“Quit brooding.” Thatcher thumped a coil of rope at my feet. “You look like Ridge.”
“Don’t insult me.” Ridge’s voice came from behind us. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere else than right in the thick of the Founders’ Festival. He wasn’t leaving, though. That wasn’t his style. He hung back and watched like a man guarding a line nobody else could see.
“There’s a guy by the bandstand asking if you’ll design a mountain bike park up near Lost Elk,” Thatcher added. “Said it’d be perfect for your brand.”
“Tell him no,” I said without thinking.
Thatcher paused. “Since when do you say no to something new and shiny?”
“Since her,” I muttered. I wasn’t running off after the next thing. Not this time. Not if it took the next ten years to get her to respond to a single one of my texts.
“Are you sticking around tonight?” I asked Ridge.
He shrugged one shoulder. “The band isn’t terrible. Sabrina’s new dark roast is decent. I guess that’s enough.”
“And the podcaster?” Thatcher jerked his chin toward the Timber Mill Inn. The guy had made the porch his stage again. Even from over a hundred yards away, I could see the way he pitched his body so the light liked him.
“The podcaster is a reason to keep a lid on your temper,” Thatcher said. “Ridge.”
Ridge’s mouth went thin. “I know the difference between a match and a forest fire.”
“Good,” Thatcher said.
I drained the last of my coffee and promised myself I wouldn’t get close enough to let the man record even a second of my voice.
The day shifted, the sun dipping low and painting the brick-fronted buildings in gold. Lanterns strung over the street blinked on one by one while the band tested the speakers with a run of chords that made the hair on my arms lift. The little kids had been taken home and put to bed. As the stars appeared in the dark night sky overhead, the mayor got ready to light the bonfire in the middle of the square.
I grabbed a beer from the Knotty Tap booth and took a minute to breathe the scene in. This was the part I loved—the collective inhale before the party started. Neighbors tapped their toes in time to the music in their good boots. Old timers in caps leaned their elbows on the rail, ready to judge whoever tried the first two-step.
“Good evening, son.” Harvey eased up beside me, looking all gussied up in a plaid shirt and boots polished to a shine. He held the cane, but he wasn’t leaning on it hard. Pride seemed to be propping him up tonight.
“You look sharp,” I said.
He tugged at his collar like it was strangling him. “I figured I’d give myself every advantage tonight.”
I followed his gaze across the square. Nellie stood at The Huckleberry Café booth, her cheeks pink, hair pinned back, and smile shining under the lanterns. She was handing a slice to my brother Holt with both hands like she didn’t trust him not to drop it.
“Have you asked her yet?” I asked.
“Not until I can stand up for three minutes without looking like a sapling in a windstorm.” He swallowed and squared his shoulders.
“You will,” I said. “And she’ll say yes.”
He cut me a look like the words helped and he didn’t want me to know it.
The band slid into a slow waltz, and the square stirred. Couples drifted into the open, their fingers lacing, faces turned toward each other with that look people get when the music gives them permission to be honest.
Harvey took in a breath like he was about to head off to battle. “Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need it,” I said, but I squeezed his shoulder, anyway. “Go get her.”
He crossed the square like a man who’d practiced every step from his porch to that pie booth multiple times. Nellie saw him coming. Surprise flashed, then joy flowed in behind it like the tide. He bowed, and she laughed. When he held out his hand, she took it. They moved onto the square, and he left his cane leaning against the table.
I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt. This was why I wanted those courts. Not for headlines. For moments like this when a steady beat and steady hands turned fear into joy.
That was when I spotted Rowan at one side of the square. She had her clipboard in one hand and her phone pressed to her ear. Gillian hovered next to her like she was waiting for instructions.
I walked toward them, ready to take my shot.
