Chapter 26
Ethan
Lily walked out of the sanctuary with that bright smile plastered on her face, the kind that fooled most people but not me. I’d seen her laughing for real all weekend, the kind that lit up a whole room. This one was different—too quick, too shiny, like glass over a crack.
She stopped every few steps to greet someone—Rachel, Maggie, the Durbins—charming them with ease, but I caught the stiffness in her shoulders when she thought no one was looking.
She shook hands, accepted compliments, even teased Kayla and Jason about holding hands, but underneath it all, something had shifted.
I wanted to ask. God, I wanted to ask. But one thing I’d learned about Lily Harper this week was that if you pressed too hard, she’d turn slippery and joke her way right out of reach. Whatever had happened there during the baptism, she wasn’t ready to hand it over.
So I kept my mouth shut and steered her toward the truck.
When we pulled out onto Main Street, she leaned her head against the window, still smiling, still talking, but I could hear the thin edge in her voice. It wasn’t enough. Not for me.
“Fairgrounds next,” I said finally, turning onto the road that led out toward the old county lot. “Figured it’s about time you laid eyes on the place you’ve been working yourself ragged over all week.”
That did it. She straightened in her seat, that faint glassy look in her eyes flickering into something sharper. “Wait—you mean we’re actually going out there?”
“Figured you’d want to,” I said, trying to keep my tone casual, though I couldn’t help watching the way her whole posture shifted, like somebody had just flipped a switch.
When I pulled up by the old gates, her nose was practically pressed to the glass. The sign overhead was faded, the gravel lot mostly empty, stalls leaning a little after too many seasons. But to her, it was like I’d just handed her a blank canvas.
She jumped out before I’d even killed the engine, spinning in a slow circle as her eyes traced the layout.
“Oh, this is perfect,” she murmured, half to herself, already stepping off the path to get a better angle.
“We could put the stage over there—better acoustics if it’s angled to the trees.
And food vendors here, so you don’t have bottlenecks.
The old livestock barn could be set up for the 4-H kids to showcase their animals.
We could make it part of the experience instead of just an afterthought.
Families would love that. And if we line the midway with lights, you’d see it all the way from Main Street. ”
Her words tumbled faster, hands moving in little gestures, sketching invisible lines in the air.
She darted from one spot to another, pointing, imagining, rearranging in real time.
A burst of laughter escaped her as she caught sight of the run-down ticket booth.
“We’ll fix that, obviously. Can’t have the first thing people see looking like it’s one stiff breeze away from collapse. ”
She was in her element, and for the first time since we left church, the heaviness lifted.
I leaned against the truck, just watching her.
The way her eyes lit up, the way she came alive when she talked about building something out of nothing.
It hit me then, maybe this was how she held herself together.
When the weight got too much, she poured it into the next idea, the next plan, the next dream.
And standing there in the middle of an empty fairground, I couldn’t look away.
I felt a familiar pull in my chest, a longing that made my heart race.
The way she moved, her hands gesturing animatedly as if she could mold the world around her, sent a thrill through me.
I wanted to be the one she shared those dreams with, to be a part of that spark.
In that moment, everything else faded—just her passion glowing like a beacon, pulling me closer, making me wish for the courage to step into that light beside her.
She was still circling the grounds, pointing out where merchandise booths could line the main path and how the area near the entrance could be perfect for Snapple’s promotional tent, envisioning it as a vibrant spot where families could sample drinks and engage with fun activities.
Her excitement was infectious as she mapped it all out, her hands gesturing animatedly across the empty space, when I pushed off the truck.
“Come on,” I said.
She glanced over her shoulder. “What, did I miss something?”
“Just one more thing worth seeing.”
I led her down a gravel path that curved behind the barns, weeds brushing our legs.
At the far edge of the property, half-hidden behind the livestock shed, stood the old oak tree.
Its branches stretched wide, gnarled and stubborn, scarred with decades of initials carved into the bark.
Faded hearts, dates, even a couple of crude drawings could be seen if you looked close enough.
I shoved my hands in my pockets, suddenly self-conscious. “Kids used to sneak back here during the fair. Some carved names, some tied ribbons on the branches. My dad said every year there’d be a few new ones fluttering up there, like wishes caught in the wind.”
