CHAPTER NINETEEN
OLIVIA
OVER THE NEXT WEEK, THE MOMS collect close to eleven thousand dollars in sponsorships from various companies. Slice of Pie agrees to perform, and as word spreads of the festival troubles, Mirror Lake rallies to the cause with more volunteers and donations. Allie, Brent, and the planning committee scramble to secure the rest of the entertainment and food trucks.
Florence Wickham tells me her new friend Mr. Jenkins of the Historic Railroad Association will be delighted to serve as the Chair Fair auctioneer. The carnival company sets up rides in a corner of Wizard’s Park, while volunteers hang signs and posters in shop windows.
On Saturday morning, the day of the festival, the sun rises into a cloudless blue sky. The grassy expanse of Wizard’s Park is dotted with tents where people are selling artwork and various foods. Balloons float from the children’s stage, which is surrounded by a bouncy-house and game booths. Folk music drifts from a band at the main stage, and the air is filled with the smells of popcorn, barbeque, and cotton candy.
Armed with a walkie-talkie and my cell phone, I walk around the festival grounds, making sure everything is running smoothly. The volunteers are wearing their purple Mirror Lake Festival Staff T-shirts as they help with crowd control, entertainment, and safety.
Earlier that morning, we moved the auction chairs to a cordoned-off area outside the auction tent. The colorful, painted chairs are arranged in perfect rows, like a flower garden drenched in sunlight.
In addition to being thrilled by how everything worked out, I’m incredibly proud of what the townspeople have contributed to the Chair Fair—beautiful, detailed, whimsical, and artistic creations of whatever inspired them. There are chairs painted with teddy bears, rainbows, ocean landscapes, Impressionist artworks, Dr. Seuss characters, and jungle animals.
Taking a break from checking my spreadsheets, I join Archer, Kelsey, and Nicholas for some fun. We have gooey slices of pizza, play beanbag toss, and ride the carousel. I text Dean that the festival is going well, and include a picture of Nicholas eating a cone of cotton candy bigger than his head.
“Forty-five minutes until the auction, Liv.” Allie hurries up to me, her ponytail swinging and her glasses askew. “Where’s Patrick?”
“He had to cancel.” I peer toward the auction tent. “Mr. Jenkins is going to substitute as the auctioneer.”
“Mr. Jenkins?” Allie repeats, her expression both surprised and doubtful. “Isn’t he, like, eighty?”
“Well, yes, but he’s still very agile and spry.” I smile to hide my own uncertainty. “It’ll be fine.”
Just fine, I repeat to myself firmly. I leave Nicholas with Archer and head toward the auction tent, which is starting to fill with patrons. Several people wander around outside looking at the chairs, and their conversations are tinged with admiration and delight.
“Hello, Olivia, dear.” Florence Wickham, dainty and pretty in a peach-colored suit and hat, approaches me with a smile. “What a wonderful success this is!”
“So far,” I allow, though I won’t be entirely relaxed until the festival is over and done with.
“I’m so sorry Dean couldn’t be here,” Florence remarks wistfully. “But Ronald is delighted to help out. Oh, Ronald! Over here!”
A wizened older man waves and approaches us, leaning on a cane. A fringe of white hair encircles his bald head, and he’s wearing a rumpled brown suit and polka-dotted tie. He extends a shaky hand to greet me, and I lead him over to the podium to explain the lot numbers and how the auction will run.
I leave him looking through an auctioneer booklet while I get the volunteers organized handing out paddles and catalogs. As the start time nears, the seats begin to fill up, and before long I realize it’s going to be standing room only.
Nervousness twines through me. I’ve worked hard on the entire festival, but the Chair Fair is especially critical, not only for the Historical Society but for the town itself. If we don’t raise enough money to save the railroad depot, there’s no telling what developer might grab up the land and possibly ruin the picturesque beauty of Wizard’s Park with a strip mall or condos.
I glance at my watch. Five minutes. Mr. Jenkins is standing by the podium with Florence, whispering something in her ear as he pats her rear end. She giggles.
With a smile, I go out to the chair display to ensure they’re all lined up in the same order they are in the catalog. A cloud passes over the sun, throwing the chairs into shadow. I do a quick check and return to the tent to get the auction underway.
The crowd quiets down as I introduce myself, thank everyone who has supported us, explain how the auction will run, and then turn the microphone over to Mr. Jenkins.
