Chapter 27
Lily
“—Yes, Ms. Darley, I’ve got the fair choir slotted for Sunday at twilight on the green. Two mics per part, a keyboard DI, and a shaded riser so no one faints. If the wind kicks up, we’ll pivot inside the pavilion. Deal?”
I clicked my Nokia off and slid it into the pocket of my sundress.
I fed a mixed pop CD into the stereo and let the TLC chorus thread the aisles.
I straightened the Summerfest HQ label on my back table and checked the schedule grid: choir, teen lip-sync hour, Wishing Tree ribbon station, Petting Zoo.
Ethan appeared from the back with a to-go cup, lip-syncing to “Waterfalls.” He crossed the aisle, handing me a medium coffee. “Two sugars, splash of milk. Preemptive measure, so you don’t yell at your binder before noon. Again.”
“I don’t yell at my binder,” I said, flicking a color tab back into place. “I project-manage at high volume.”
He tipped the cup toward the label like a toast. “To benevolent dictatorship.”
I accepted the cup and lifted it toward him. “And caffeine.”
He moved back to the counter, popped the register for a roll of quarters, then fanned a stack of new paperbacks into a face-out display. The bell chimed; he rang someone up with his usual quiet ease, then drifted back, still half in the beat from the stereo.
“Hey,” I said, tapping my notebook, “remember how Hank at 92Q needed—”
“—that jingle for the Summerfest commercial?” he finished, eyebrow up.
“Finished it last night. Thirty seconds, clean tag. Want to hear?” I said, already digging in my pencil case.
I pulled out a Maxell with SUMMERFEST SPOT v2 scrawled on the label.
He ducked under the counter for his Walkman and offered me one foam earbud, keeping the other.
We leaned in, close enough that I could smell the faint hint of his cologne mixed with the woodsy scent of the bookstore—a heady combination that sent my pulse racing.
As he settled in beside me, our shoulders brushed, and I felt a warmth spread through me, a spark of electricity in the shared space. Surprisingly, I didn’t mind it.
I hit play. Crowd chatter first, then the soft creak of a Ferris wheel and a bright little guitar sting borrowed from Kayla’s friend’s garage band. My recorded voice slid in, warm and sure: “Willowbrook Summerfest—Where music meets summer.” A handclap, two harmony lines: “Where wishes take root.”
His shoulders did the tiniest bop. “The Ferris wheel? Weirdly perfect.”
“It sells summer,” I said, trying not to beam. “Again?”
“Again,” he said, thumb already on rewind.
The bell over the door chimed, and in walked Nate with a coil of orange extension cord over one shoulder and that permanent hardware-store look. He took in the sight of us sharing foam earbuds, shoulders touching, and gave a knowing grin.
“Well, well,” he said, hitching the cord higher. “Aren’t you two chummy?”
Ethan popped his earbud like he’d been caught shoplifting and cleared his throat. “Radio spot,” he said, too quickly. “Testing levels.”
“Uh-huh.” Nate leaned on the counter. “Looked like you two were having too much fun for it to be work.”
I smiled, unbothered. “Relax, Sullivan. We’re best buds now. We survived the weekend crash course without a single casualty. This is strictly professional harmony.”
“Professional harmony,” he echoed, amused. “I’ll embroider that on an apron.” He set the cord on the counter. “Got that long cord you wanted. You know, for Lily’s stereo setup.”
“My what now?” I said, perking up.
Ethan rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly fascinated by the countertop. “Figured if you had more reach, you could park the speakers wherever you want. Not just by the outlet.”
My grin showed up before my words did. “You two are, like, total lifesavers. Major props!”
“Anything for Summerfest HQ.” Nate tipped an imaginary cap and headed back to his hardware store, while I looked at Ethan. He pretended it was no big deal, but the way he stepped up to help made my heart swell.
His quiet thoughtfulness tugged at something inside me. I admired that he didn’t seek attention for his kindness, that he simply wanted to make things better for everyone.
The bell over the door chimed, and the day spilled in: a pair of retirees with precise opinions about biographies, a mom balancing a toddler and a library list, someone in work boots who knew exactly where the Louis L’Amour books were located and didn’t need our help.
I traded a smile with Ethan and slid into the rhythm.
By lunch, we were a duet—me fielding calls and scribbling in my binder, him moving quietly through the stacks.
He’d finish a sentence I started, I’d hand him the thing he was reaching for before he asked.
