She smells like oranges and clove, with an underlying scent of something I can't quite place. Grout, maybe, from her mosaics?
Her work is beautiful.
And God help me, so is she.
She talks like she's known me longer than a day and a half.
Like she's not afraid of the silence that follows most of my responses.
Like she can see something in me that I've forgotten exists.
"You know," she says, petting the dog with one hand and gesturing toward the crowd with the bottle of local beer she's been nursing with the other, "I've been to a lot of festivals. Craft fairs, art shows, farmers markets. But this place has something special."
"What's that?"
"Community." She takes a small sip, thinking. "Like,realcommunity. Not the fake kind where everyone's just trying to network or sell something. People here actually care about each other."
I follow her gaze to where Joy is holding court near Stella’s pie stand, telling a story that has a group of tourists hanging on every word. Beyond her, I can see other familiar faces—Parker from Jackson’s Orchard, a fellow woodworker named Porter, and Beckett, the fire marshal.
"Most of them have known each other their whole lives," I say.
"Including you?"
I nod. "Born here. Left for college. Eventually came back."
"And you've been hiding in the woods for the past few years?"
The question hits closer to home than I'd like. “Who told you that?”
“Joy.”
Of course.“I’m not hiding.”
“No?” She turns to study me, firelight playing across her features. “What would you call it then?”
I consider the question, taking a long pull from my own beer. “Living quietly.” I pause, considering what else to say. “Used to sell through a gallery in Nashville. Took commissions. Worked with designers who chased the latest trends. Somewhere along the way, I stopped recognizing my own work.”
Harper doesn’t interrupt. She just listens.
“So, I left. Now I build what I want, how I want. And I sleep better.”
"Mmm." She doesn't sound convinced. "And how's that working out for you?"
"Fine."
"Just fine?"
"It's what I wanted."
"Wanted," she repeats, emphasizing the past tense. "What about now?"
Now?I stare at her for a long moment, taking in everything that’s so undeniablyher. The way she's angled toward me, like our conversation is the most interesting thing happening at the entire festival. The way her eyes stay on mine even when I don't respond right away. The way she doesn't seem to need me to fill every silence with words.
"Now's more complicated," I admit.
She smiles at that, soft and understanding. "Complicated how?"
I shake my head. "You talk too much."