He puts on a pair of bifocals and clears his throat, peering at the list of chairs.
“Uh, first item…” he glances at the stage, where a volunteer brings up a chair painted with a rainbow theme “…is a chair.”
The crowd smiles indulgently. I move closer to Mr. Jenkins and point to the list.
“Lot number one,” I remind him quietly.
“Lot one,” he says into the mic. “A really nice chair painted with rainbows. Let’s start the bidding at… say, fifty dollars!”
Several paddles wave in the air. I see Archer standing by the edge of the tent, Nicholas perched on his shoulders.
“Fifty dollars, anyone for sixty?” Mr. Jenkins’s voice grows louder, excitement appearing on his weathered face. “Sixty dollars for this beautiful, hand-painted chair!”
My tension eases a little. He just needed some time to warm up. I glance at Florence, who is watching from the sidelines and gazing at Mr. Jenkins adoringly.
After the rainbow chair sells for over a hundred dollars, Mr. Jenkins waves to the next, teddy-bear themed chair.
“And who wants to own this adorable chair, perfect for a nursery or children’s room?” he shouts into the mic.
A loud squeal penetrates the tent from the feedback of his yell. I wince and gesture to the sound guy to turn it down.
“Who bids fifty bucks for the teddy bears?” Mr. Jenkins calls.
A few paddles rise. I write down the numbers.
“Fifty dollars, right there, lady in the blue, who bids sixty right there man in the red shirt perfect seventy bidder bidder would you bid eighty one hundred would you bid more who bids more would you bid one hundred five…”
His words slur together faster and faster, as if he’s trying to whip the crowd into a frenzy of bidding, though the audience is looking at him with confusion.
I step forward and put my hand on his arm, leaning toward the microphone. “We’re at one hundred five, ladies and gentlemen. Do we have a bid for one twenty?”
More paddles rise. The chair sells for one hundred fifty, and I write down the winner’s number as a volunteer brings up the next chair.
“Hey, Liv!” shouts Mr. Jenkins, even though I’m standing right beside him.
I glance at the audience. Several people are shifting in their chairs, looking vaguely impatient. A cool wind wafts through the tent, the light dimming as if clouds are gathering overhead. I smile nervously.
“Yes, Mr. Jenkins?” I say.
“What do planets like to read?” Mr. Jenkins asks.
“Um, what?”
“Comet books!” he yells.
A few people smile indulgently, but restlessness runs through the crowd.
“And the next lot number, three, is an incredible chair painted by renowned atmospheric scientist Kelsey March!” I announce. “Let’s start the bidding at one hundred dollars.”
“Who bids one hundred one hundred lady in white do you bid one hundred five one hundred five six seven bidder up batter up seven eight nine…”
His voice lowers again into a garbled, unintelligible monotone that has the audience looking both baffled and impatient. One person in the back row gets up and leaves.
I grab the microphone and yank it away from Mr. Jenkins.
“Hey, Mr. Jenkins,” I say brightly. “What did the ocean say to the sea?”
“What?” He cups his hand behind his ear and leans toward me.
“Nothing. It just waved.”
“Hah!” Mr. Jenkins thumps the podium and cackles. “Now, folks, that joke comes free with the purchase of this incredible chair! Does anyone bid two hundred?”
A woman in the back, looking amused, lifts her paddle. I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Two fifty?” I ask. “Anyone?”
No response.
“Come on now!” Mr. Jenkins bangs his fist on the podium again. “Someone bid two fifty or we’ll tell another joke.”
Three paddles shoot up into the air along with a few chuckles.
“Two fifty!” Mr. Jenkins points at a man who might have raised his paddle first. “Two seventy-five anyone? What do you get when you cross a busy road and a strawberry?”
“What?” I ask dutifully.
“A traffic jam!”
The audience chuckles again as a patron raises her paddle.
“Three hundred if you stop with the jokes!” she calls.
“Sold to the lovely lady in pink!” yells Mr. Jenkins, banging the gavel and pointing at the winner. “Next item is a princess chair complete with crown!”
The volunteers bring up the pink, sparkly chair topped with a glittering tiara. The bidding gets started, interrupted by what turns into the Liv-and-Mr.-Jenkins comedy act as Mr. Jenkins fires off riddles about bugs, animals, and outer space, while I play the straight man and laugh at every joke.
