4. Eric #2
When I’d asked how long she’d been event planning, the answer had come too fast. Three years. Like she’d already rehearsed it. Then I’d watched her hold a binder upside down for five minutes.
There wasn’t a chance in hell she’d been planning festivals for three years.
She knew I didn’t believe her too. That was the interesting part. Most liars doubled down. Hartwell just got embarrassed. Then she kept going anyway.
I laughed. I should’ve been annoyed. Truthfully, I was annoyed. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that I understood exactly what I should do next.
Nothing.
Nothing was the answer.
The festival wasn’t my responsibility. Hartwell wasn’t my responsibility. I’d already helped more than I needed to. The sensible thing was to let her figure it out herself. People learned fastest when nobody rescued them. I knew that better than most.
I turned onto the road leading toward my place and lowered the window slightly.
The air smelled like leaves and petrichor. Thunder rumbled somewhere out over the ocean.
My mouth twitched despite myself. Hartwell had looked exhausted by the time we’d finally gotten the animals secured. She was covered in dirt. Her ponytail was coming apart, and she had mud on one cheek as well as something that was probably animal spit on her sleeve.
Still beautiful.
And she’d still been trying to pretend she knew what she was doing.
That stubborn streak was going to get her into trouble. Or save her. Maybe both.
I pulled into my driveway and shut off the truck. The house sat exactly where I’d left it, quiet and peaceful with no animals and no event planners.
Exactly the way I liked it.
For a moment, I stayed behind the wheel, listening to the engine tick as it cooled.
The divorce had taught me a few things. Mostly that peace was underrated.
People liked talking about passion and chemistry and grand gestures.
What they didn’t talk about was the exhaustion.
The arguments. The compromises that never seemed to stop.
The way two people could slowly wear each other down without meaning to.
I’d done all that already.
Once was enough.
I didn’t need another complicated woman in my life. Didn’t want one. Certainly not one who collected disasters the way other people collected coffee mugs.
I got out of the truck and headed toward the house.
It sat back from the road, tucked between towering pines and old maples that had probably been there longer than the town itself. Most people driving by wouldn’t even know the place was there unless they were looking for it. That was one of the reasons I’d bought it two years ago.
After the divorce, the last thing I’d wanted was neighbors peering over fences or asking questions I had no intention of answering.
The old craftsman had been built sometime in the early sixties with cedar siding, massive timber beams, and a deep covered porch that wrapped around the front. Thick wooden posts supported the roof, and a pair of handcrafted rocking chairs sat near the front door, permanently facing the trees.
It wasn’t fancy or modern or trying to impress anybody, which suited me just fine. The place felt solid and quiet, like it had been built by a man who believed wood solved most problems.
Halfway to the front door, thunder rolled again through the trees.
The sound echoed across the property, rattling the leaves overhead and bouncing between the pines that surrounded the house.
A storm was coming. A proper storm that would send tourists scrambling for cover and make old dogs start looking nervous.
A few drops of rain hit the driveway. More quickly followed, tapping softly against the porch roof and darkening the cedar planks one spot at a time. The smell of wet pine drifted through the air, mixing with damp earth and fresh-cut grass from somewhere down the road.
Hartwell’s face flashed through my mind again. I smiled, remembering her flushed cheeks, the glare she’d aimed my way, and the panic she kept trying to hide behind a smile. It hadn’t fooled anybody. Least of all me.
Which was irritating because I’d specifically moved out here to avoid complications.
Hartwell looked like one.
If someone told me she’d accidentally started a parade involving livestock before breakfast tomorrow, I wouldn’t even question it. I’d just ask where it was happening.
My eyes drifted toward town, the festival grounds, and the temporary fencing we’d thrown together in a hurry while daylight disappeared.
I thought of the livestock currently being supervised by people who probably had no idea what they were doing either.
Then again, compared to Hartwell, they might’ve been experts.
The smart thing would’ve been to stay out of it. Stay home. Let the festival committee handle their own problems. Let Helen deal with the event planner she’d hired. Let the volunteers repair fences and figure out where the petting zoo was supposed to go. None of that belonged on my plate.
Let somebody else clean up whatever happened next. Because there was definitely going to be a next. With Hartwell, there was always a next.
Trouble seemed to find her. Or maybe she found it. I wasn’t sure which.
The problem was, I already had a feeling I wasn’t going to do the smart thing.