The rhythm surprised me; a week ago, this place had felt like his world, guarded and orderly, with me the interloper trying not to knock anything over.
Now it felt… shared. Like the bookstore had stretched a little to make room for both of us.
The bell jingled, and in walked David Erwin back for an interview redo, notepad already in hand. My stomach did a little flip. Friday’s fumble was still burned into my brain, but I’d spent all weekend breathing Willowbrook, and I wasn’t going to blow it twice.
We sat at the back table, his recorder between us.
“Alright,” he said, clicking it on, “let’s try again. What makes this year’s Summerfest different?”
This time, the words tumbled out easily.
“We’re not just throwing up tents and calling it a festival,” I said, leaning in.
“We’re reimagining it so it feels like Willowbrook itself.
The livestock barn isn’t just storage anymore.
It’s going to be a spotlight. Kids will get to show off their 4-H projects in a way that celebrates their hard work instead of hiding them at the edge of the grounds.
And the old ticket booth? We’re fixing it up, painting it bright, making it a proper welcome.
The first thing people see should say ‘you belong here,’ not ‘hope this thing doesn’t fall on you. ’”
David chuckled, scribbling notes, and I kept going, my words tumbling out faster than he could write.
“We’ll have a midway lined with string lights so you can see the glow from Main Street, a vendor layout that keeps the flow moving, and a central green where neighbors can gather, eat, and actually hear the music.
Nights are going to feel alive again. Big sound, big lights, regional bands that make people drive in from the next county, and maybe even a headliner big enough to draw people from Columbus.
You don’t just wander the fair anymore. You experience it. ”
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Ethan behind the counter. He didn’t say a word, but when I glanced over, he gave me the smallest nod—steady, certain, like a coach after the perfect play. The knot in my chest loosened.
“And at the center of it all, we’re creating a Wishing Tree. People can write down a hope or dream, tie it on a ribbon, and let it fly in the branches. By the end of the weekend, you’ll have a living tapestry of this town’s heart.”
David's pen scratched furiously. “That’s a line,” he said, nodding. “A wishing tree. I like it. That’s… fantastic, Lily. Honestly, I think I’ve got what I need.”
When he left, I slumped back in my chair, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. For the first time since Friday, I didn’t feel like an imposter. I felt like… someone who actually belonged at the helm of this thing.
By three-fifteen, the door chimed the way it always does for teenagers—more gust than sound. Kayla and Jason slid in like regulars, backpacks thumping, energy bright. They didn’t even ask where to go anymore; they just curved toward the window like the store had a path worn specifically for them.
“Okay, captains,” I said, popping the cap off a marker with my teeth because professionalism is situational. “Lip-sync hour logistics. Cords taped, sets short, no one breaks an ankle.”
“Mixtape swap table is a go,” Jason said, already sketching a layout. “We’ll need a sign. Do you have letters?”
“Do I have letters?” I repeated, scandalized. I produced glitter sticker sheets like a magician and set them down with reverence.
The afternoon slipped toward evening. Jason sketched more layouts for lip-sync hour and other events, Kayla churned out glittery posters that blinded me in the best way, and together they came up with wild ideas—a “Teen Takeover” night at the midway—high schoolers running games for an hour, with all proceeds feeding the scholarship fund.
Jason wanted a DJ corner where kids could bring their own CDs to spin between bands.
I pretended not to beam as I wrote both down in fat Sharpie letters.
Somehow, in all the noise and scribbles and sugar-high brainstorming, we weren’t just making a festival schedule. We were building momentum. And every time I looked up and saw Ethan watching from behind the counter, quiet smile tugging at his mouth, I had the sneaking suspicion he knew it too.
Jason packed up his sketches with a dramatic sigh about karate practice and slung his backpack over one shoulder. “Later. Don’t let Kayla steal all the glitter without me.” He tossed Kayla a grin on his way out, and she turned about five shades pinker before squeaking out a “bye.”
The second the bell jingled behind him, she leaned across the table, eyes huge. “He asked me to prom,” she whispered, like it was top-secret classified intel.
I shrieked so loud that Ethan glanced over from the counter. “Shut. Up. When? How? What did he say? What did you say? Tell me everything, right now.”
Kayla dissolved into giggles, covering her face with her hands. “He just… asked. And I think I forgot how to breathe for, like, a full minute.”
I clutched my notebook like it was a romance novel. “Kayla, this is monumental. Dresses! Hair! Photos on the porch!”
Her blush deepened, but her smile was unstoppable.