“Lot five, folks,” I announce as a volunteer brings up another chair, “a gorgeous Indian-patterned chair with an incredibly detailed mandala on the seat.”
The next hour passes in a blur of activity and whirlwind bidding, as the audience gets into the rhythm of the event and Mr. Jenkins and I find our groove. The light grows dimmer as more clouds gather overhead, but at least I’m not worried about rain because Kelsey checked the forecast and assured me the weather would be good all weekend.
Archer’s chair is next—the detailed rendition of the comic-book superheroine Blue causing a stir of interest in the crowd. Paddles lift into the air as Mr. Jenkins reads the description.
“We have a bid for three hundred,” I announce. “Do I hear three fifty for this incredible work of art?”
“Five hundred dollars,” a female voice calls from the back of the audience.
Everyone turns to look at the woman who dared defy the order of the paddles.
Kelsey March.
Of course.
She’s standing on the edge of the crowd, the blue streak in her hair glowing like neon, her arms crossed and her features set in that stubborn expression I know so well. She looks exactly like the strong, fierce Blue who can create tornadoes from the palms of her hands.
“We have a bid for five hundred dollars,” I say into the mic. “Do we have a…”
“Six hundred!” a deep male voice booms from the other side of the tent.
We all look in that direction. Archer is standing there with Nicholas still on his shoulders. Nicholas is waving a paddle in the air. Kelsey shoots Archer a glower. He responds with a look of pure defiance.
“Six fifty!” Kelsey calls.
“Do we have a bid for seven hundred?” Mr. Jenkins asks.
Several paddles lift.
“Eight hundred,” Archer shouts.
Mr. Jenkins and I exchange looks of surprise.
“A thousand?” he asks into the mic.
“A thousand five hundred,” Kelsey calls.
People turn to stare at Archer and Kelsey. Though they’re on opposite sides of the tent, they’re looking at each other with such challenge it’s as if they’re the only two people present. I can practically see the sparks flashing between them.
“Do we have a bid for a thousand six hundred?” I ask, torn between wanting the money for the restoration and not wanting my friends to go over the top.
“Two thousand,” Archer calls.
There’s a collective gasp.
“Two thousand five hundred?” Mr. Jenkins asks.
Archer taps Nicholas on the knee. Nicholas waves the paddle in the air.
“Uh, you’re bidding against yourself, son,” Mr. Jenkins remarks.
The audience chuckles.
“No,” Archer replies. “I’m bidding for her.”
A smattering of applause and laughter rises in the air, and a flush colors Kelsey’s cheeks. Mr. Jenkins grins.
“Do I hear two thousand six hundred?” he asks.
I look at Kelsey, who shakes her head. A man in the front row raises his paddle, which causes another ripple of surprise.
“Three,” Archer shouts.
In the end, Archer buys his own chair for three thousand two hundred dollars—easily the largest bid yet, and one that brings the audience to its feet in a standing ovation. It takes Mr. Jenkins and me a good five minutes to get everyone settled back down and focused on the next chair.
The frenzy over Archer and Kelsey’s bidding has galvanized both the crowd and Mr. Jenkins.
“Lettuce raise the bids, Liv!” he shouts into the microphone.
I smile and rush through the remaining sales pitches, describing a jungle-themed chair, an ocean chair, a Dr. Seuss-inspired chair—all of which bring in substantial bids.
Just as Mr. Jenkins slams the gavel down on a winning bid, a booming noise cracks overhead. I jump a little, startled, as the patrons murmur to each other and glance up at the tent roof.
“Hey, Liv, what does a cloud have on under his pants?” Mr. Jenkins asks cheerfully.
“Um, what?” I realize the sky has grown even darker, almost iron-gray. I’ve been so preoccupied with the auction I didn’t notice before now.
“Thunderwear!” Mr. Jenkins claps his hands and laughs.
Thunder?
Light flashes through the grayness. I turn, looking past the patrons to where the chairs are all lined up on the grass, awaiting pickup from the winning bidders. Another crack sounds in the distance, a rumbling noise like a hungry giant or—
The skies open up. A flood of heavy rain begins to pour down, splashing onto the tent and pooling immediately into puddles of muddy water.
Are you freaking kidding me?
