ONE
JO
I’m elbow-deep in Valentine’s Day chaos when Hazel walks through the door of Driftwood and Dreams, takes one look at the explosion of heart-shaped everything covering every surface, and starts laughing.
“Jo Lennox, what have you done?”
“Created magic.” I brandish a glue gun like a wand. There’s paint in my hair and a heart sticker stuck to my cheek, but I don’t care. “Twin Waves’ first-ever Valentine’s Day festival is going to be legendary.”
“It’s going to be something.” Hazel picks her way through the obstacle course of craft supplies and vintage furniture. “And you’re hosting this...here?”
“Where else? This place is perfect!” I spin around, taking in Driftwood and Dreams—my baby, my labor of love. “We’ve got the atmosphere, the location, the vision?—“
“The messy craft supplies everywhere?”
“—the passion for bringing people together. This is what I do, Hazel. I take broken things and make them beautiful again. Speaking of which, how’s my future daughter-in-law?”
Her face softens. “Mads is perfect. She and Asher are disgustingly happy.”
My heart does that swooping thing it’s been doing since Christmas, when my son finally claimed the love of his life. Watching them together makes something in my chest ache—the good kind of ache. The kind that whispers maybe, possibly, what if.
I’m forty-eight. I raised Asher alone after a divorce that nearly broke me. Seven years I’ve been convinced that chapter was closed.
But lately, watching my son fall in love?—
“You’re thinking too hard,” Hazel observes.
“I’m thinking about the festival,” I lie, returning to my heart garland. “Jessica and Michelle are coming by later, and Amber’s bringing samples?—“
The door chimes.
Suddenly my boutique is full of women. Not just our book club crew. Thirty women. Maybe more. They keep streaming through the door like I’m giving away free wine and Ryan Gosling’s phone number.
“Jo! We’re here for the Valentine’s planning meeting!”
“Everyone wants to help!”
Women are sitting on counters, perched on display cases, and one brave soul has climbed into my decorative canoe. Every chair is taken. The exits are blocked by people and Valentine’s decorations and a life-sized cardboard cutout of Fabio that someone brought as a joke.
“This is amazing,” I breathe.
This is what I dreamed about. Not just opening a business, but creating connections. Making magic happen.
Two hours later, we’ve made serious progress. The “Love Stories and Lattes” festival has a schedule, volunteers, and enough creative ideas to fill a month.
“So we’re agreed,” I summarize. “February fourteenth. Coffee tasting, romance novel speed dating, couples’ paintingworkshop, vintage photo booth, author meet-and-greet, and sunset beach bonfire with s’mores.”
“It’s perfect,” Grandma Hensley announces.
“There’s just one small problem,” Michelle ventures. “Jo, have you considered the logistics? The actual physical space issue?”
I look around. Thirty women crammed into my shop. Someone’s elbow is in a candle display. The decorative canoe now holds three people.
“We’ll make it work. More people means more love, more community, more?—“
“More fire hazards,” a deep, decidedly male voice cuts through the chatter.
The room goes silent.
