Chapter 5
Five
Skylar
It’s the first of May, which means the town has something to celebrate once again.
I mean, Songbird Ridge folks would come out for the opening of an envelope, let’s be real.
But May Day is one of my favorite annual traditions. Not only is it the day before my birthday, but it’s colorful, sweet, kind of strange, and best of all, short. A lot like me.
Songbird Ridge’s May Day celebration is less than an hour long.
Everyone gathers around noon, when the sun is at its highest. The local florist passes out flower crowns to anyone who wants one.
We all go to the downtown Square and gather around the flagpole that normally flies our state flag and town seal.
For one hour every year, the flags are taken down, and we’ve got ourselves the tallest maypole on the Eastern seaboard.
Everyone grabs a strip of silk, and the music begins.
In years past, it’s been the high school pep band, but last year, there was a tuba incident brought on by some teenage TikTok challenge, so no more of that.
Instead, we have traditional music from some of Maddie’s students, one of our local music teachers.
It’s a little rusty-sounding and a bit comical, or it would be, if everyone in town wasn’t so earnest and unequivocally encouraging of budding artists.
It’s delightfully silly and corny the way we all dance together, weaving in and out in sync with the music, all of us barefoot, haphazardly making our way around the pole as we wrap it with colorful strips of cloth.
Old and young alike get into it. There’s something very sweet about watching very old Appalachian folks flail around, barefoot in the grass with flowers in their hair.
I can see the secrets on their faces. I can see the youthfulness on their faces.
Maybe some of them, back in the day, met their true loves on May Day.
There are a dozen stories about lots of babies having been conceived on this day every year.
Stories that could make the younger ones blush.
In their laughter and their dancing eyes, they tell the stories of our community.
I love it here. My love for this town is so big it pours out of me, and I wish I had someone to share that with. Someone I could have a secret smile with, like all these old people around me.
And just like that, I plow into a brick wall. Someone who doesn’t understand this dance, who is not moving an inch, is blocking my way.
He’s tall and sturdy, with back muscles that bounce me back three feet.
Excuse me,” I say, trying to weave around him.
He looks down, and that’s when I realize it’s him.
Finn Harris.
The contractor. Oliver’s brother. The one who made promises and lots of big talk and then left.
I want to stand there agape and feel my feelings. I want to question him. I want to find out everything. Where did he go? What is he doing here now? But you see, I can’t do any of that because the May Day dance is not finished. We cannot simply stand here like dummies.
So I hook my arm inside of his elbow. “Follow me!”
“We need to talk,” he says.
That we do. “But first, dance.”
I lead him around the pole, weaving and dodging all the familiar faces.
There’s Rowdy, the guy who can literally fix anything, with baby’s breath in his long locks.
Riley, the painter, with a crown of lilies.
Foster, the grump from the sporting goods store, and his girlfriend Ari.
Even Patty is here, probably telling herself that this is not a totally pagan ritual she’s participating in.
I’m giving her grace these days, as she and Iris seem to have started mending fences.
And then there’s Iris and Oliver, both smiling, and both in flower crowns—his made of olive branches and little daisies, hers made of giant pink peonies.
When we weave and dance and dodge past them, Iris looks stunned, open-mouthed, and gives a happy little shriek that makes me laugh.
Oliver gives us a knowing look. I think he knew that Finn was coming to this.
But why today? This man has no idea that he has clearly never done this before.
He’s not even wearing a crown. Nor is he barefoot, and he’s probably going to step on my feet with those steel-toed boots.
As if reading my mind, he says, “How long do we have to do this? I’m afraid I’m going to step on your feet.”
“Just follow my lead. You’ll be OK!”
Finn holds onto me for dear life. It’s cute.
When we finally have wrapped all of the ribbons around the pole in a stunning array of colors, the music stops, and everyone claps.
There’s lemonade and sweet tea on the sidewalk for a dollar a cup, raising money for the women’s shelter. Finn overpays by a lot for two cups of sweet tea.
