Chapter 10
Abby pulled into Meg’s driveway and gave a couple of quick honks. They were running late already. Meg rushed out with a to-go cup in hand. She slid into the seat. “Let’s do this,” Meg said.
The supply run took longer than Abby expected. She stood in the party store aisle with Meg, staring at an overwhelming wall of face paint options. She had no idea what she was getting herself into.
"Do we need the FDA-approved kind?" Abby asked, picking up a container labeled 'hypoallergenic.'
"Definitely. The last thing we need is a kid breaking out in hives." Meg grabbed three more packages. "Better to have too much than run out halfway through."
They loaded up on sponges, brushes, stencils shaped like stars, flags, and fireworks.
Meg insisted they needed glitter, which seemed like a recipe for disaster, but Abby wasn't going to argue.
Meg had done this before. And she was sure there would be plenty of little girls who would love the glitter. She added another box for good measure.
“After my painting class, I’m not sure I have any business painting anybody’s face,” Abby said.
Meg laughed. “You’re not giving tattoos. If it turns out terrible, they’ll wipe their face.”
“True.”
“And with the humidity, the art is going to melt off in minutes anyway.”
“We got the setting spray,” Abby pointed out. “Hopefully it lasts longer than that.”
The checkout line moved slowly. A woman in front of them had a cart overflowing with red, white, and blue decorations. Streamers, balloons, tablecloths, and paper plates printed with eagles—the whole patriotic catalog.
"Big party?" Meg asked her.
"Family reunion. Forty people." The woman looked simultaneously excited and exhausted. "My sister thinks I'm insane."
"Your sister might be right," Meg said with a grin.
They loaded the supplies into Abby's Jeep.
Sweat stuck Abby's shirt to her back. It had rained earlier, but it did nothing to break the humidity. It made it worse, which Abby didn’t think was possible.
She suddenly understood why there were so many nude beaches in Florida. Clothes sucked in the humidity.
"Your place?" Meg asked as they climbed in.
"My place. I've got everything we need for the cookie production."
The house was blessedly cool when they walked in. Abby cranked the air conditioning down a few more degrees, and they hauled the face painting supplies to the guest room for safekeeping. They would melt in the Jeep.
In the kitchen, Abby pulled out flour, sugar, and butter. She'd made chocolate chip cookies so many times in her life that she could probably do it blindfolded. Twenty dozen sounded like a lot until she started calculating. Twelve cookies per batch and twenty batches. Manageable with help.
Meg found the mixing bowls without being told where to look and started measuring ingredients. They fell into an easy rhythm. Abby's kitchen wasn't huge, but it was big enough for two people to work without constantly bumping into each other.
"I cannot believe you're making homemade cookies," Meg said as she creamed butter and sugar. "Most people just buy those break-apart tubes from the store."
"That feels like cheating."
"It's efficient."
"It's not the same." Abby cracked eggs into a bowl. "Besides, I like baking. It's meditative. And it’s my first Fourth of July. I don’t want people to know me as the fake cookie lady."
“They’re not fake.” She laughed.
“Still. I want to impress. I want a line of people at my door begging for my cookies.”
“You say that now, but I think that might get a little old and invasive.”
“My cookie recipe is top-notch.”
"You're a better woman than me."
They took turns baking. As one batch cooled, the next went into the oven. The kitchen smelled like butter and chocolate. Abby used her grandmother's recipe, the same one she'd made since she was twelve. The cookies always came out puffy instead of flat, which was her secret.
Meg stole one off the cooling rack. "These are dangerous."
"I know. Don't eat too many or we won't have enough."
"No promises."
By the time they finished, the counter was covered with cookies. Abby found plastic containers in the pantry, and they began packing them, layering wax paper between each row.
"What time do you have to be there tomorrow?" Meg asked.
"Eight. Breakfast starts at nine, but they want us to set up early."
"I'll meet you there. I signed up to help with setup."
"You didn't tell me that."
"I'm telling you now." Meg sealed the last container. "Besides, someone has to make sure you don't panic when fifty kids line up at your booth."
"I'm not going to panic."
"Sure you're not."
Abby threw a dish towel at her. Meg caught it, laughing.
They cleaned up the kitchen together. By the time Meg left, it was after ten.
Abby walked her to the door and watched her drive away.
As she usually did, she glanced around the front stoop in hopes of finding a gift from the ghost. Nothing.
And she knew it was wrong to be disappointed.
She was being selfish. One gift was the standard. Three gifts suggested she was spoiled.
Her phone buzzed as she was heading to the bedroom.
Levi: Still up?
Abby: Just finished baking two hundred cookies. I'm covered in flour and smell like a bakery.
Levi: Sounds yummy.
She smiled at the screen.
Levi: I'm looking forward to tomorrow.
Abby: Me too.
Levi: Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.
Abby: You too. Don't let anyone blow themselves up.
Levi: I'll do my best.
She set her phone on the nightstand but didn't head to bed. Instead, she walked through the dark house to the back door and stepped out onto the patio.
The new string lights were still on. She'd hung them that afternoon, weaving them through the pergola posts and along the fence line. They cast everything in a warm golden glow.
She settled onto the couch and sighed. The air had cooled slightly, but the humidity still clung to everything.
Tomorrow would be her first real Fourth of July on the island. It would be her first time feeling like a part of the community, not just a visitor or a stranger.
She remembered past Fourths. Every year for ten years, she organized the neighborhood potluck.
She would spend all afternoon making a strawberry pie from scratch—the crust was never quite perfect but always good enough.
Donald wore his red polo and khaki shorts, and she picked a sundress to match.
They stood in the Hendersons’ backyard with paper plates, chatting with people whose names she could barely recall now.
The fireworks never changed: the same park, the same show, and the same bursts of color everyone admired together.
She'd thought that was what life was supposed to look like. Comfortable. Predictable. Safe.
Tomorrow, she'd be painting faces on children she didn't know, with her community all around her. Nothing about it was predictable. Nothing about it was what she thought her life was going to be.
It was so much better.
She sat there for a long time, listening to the night sounds of the island. The distant crash of waves. The chorus of insects. The humidity was still thick. She had a passing thought. The whole thing would have driven Donald crazy, but she found that oddly soothing.
Her life. Her choices. Her happiness.
She stood and stretched, her back protesting slightly. Time for bed. Tomorrow would start early and run very late. She needed to be ready. She didn’t want to be the one yawning before the fireworks even started.
She turned off the string lights from the switch by the door.
She locked up and headed to her room. Her new sundress was hanging on the back of the bathroom door.
It was red with white polka dots. Festive but not trying too hard.
Comfortable shoes because she'd be on her feet all day. She couldn’t wait.
She climbed into bed and pulled the covers up. The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead.
She closed her eyes and smiled in the dark.