Lily stepped closer, fingertips brushing the bark as if it might whisper to her. Her face softened, the businesslike sparkle in her eyes shifting into something gentler. She tilted her head back, taking in the spread of the branches overhead.
“A wishing tree,” she murmured. Then louder, turning to me with a grin breaking across her face.
“Ethan, this is it. This is exactly the kind of thing Summerfest needs! Something that ties people to the place, to each other. Everyone could write their wish or prayer or dream on a ribbon and tie it up here. Imagine how it would look—colors streaming in the breeze, hopes catching the sunlight.”
Her energy spilled into every gesture, painting the air with possibility.
I took a step back, watching her light up in a way I hadn’t seen all morning. Whatever shadow the church had left on her, this tree burned it back with one spark.
And all I could think was how dangerous it felt, standing here wanting to make every one of her wishes come true.
For a minute, I almost left it there. Let her end the crash course on a high note, buzzing with plans and possibilities.
But there was one last stop she needed to see. If she was going to understand Willowbrook—not just the festival, not just the fun—she had to see the roots underneath it all.
We climbed back into the truck, dust swirling as I pulled out of the lot. Lily sat turned toward the window, still brainstorming ideas, her voice trailing with thoughts half-spoken. Gradually, she quieted, watching the fields roll past as the road climbed toward the ridge.
“One more place,” I said, breaking the silence as I slowed at the turn. “If you’re going to understand Willowbrook, you need to see the people who built it.”
Her brow furrowed, but she didn’t ask questions, just sat quietly as we passed under the iron gates of the cemetery.
I parked along the path, killed the engine, and the sudden hush settled around us. Birds called from the trees at the edges, and the breeze carried the faint scent of cut grass. We got out, doors shutting softly behind us, our footsteps crunching on the path as we moved into the rows of markers.
The place opened wide before us, sunlight spilling across the rows. The grass was trimmed, stones polished, fresh flowers blooming in jars. A flag stirred on one marker, a vase of lilies on another. A couple knelt near the back, brushing leaves away, while a boy laid down a handful of wildflowers.
Lily slowed as we walked, her eyes tracing the rows of polished stones and the flowers tucked carefully at their bases. The breeze stirred the leaves overhead, sunlight spilling warm across the grass.
“It’s… really pretty here,” she said softly. “Peaceful.” Her gaze shifted to a vase of daisies, then on a small flag fluttering by another marker. “And it doesn’t feel… forgotten.”
“That’s because they’re not,” I said.
We passed names she knew—Ms. Darley’s parents, side by side beneath a carved angel; the Durbin family plot, bright with peonies. Even Carol’s husband rested here, his stone bright with fresh flowers that hadn’t had time to wilt.
“These are the folks who built Willowbrook,” I said, nodding toward the stones we passed. “The fair, the town—it all started with them.”
Lily’s gaze followed mine. “You mean like… founders?”
“Some,” I said. “But not just that. Mr. Thompson over there? He hauled hay bales in for the fair every summer so kids had a place to sit during the pig races. But he was also the first one to plow a neighbor’s field if someone got hurt or sick.
“The Helzers ran the lemonade stand for thirty years. People still talk about how tart it was, but they used the money to repair the playgrounds at the elementary school.
“And Mrs. Collins?” I nodded toward a stone lined with wildflowers. “She was a Sunday School teacher, sure, but she also kept the church pantry full, made sure no kid in town went hungry if she could help it. Everybody here gave a piece of themselves to make sure Willowbrook stayed what it is.”
She slowed, her eyes on the bright flowers tucked into vases, then lifted to me again. “And people still remember.”
“Of course we do,” I said, my voice rougher than I meant it to be. “We wouldn’t be us without them.”
She nodded, her expression soft but caught, like she didn’t know where to put the weight of it.
As we moved deeper into the rows, my steps slowed. I’d shown her the history, the names that carried Willowbrook’s story, but there was one stone I hadn’t decided about.
Part of me wanted to keep it to myself. Never thought I’d let anyone from the outside stand with me at my dad’s grave. Given how it all started, I never would’ve believed she’d be the one I’d bring here.
