"Oh. My. GOODNESS." The words came out at a volume that carried across the entire street. "Ed! ED! Get out here! LOOK!"
Ed Conley appeared in the doorway, blinking at the sunlight. "What? What am I looking at?"
"THEM!" Mrs. Conley pointed at Clara and Jack like they were an exhibit at a museum. "They're HOLDING HANDS, Ed! HOLDING HANDS!"
"Is that flour on the sidewalk?" Ed asked.
"FORGET THE FLOUR!"
Clara's face caught fire. Jack, the bastard, squeezed her hand and kept walking.
"Should we stop?" he asked mildly.
"If we stop, she'll hug us. Keep moving."
"CLARA!" Mrs. Conley was already in pursuit, flour footprints trailing behind her. "Clara, sweetheart, this is WONDERFUL! When did this happen? Was it the festival? I told Ida something happened at the festival! She owes me ten dollars!"
"Your mother bet against us?" Jack asked, amused.
"My mother bet on a different timeline, which is somehow worse." Clara tried to walk faster but Mrs. Conley had the determined pace of a woman who'd been waiting for this moment for weeks.
"Mrs. Conley, we're just going to the hardware store?—"
"Of course you are, dear. Of course." Mrs. Conley fell into step beside them, beaming like she'd personally orchestrated their relationship. "Jack, you look wonderful. Doesn't he look wonderful, Clara? There's color in his cheeks. That's the ocean air. And love. Love puts color in your cheeks."
"It's sunburn," Clara said flatly.
"You know, I told your mother the very first day—the VERY first day—I said, 'Ida, this young man is going to be important.' Didn't I say that? I have the text to prove it. Would you like to see the text?"
"I would," Jack offered.
"You would not," Clara corrected.
Mrs. Conley was already scrolling through her phone. "Here! June fourteenth. 'Ida, Clara brought a tall handsome man to town today. Mark my words.' See? MARK MY WORDS. And here we are! Marked!"
"That's very impressive, Mrs. Conley."
"Don't encourage her," Clara muttered.
"I'm just being polite."
“That’s a dangerous game.”
They'd barely made it past the general store when Don Patterson materialized from the hardware store doorway, reading glasses on his head, grin already spreading across his face.
"Well, well, well." Don crossed his arms with the satisfaction of a man who'd seen something coming from a mile away. "Joan! Joan, come look!"
Joan appeared, took one look at their hands, and gave her husband a weary but fond smile. "Don, leave them alone."
"I'm not doing anything! I'm just observing! It's a free country and I'm observing two young people who are clearly?—"
"In need of marine-grade sealant," Jack said smoothly. "I called ahead about the order?"
"Right, right, the sealant." Don was transparently not interested in sealant. "Come on in. It's in the back. Joan, get the man his sealant."
"You get the man his sealant. I'm going back to the register."
Don ushered Jack inside, already launching into a tangent. "You know, Joan and I held hands for the first time at the Founder's Festival too. Well, not this festival, the one in 1986. Different stage—the onebefore the one before yours. Built by Dale's father, actually, wonderful craftsmanship, though the supports were?—"