A gust of wind billows against the tent, rippling the cover. Shrieks and gasps rise from the crowd. People push to their feet, clutching bags and purses as they hurry to seek more secure shelter.
I grab Mr. Jenkins’ arm, helping him down the steps of the stage to where Florence is sitting.
“The café is open, if you can make it over there,” I tell them. “But hurry.”
I run outside, thinking of the carnival, the entertainment, if there’s enough shelter for everyone. The rain spills down, lightning splitting across the sky. People rush away from the stages, clutching their children’s hands or holding event fliers over their heads.
“Save the chairs, man!”
I whirl at the sound of Archer’s voice. He’s waving frantically at Brent, who is running toward him from the direction of the food trucks. Kelsey is close behind, holding Nicholas. She sees me and swerves, as Brent and Archer rush to pull the painted chairs into a nearby truck.
“Freak storm,” Kelsey gasps, her blond hair hanging damply over her face. “It wasn’t on the radar, Liv, I swear.”
“Can you take Nicholas to the café?” I ask. “Get him changed? There’s clean clothes in his diaper bag in my office.”
“Yeah, but you need to take cover too.”
“I’ll be there in a sec. Just want to make sure no one needs help.”
Kelsey runs off into the storm. I hurry to the stages to ask if the bands are okay or if they need help with their equipment. In seconds, I’m drenched through, water spilling down my face and soaking my clothes. Another crash of thunder and lightning rents the air.
The rain comes down harder.
The festival volunteers rally as best they can, but the lightning is getting closer and being in an open field is about the worst place for any of us. The wind increases, pushing against the tents, tipping over garbage bins and sandwich-board signs.
When a food tent dislodges from its moorings and billows toward the lake, the remaining staff and festival-goers run toward Avalon Street, seeking shelter in shops and restaurants.
Wiping rivulets of water from my face, I return to the auction tent to try and find Brent and Archer, but the place is empty, chairs overturned and auction paddles lying in the mud. I cast a glance over the park. It’s now deserted, the wind and rain whipping through the abandoned tents and art booths.
I turn, hurrying to the Wonderland Café. Mud soaks into my shoes. By the time I go up the front porch steps, I’m waterlogged, cold, and starting to shiver. Light blazes through the windows of the café. The air inside is fragrant with the scents of sugar cookies and hot tea.
Because the café was closed for the festival, the only people inside are Florence, Mr. Jenkins, and Kelsey. They’re all still in their wet clothes, but somewhat drier thanks to kitchen towels. Nicholas, in dry clothes from his diaper bag, is sitting at one of the tables in his booster seat, eating cheddar crackers and drinking milk.
“You okay?” Kelsey hurries toward me. “Everyone else?”
“I think everyone is okay, but I’ll check with the fire department. They were on hand in case of an emergency.” My phone is wet but working, so I contact the fire chief and paramedics, who thankfully report no injuries or accidents.
“Have you heard from Archer?” I ask Kelsey.
“Not yet.” She checks her phone, her forehead creasing with worry.
I go into the back office, where I keep extra clothes for myself, and change into black yoga pants and a T-shirt. When I return to the front room, a clatter of activity comes from the porch. The door opens, and Archer walks in, carrying the Blue chair.
“We got all the chairs to the warehouse,” he tells me, plunking the chair down by the counter. “Doesn’t appear to be much damage.”
His gaze meets Kelsey’s across the room. Energy arcs through the air. Kelsey crosses her arms. Her eyes narrow with defiance, as if she’s trying to resist the obviously magnetic force between them.
“I wanted that chair,” she informs him icily.
“Good, because I made it for you.” Archer’s expression becomes equally mutinous. “You don’t want to get married, fine. But no way are you shutting me out, storm girl. You’re mine, dammit. You’re mine for life, whether you marry me or not. You won’t take my ring yet, but you’d damned well better take this chair.”
He folds his arms across his wide chest and glowers at her, as if defying her to say no. The rest of us are silent, the air tense with anticipation over what Kelsey is going to say or do next.
She walks toward Archer, her gaze never leaving his.
“Ask me,” she orders.
He studies her for a second, then goes down on one knee in front of her. My heart gives a little leap, as I’m sure he’s going to propose again. He puts one hand on the Blue chair.
“Kelsey March,” Archer says. “Will you accept this chair?”
