murmured. “You’ve been reminding me of what matters since the day we met.”
He set the duck carefully on the table, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. A single message glowed on the lock screen: Be safe. Call when you can. —M. His thumb smudged the glass as he closed it.
“I told them last night. I told them I’m not getting on that plane. It wasn’t pretty, but… that’s also the most I’ve gotten from her in years.”
He set the phone aside and rested his hands at my waist. I tried to focus on his words, and the serious lilt of his voice, not the warmth of his palms or how badly I wanted to wrap my arms around his neck.
“And I didn’t just set up shelves. I paid a deposit for a secondhand kiln, and got Frank to let me use his storage while the two of us set up your studio. I’m not here on holiday. This is it, okay? I’m staying.”
The evidence floated to the surface of his practical list: not a vow made under a floral arch, but a series of lost hours and payments and plans already set in motion. It made the promise impossible to argue with.
That old, mean fear curled at the base of my ribs. The one that had taught me to pack away my hopes and always stay ready for the goodbye.
He seemed to read it in my face. “You don’t have to decide anything now,” he murmured, gathering the tears on my cheeks with his thumb. “I’ll stick around while you figure it out. I’ll be here.”
That last sentence blew all the puzzle pieces into place.
I didn’t say a thing. I closed the space between us, melting into his arms. When his lips met mine it was a steady, warm pressure—not fireworks meant to blind, but a quiet, unambiguous assertion.
His mouth moved against mine with the slow assurance of someone who had made up his mind and meant it.
When he pulled back for air our foreheads rested together.
“I don’t need time, Rhett,” I murmured breathlessly, fingers tangling in his hair. “You’re stuck with me.”
He smiled. “Good.”
The second kiss proved it.