Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
Foster
All day at the store, I can’t get Ari out of my head.
Why is she in such a good mood when it’s below 20°F?
How could her hands be so soft in this harsh weather?
And how does she deliver such biting commentary with such a sweet smile on her face?
Most importantly, why am I still thinking about her?
I’m thinking about all of this when Maddie stops by again just before closing.
“I filled out the questionnaire,” I tell her before the door closes behind her.
“That’s not why I’m here, but thank you,” she says with a twinkle in her eye. “I was wondering if we could use your muscle down at the community center.”
Here we go.
“Do you need me to sponsor some food? Whatever you need, I’ll write you a check.” I’m hoping the offer of cold, hard cash will be enough of a signal that I don’t want to be physically involved with this dance. I still have to figure out how to convince Maddie to reschedule this infernal blind date.
The truth is, I hate Valentine’s Day. It’s a particularly painful date for me, and I don’t like to talk about it. Not even with Rowdy, the best friend I have in Songbird Ridge.
“Food? No, I’ve got that all covered,” Maddie says, listing off everything on her fingers, almost like she’s trying to remember everything herself.
She has the energy of a person who has taken on too much.
“Four and 20 Bakery is doing a dessert table. The Magpie is providing seafood canapés. Bluejay Café is providing an assortment of homemade chips and dips. The local creamery is hosting a sweetheart shake station…”
And now I’m hungry.
Balling my hands into fists, I rest them on the counter and arch my eyebrow at Maddie. “Okay. What do you need?”
“One of our local artists has this very specific vision for the decorations, and we need someone to help her tonight.”
It sounds like a lot of work, but I know I’m not gonna get away with saying no.
“I can be there as soon as I close up.”
“That’s wonderful, Foster. Bring your toolbox!” Maddie chirps, waving goodbye.
Barely five minutes later, there’s a knock on the front door, after I’ve already locked up.
I look up, and there’s Ari, waving at me. The sun is setting on the ridge behind her, and the glow around her looks like a halo.
I swallow, aware I’m going to have to talk to her again. She’s wrapped in a big, oversized poncho and carries the coat over her arm.
“Here you go, and thanks so much,” she says when I open the door and let her inside.
“Keep it,” I reply, going back to the task of emptying the register into my bank bag.
I can’t make eye contact with her. Her pretty eyes, glowing skin, and wide smile are too much for me. I need to get her out of my head, especially if I’m about to be around Valentine’s Day crap later, hanging cheap cupid decorations on the wall and tossing conversation hearts on tables.
Ari scoffs. “I can’t keep the stuff. This is a $200 coat. Don’t think I didn’t look it up!”
She throws the coat onto the counter.
“It’s yours,” I tell her.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“You don’t be ridiculous,” I say too forcefully. “What are you about to do? Walk home in a handmade poncho?”
Ari adjusts the front of the striped, knitted monstrosity. “No, I’m on my way to the community center, as a matter of fact. It’s just on the next block, so I’m not going to freeze.”
Now she has my full attention. “No, I’m going to the community center.”
Ari blinks as she gazes up at me. “It’s possible that two things can be true at the same time. So you can walk with me and make sure I don’t die of hypothermia, since you’re so obsessed with my core body temperature.”
I like how Ari punctuates sarcasm with the brightest, most genuine smile. Her blue eyes crinkle the edges, and she shows all her teeth. I don’t understand people who just go around smiling and beaming all the time. I don’t know how anybody is just so happy-go-lucky when life can be so cruel.
And yet, sometimes life is kind and throws me a bone. I get to keep an eye on Ari, and I’m beginning to learn that I won’t need to hold up my end of the conversation. She can and does seem to enjoy doing all the talking.
“Let’s go,” I say, as I shove the cash pouch inside my messenger bag and grab the coat she dropped off. It still has her sunny, floral scent. And I’m reeling from it.
“I’m not wearing that coat,” she says, as we make our way down the street toward the community center.
“I didn’t say you had to.”
“It is very warm, but it’s not really my style.”
“What’s your style?”
“Oh, you know,” she says. “I like layers. Crocheted granny hats. Mittens with fun patterns. I’m not an outdoor sporty type of gal, like what your store caters to.”
“Well, I’m into you not being cold.”
I keep my eyes trained ahead of me as we walk, but I can see her in my peripheral vision, looking up at me.
“I’m not keeping the coat, Foster.”