But somehow, walking beside Lily now, it didn’t feel wrong. She’d seen more of Willowbrook in a weekend than most visitors caught in a lifetime. And for reasons I couldn’t name, I wanted her to see this too.
We turned down the last path, the oak spreading wide overhead, and I stopped in front of the headstone I knew by heart.
Lily slowed beside me, her breath catching as she read the name. “Oh, Ethan…” Her voice was barely above a whisper, all softness and ache.
I kept my hands shoved deep in my pockets, staring at the fresh flowers someone, probably Mom, had left just yesterday.
“My dad loved the fair,” I said after a moment.
“When I was little, he’d hoist me up on his shoulders so I could see the parade go by.
He’d buy funnel cakes first thing, just so we could eat them while they were still too hot to hold.
We’d ride the Ferris wheel after dark when the whole midway lit up, and he’d always bet me on who’d win the tractor pull.
He always said the best part wasn’t the rides or the prizes.
It was everybody being together, like family. ”
Beside me, Lily was quiet, her arms folded loosely, her eyes not on the stone but on me. She didn’t say anything, and she didn’t need to. The silence between us wasn’t empty.
I shifted my weight, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets.
“That’s how he lived, though. Making space for people, paying attention in ways most folks don’t.
Didn’t matter if he was behind the counter at the store or fixing somebody’s porch steps.
He just liked helping. He kept a little notebook under the register—birthdays, favorite authors, stuff people mentioned in passing.
Next time they walked in, he’d hand them the book they’d been waiting for or ask how their kid did at the spelling bee.
That’s the kind of man he was. Big gestures weren’t his thing.
It was the small ones, steady and quiet, that people remembered.
“Folks came in for books, but half the time they stayed to talk, and he listened like whatever they had to say was the most important thing in the world.”
I glanced at Lily then, caught her watching me with that intent look of hers. “You do that too, you know,” I said quietly. “You’re like him in that way.”
She huffed a little laugh, tipping her head like she could shrug it off. “Careful, Calloway. You’ll ruin my reputation as a bossy outsider.”
I held her gaze. “That’s not what people see,” I said. “They see someone who shows up, who pays attention. That matters more than whatever reputation you think you’ve got.”
She arched a brow, lips quirking. “Shows up? Please. I bulldoze my way in, tell everyone how to do their jobs, and somehow you all still feed me pie at the end of the night.”
“You call it bulldozing,” I said, letting a corner of my mouth lift. “I call it caring enough to notice what needs fixing.”
The laugh slipped right out of her then, leaving her blinking at me, lips parted like she wasn’t sure what to do with the words. For a second, she looked younger, undone, and I knew I’d hit something deep.
Her voice was softer when she spoke again. “I’ve spent a long time being the girl who leaves before anyone can figure me out. Moving houses, moving schools… it was easier to stay a step ahead than risk getting left behind. It’s… strange, having someone actually notice.”
The words hung there, heavier than the quiet around us. She crossed her arms, almost like she wanted to reel them back in, but her eyes stayed on me, waiting.
I shifted, the gravel crunching under my boots. “Doesn’t seem strange to me,” I said finally. “Seems like you’ve been worth noticing all along. Maybe folks just weren’t paying attention.”
As I watched her, that undeniable pull grew stronger, and I was caught between wanting to kiss her and the fear of shattering this fragile moment.
Her lips pressed together, a shaky laugh slipping out before she shook her head. “You make it sound simple.”
“It is,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “At least to me.”
I brushed my thumb over the edge of Dad’s name and straightened the flowers at the base.
She looked down at the stone, then back up at me, and for a moment, the guard she always carried cracked wide open.
No grand speech, no big confession. Just the quiet truth of her letting me see her, even for a heartbeat.
A breeze lifted the wildflowers. We stood there a second longer, then turned back toward the truck, walking side by side in the hush.
But as I caught her eye again, something shifted between us—a door cracking open that neither of us knew how to walk through.
And somehow, standing there with my father's headstone at my back and this woman who'd upended everything at my side, I knew we were balanced on the edge of before and after.