We stand on the grassy easement along the road as the crowd disperses. I drink my tea as the musicians pack up their instruments. The old folks put their shoes back on and hustle down the street to the Bluejay Café. Families gather up their children, and everyone in between heads off to work.
Like I said: short, colorful, weird, and sweet.
“That was a first for me.”
“And you didn’t step on a single foot,” I tell him.
“Thanks to you,” Finn says, clearly buttering me up ahead of the tough conversation we’re about to have.
I dive in. “So where did you go?”
He chokes a little bit on his tea. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pride myself on the fact that I rattled him.
“Oliver was supposed to give you my number.”
I wait for further explanation, but none comes.
“You could have asked him to get my number from Iris.”
He thinks about this. “You’re right. The truth is…complicated.”
My heart sinks. “Wife drama.”
“No.”
“Girlfriend drama.”
“No.”
I sigh. “Oh. So I just suck at flirting.”
He tosses back the rest of his tea and then chucks the cup into a nearby trash can. He rubs his hands together, seeming deep in thought. “After you left the booth, I got word about a major job site accident involving my company.”
Oh. Well, now I feel like a jerk. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Is everyone OK?”
He nods. “Minor injuries. Everyone is fine. But it’s been a hornet’s nest of phone calls and paperwork and getting the run-around from insurance and lawyers. Everything is squared away now. Everyone is perfectly fine.”
That’s the second time he said the word “fine.” But he’s not fine, himself.
“Come on,” I say, taking him by the hand and leading him up the street.
He doesn’t ask where we’re going. Good.
We end up at the Four and Twenty Bakery, where I order a strawberry pie made for two from Evelyn at the counter, which comes with two forks.
We sit at the table by the window. I hand him a fork. Finn takes a bite, and the noise that he makes at the first taste of strawberry pie makes me blush.
“My god.”
“It’s good, right?”
“Damn good.”
“I didn’t think you were the swearing type. You seem so wholesome.”
He takes another bite and thinks about that. “You didn’t see me these past three weeks. Lots and lots of cussing.”
I nod, urging him to tell me everything. I’ve got the time.
Finn unloads.
It’s clear that he needs to.
It’s strange. I’ve always believed myself to be the kind of person who would root for the worker to sue the pants off somebody.
Under any circumstances like this, I would wholeheartedly approve of taking the company to the cleaners.
The boss, the owner, everyone above their pay grade.
But Finn seems more concerned about his employees’ welfare than about his own mental health.
It’s clear to me, as he describes everything, that he’s been shaken by the whole thing. And that he’s had few, if any, friends to talk to about it.
“I’m happy to know someone who takes care of his employees and his contractors,” I say.
“I should’ve inspected it a second time. It’s an old building,” he says, shaking his head.
“You can’t beat yourself up over it forever,” I say.
He shovels the last of his half of the pie into his face. “As soon as I’m done eating my feelings, I’ll stop,” Finn promises.
He’s funny. He makes me laugh. And that’s a damn good explanation for why he went AWOL after making all those promises to me.
But I still have unanswered questions.
“So why are you here now? On a Thursday? You have a business to run.”
“I’m taking a vacation.”
I smile. “I thought you said you didn’t get vacations.”
He answers, “I did say that. But the truth is, I could take one. I just choose not to. Until today.”
I take a bite of my pie, and the sweetness of the ripe strawberries makes me feel like I’m twelve years old, helping Iris’s MiMi make her strawberry jam on the first warm weekend in May.
“Until today, when you chose to start your vacation not at an all-inclusive resort with a pina colada in your hand, but in the middle of our town’s maypole ceremony with a bunch of barefoot weirdos.”
Finn laughs, then leans back in his chair, rubbing his full belly.
That slightly rounded spot, covered by a worn soft white tee shirt under his flannel. As he rubs, a bit of the shirt rides up and reveals a smattering of brown hair. The entrance to the treasure trail.
He catches me staring down at his midsection, but doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he sits forward, leans over the table, and says, “I decided to take my vacation here, helping you set up your bookstore.”