I’m not thinking too much about her refusing the coat, and I am more interested in the way she says my name. Like she wants to use my full government name for extra emphasis.
When we arrive at the community center, I expect it to be crawling with volunteers. But there’s no one but Ari and me.
“Where is everybody?” I ask as I look around the cavernous gymnasium that’s been transformed from a basketball court into a reception hall, with round, linen-covered tables, fancy dining chairs with pink ribbons, a dance floor and a disco ball.
In the middle of the room is a ladder and a scaffold, and there are about a dozen bins and boxes overflowing with what looks like decorations.
“I thought I came to help the artist finish the room,” I say.
Ari smiles. “You did!”
I gawk at her as she sets her granny hat, poncho and bag on one of the tables, then goes to the wall of plastic bins.
“Wait a minute,” I protest. “It’s just you and me? Where is this so-called artist that I’m supposed to help hang a bunch of Cupids and shit?”
Ari rifles through one of the bins and pulls out a bunch of folded, pink paper sculptures that look like origami or something.
“I am. I am this so-called artist.”
I stare at her. This can’t be right.
“There must be a misunderstanding.”
“Sure is,” Ari says, as she pulls out more pieces of folded paper. “You didn’t know you would be helping me.”
Ari takes out item after item, spreading them out onto the tables. Pretty soon, there are mountains of folded pink, red and white paper everywhere.
Obviously, she’s put a lot of work into…something…and I’m being an ass.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“No worries,” she chirps. “Follow me. We’ll do the easiest part first.”
I’m too lost to do anything else but exactly what she tells me.
I follow Ari to where a huge piece of bare plywood leans against the wall, and a box overflows with what looks like multicolored paper flowers. She picks up one that looks like a giant red rose made of tissue paper. “Do you know how to use hot glue?”
“No.”
“No problem. We start with the biggest flowers first and just glue them on like this. But be careful.”
I do exactly as she shows me, the two of us using the two glue guns she’s brought in her bag to attach the largest blooms first, then the medium ones, then, finally, the small ones.
“What are we making, by the way?” I ask at one point.
“Flower wall. For the couples to pose in front of. Or for selfies, for social media.”
“Selfies,” I repeat, but she takes it as skepticism.
“You’re not, like, 89 and unaware of what selfie walls are?”
“I…” And just at that moment, something outrageously hot sears my skin. “Shit!”
I drop the flower and chuck the glue gun to the floor as a hot string of glue sticks to my thumb.
“Oops,” Ari says calmly. She grabs my thumb and tells me to hold still. “This is going to hurt, but you’re tough.”
I watch as she peels the hot glue off my thumb. The pain is worse than the initial contact, but the way she tends to me keeps me calm. I’ll take any crumb of attention from this woman. Pathetic? Maybe.
She releases my hand and I pop my injured thumb into my mouth to cool it.
“You okay?” Ari asks with a teasing smile.
“Baptism by fire, I guess,” I say.
“Let me see,” she insists, taking my hand and examining my thumb. Ari’s glossy lips purse, then she blows on the burn. The strangest sensation crawls down my spine and settles warmly in my belly.
“Or in this case,” she says with a smile. “Baptism by shiny new blister!”
In a short time, and after I learn how to be more careful with a hot glue gun, Ari and I finish the flower wall. Then it’s time to move on to the more arduous task of hanging things from the ceiling.
For the next four hours, I follow orders.
I tack fabric where she tells me to tack fabric.
I hammer nails where she has them marked.
I hang light strings at precise angles. I attach the strange, folded paper sculptures at the exact intervals she shows me.
I drape gauzy material. I sweat, I bruise my thumb, and I listen to Ari chatter for hours next to me on the scaffold.
“Are these birds?” I ask at one point.
“Some are birds. Some are chubby little cupids.”
I’m not getting cupid from these things, but I’m not about to tell her that.
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
She smiles up at me as she holds one sculpture together while I tack it to the ceiling. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Why do you have a different last name from your sister?”
“We’re half-sisters,” she says. “My dad left my mom when she had me. They were teenagers and never married. Then, my mom married someone else and had Riley and Pete.”
I’d figured it was something like that. “Relatable,” I say. “My mom and dad never married either. But instead, my mom disappeared. My dad never did settle down. I grew up in a house with a series of girlfriends coming and going.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, handing me a nail.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with my upper arm. “The worst part was being encouraged to call them all ‘Mommy,’ until I wised up in about fourth grade and put a stop to it.”