A slow smile blooms across Kelsey’s face. She reaches out to thread her fingers through Archer’s hair. For a long moment, they look at each other, caught in something so intense and private I’m sure they’ve forgotten everyone else in the room.
“Yes,” Kelsey says, running her hand down the side of Archer’s face. “Forever.”
Florence and I clap. We all smile as Archer gets to his feet and pulls Kelsey into his arms for a kiss. Happy as I am for both of them, and their consensus that a lifelong love can bloom bright even without marriage, I still experience a sudden, sharp longing for my husband. For us, our marriage is everything.
Our marriage is everything.
The declaration repeats in my mind, like a comet streaking endlessly across the sky. Something opens inside me, revealing the basic truth that has always been a part of me. But it had gotten buried beneath the chaos of work, responsibilities, parenthood, daily living, and… I admit rather reluctantly… dusty old fears that maybe it’s time for me to throw out for good.
“Well, we should get going,” Florence remarks, tugging on her damp coat.
“We might need an ark.” Mr. Jenkins looks at the cascade of rain falling outside the window. “Good thing I Noah guy who can build one.”
Florence rolls her eyes. Kelsey, Archer, and I all chuckle.
“It’s still raining pretty hard,” I tell them. “You shouldn’t drive home yet.”
“We’ll be fine.” Florence waves her hand in a circle. “I’m in the mood for some hot toddies, if you know what I mean.”
Kelsey shoots me an amused look and strides to the door.
“We’ll drop you both off,” she offers. “We need to get home too.”
There’s a small flurry of activity as everyone prepares to leave. I don’t want to go home until I can assess the festival damage, and I promise Kelsey I’ll stay at the café until the rain lets up.
After they all leave, I make myself a cup of tea and pick up Nicholas when he starts whining and rubbing his eyes. I turn on some gentle music and walk around the café with him in my arms.
I pass the Mad Hatter tea party, the wacky croquet game where the Red Queen’s face is contorted with anger, the Kansas farm where a twister spins from the floor to the ceiling, whisking Dorothy and Toto off on an adventure.
I walk through the Wicked Witch’s castle, the poppy fields, Munchkinland where Dorothy took her first step on the Yellow Brick Road. I pass the garden where Alice is talking to the caterpillar, seated on a soft mushroom with smoke billowing above him, and where she dances the quadrille with the Gryphon and the Mock Turtle.
And the Gryphon added, “Come, let’s hear some of your adventures.”
“I could tell you my adventures—beginning from this morning,” said Alice a little timidly, “but it’s no use going back to yesterday because I was a different person then.”
Nicholas shifts in my arms, resting his head against my shoulder. I return to the office and place him gently in his soft playpen, dimming the lights and turning the music lower. He sleeps soundly, his mouth slightly open and his hands balled into little fists. I settle my hand on his back, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. I whisper a few words of thanks, then take my mug of tea out to the covered back terrace.
The rain is still coming down in heavy, gusting sheets. I stop at the railing, looking at the expanse of Wizard’s Park, the broken tents lying on the grass like wounded sea creatures, the litter of sodden popcorn boxes and popped balloons, the deserted food booths and overturned chairs.
Tears sting my eyes. The disappointment I’ve kept at bay now settles heavily around my heart. Despite my stumbles, I’d worked hard for the festival. I’d desperately wanted everything to turn out well. I’d wanted it all to be perfect.
I wipe at a drop rolling down my cheek, not sure if it’s rain or tears. I can’t help feeling as if I let down so many people. Townspeople, sponsors, vendors, artists, entertainers, children, the Historical Society. Myself.
No, it doesn’t make sense to feel like this. Not even Kelsey, atmospheric scientist extraordinaire, could have predicted this storm. And I’ve certainly learned that life hides countless unforeseen catastrophes no one can predict.
Hell, life is messy. Stormy. Uncontrollable. Maybe all you can do is shelter yourself with the people you love most. At least then, you can enjoy the good weather and get through the storms together.
I start to go back into the café when a movement catches my eye. I turn and look into the distance. My breath catches, my heart making a wild, spinning leap up into the stars. In the rain, the indistinct outline of a tall, broad-shouldered man appears, striding through the flooded wreckage of the park as if he’s a warrior crossing a battlefield.
As always, his path is a direct, unwavering line straight to me.