Chapter 3
Three
Oliver
“Volunteer and delivery trucks only,” reads the sign at the corner of every road leading to downtown Songbird Ridge.
This is a problem. My GPS takes me straight through downtown to get to the rental address.
Ahead of me, Main Street hums with activity, but the whole area is closed off to car traffic.
This explains why the carriage house I rented was the dead last place available in town after it popped up on my feed yesterday. I had no idea the Dogwood Festival was such a big deal.
It makes sense. I’ve known about the artists’ colony in Songbird Ridge for my whole life, and festivals are a good way to keep tourists flowing in to buy up everyone’s creations.
Despite the slight inconvenience and the hive of activity in front of me, I pick up on the fun, laid-back vibe of the town. I decide to get a sneak peek at the festival and, hopefully, find a local potter who can advise me on how to display my work here.
I steer my car to a nearby field that’s been roped off for festival-goers to park, and tote my crate of bowls and things through the winding main drag.
Tents, booths and stalls line every square foot.
There’s a musical stage at one end, and a petting zoo at the other.
All along the winding main road, volunteers are working fast at setting up a craft bazaar, games, food trucks, and demonstrations of every kind of art and craft you can think of.
Banners advertise homemade ice cream, face painting, sculpting, needlecraft.
Finally, I locate the pottery tent. With my crate of precious creations starting to strain my arms, I approach one volunteer, but I’m redirected to someone else. Everyone is in matching pink and white shirts, buzzing around like pastel worker bees.
Eventually, I find someone in charge, a man in his early 70s with a long, braided gray beard and a Vietnam vet cap, and ask for directions to a nearby gallery. He misunderstands me through all the commotion.
“There’s a waiting list for vendors about a year out,” he says.
“No, I’m not trying to register. My name’s Oliver Harris from Charlotte, and I was wanting to talk to someone about displaying my work in a gallery, not at the festival,” I try, speaking up over the din.
The man tugs at his braided beard and glances at the crate. “Let me see what you got, Oliver Harris from Charlotte.”
He’s sweaty and harried and definitely has no time for me, but he’s making time. I realize this is my chance, and I don’t waste another second.
Carefully, I set down the crate and remove the paper covering the water pitcher.
He takes it from me, examines it. His face makes no expression of either appreciation or dislike.
“How much more you got in there?” he asks.
I give him a rundown of everything I have.
With zero humor, he says, “Let’s see the gnome.”
I show him the gnome.
He stares at it thoughtfully, and I can’t tell what he thinks of the gnome’s rainbow-colored hat. “Tell you what,” he says. “We don’t have anything exactly like this, so I’ll tag these for you and squeeze them into one of my personal displays, as a favor.”
“You will? That’s so kind of you.”
He nods curtly and says, “They’ll sell.”
“Do you need me to sign something, or do you want my number…?”
He puts out his hand for me to shake. “Come back to collect your money when the festival is over. Ask for Leonard.”
I don’t argue. Then, the man takes six more things out of the crate, still wrapped, and walks away.
“Are you Leonard? When is the festival over?” I call after him, but he’s gone.
What a strange little place this is.
With a now-much lighter crate in my arms, I nearly trip over the Cardinal Coffee stand and thank the gods that it’s open ahead of the official start of the festival. Here, I pause and order the strongest drink they have.
“Here you go! One Jittery Titmouse,” the barista says, handing me my drink and smiling unironically.
As I sip my coffee, I finally notice everything around here is named after birds.
Bluejay Cafe. Silly Goose Gift Shop. Bald Eagle Barber.
Then, there’s Four and Twenty Bakery—the name bringing to mind a vague memory of a nursery rhyme about blackbirds.
Foster’s Sports and Outdoors seems to be the only holdout on the bird-name tradition.
From the friendly young woman at the bakery, I order a pistachio creme horn at her recommendation, and before I know it, she’s handing me free samples of almost every cookie and pie in the place.
How can I refuse? Once I’m stuffed full of sugar, I promise to be back tomorrow before she can give me yet another sample.
Outside, I grab my second coffee of the day, and make my way back to my car, feeling like I’m in the way of all this activity.
But one thing stands out that I hadn’t noticed before—a single empty storefront.
It can’t hurt to have a look.
I clear off the pollen from the glass window and peek inside, using my hands to block the sun’s glare. It’s a good size, with lots of shelving. Needs some new fixtures.
I hadn’t ever thought about opening my own gallery, but something stirs in my belly when I see this place. I can actually picture myself here, setting up my displays, teaching classes. I could have a studio in the back with my own wheel, kiln, everything.
“It’s still up for lease, if you’re interested.”
I turn around at the sound of a man’s voice behind me. A tall, imposing guy with a polo shirt hands me a business card. “But there’s some competition, so you’re aware.”
That stirring inner sensation has me asking, “Do you have a rental application? I might consider it.”
“Right this way,” he says. The man has me follow him a block up, past more buzzing and dodging volunteers carrying tables, chairs, and tents, and into the office of Hutchinson Realty, the second business I’ve seen with a non-bird name around here.
This is happening at lightning speed.
But it all feels right. Something in these mountains is calling to me, and I think I have to answer.
Later, after filling out my application, I take the wildest roundabout route to the vacation rental I booked. Charlotte has some hills, and the countryside has some sharp turns, but nothing like this.
When I pull up, the sprawling, buttery yellow house speaks my language. It’s even prettier than I imagined.
Something is in the water in Songbird Ridge. Or maybe it’s the pollen in the air, but an odd feeling rises to the surface, and I can’t bottle it up.
I’m supposed to live here. This is home.
I turn that thought over in my mind, knowing how unhinged that sounds.
The front garden of the house is filled with small ornamental trees and decorative grasses, almost on the verge of being cluttered, but still inviting.
The fence around the property is a charming white picket fence, and there’s a covered porch that wraps around the front and one side.
As I walk up, voices drift through open windows.
“I’m just happy to have people around my table. It reminds me of when MiMi was alive.” The woman’s voice is wistful and kind. I know right away, somehow, that’s Iris, the owner.
Another woman’s voice responds. “You know I’m a picky bish, but everything was perfect.” That one sounds like she’s got a mouth full of food.
A man asks, “Is this local jam?”
“No, sadly, it’s imported all the way from the Piedmont.”
“That’s my only critique,” he says.
“Don’t listen to him. Everything is amazing,” the second woman says.
“I know I didn’t hear your man critiquing my preserves,” says the first woman.
The other one changes the subject. “Hey, are you doing any dresses for the Wright wedding in June, by any chance?”
“Yes, why?”
“I heard there’s trouble in paradise. Mother-in-law drama.”
“Oh no, don’t tell me that. I’m doing the bridal gown, a separate reception gown, the veil, the mother of the bride dress for her aunt…”
“All I can say is, I don’t think they’re a match.”
The man interjects. “They didn’t get matched by you. That’s just plain bad luck.”
“You’re sweet, honey.”
I smell coffee and waffles wafting through the window. In the yard, bumblebees drink from blooming bright pink azaleas. A tiny Carolina wren in a dogwood tree chitters, “tea-kettle, tea-kettle, tea-kettle.”
Spring has me in a chokehold.
I don’t know what comes over me, but before I know what’s happening, I’m lifting the iron latch, creaking open the wooden side gate, and letting myself into the backyard paradise.