“It was anything but. Nonetheless, you must have more faith in that young man. He’s skilled at what he does. He saved many lives last night. And he came out in one piece. Trust him to do it again.”
I nod, biting my bottom lip.
“Oh, I wish Ferdinand could be here to meet your suitor,” Gran says, frowning. “Will it always hurt this much without him?”
I remove my glasses, vision blurred, swiping at my face and resigning myself to a truth I’ve run from until now. “Yes, it will always hurt this much, though time will help us better bear the pain.”
“You know, the Rough & Ready Harvest Festival was the last event we attended together.”
“We don’t have to go to the opening, if you’re not feeling up to it,” I offer. Heck, I’m not certain I am either.
Gran shakes her head, determination etched in her face. “Ferdinand wouldn’t want us to sit home alone.”
The smell of roasted corn, sticky caramel apples, Grandpa’s booming laugh echoing through the pumpkin patch … the month-long event, Thursdays through Saturdays, each weekend in October, is stitched into the fabric of my childhood. This year, though, the laughter will feel thinner. Like the patch is missing one of its roots.
I can’t remember a year I haven’t attended this event with my grandparents, often on multiple weekends. Bobbing for apples, enjoying hayrides, carving pumpkins, participating in the petting zoo, and shopping at the booths bursting with crafts and farm goods.
“We should go, Cat. Even if it’s only for a little bit.”
I hesitate. But then, it hits me. If Gran can rally to the occasion, so can I. “Alright, I’ll jump in the shower, and then we’ll head over. Oh, shoot! What about dinner?”
“We can eat there,” Gran suggests.
Fudge, apple strudel, pumpkin pie, funnel cakes … all sugar and nostalgia.
“Are you sure you can wait that long?”
“I’m fine. Tilly made a big lunch.”
An hour later, Gran and I park in the makeshift lot in front of Sprucewood Farms, delighting in the pumpkin-lined pathway leading to the vendors sprawled on the lawn. I hold her upper arm gently to ensure she doesn’t stumble.
Gran is light enough to blow away in the wind. I begged her to bring her walker. But she refused, horrified by the thought of people seeing her that way.
As we walk down the main line of vendors, off in the distance, I see the scarlet ladder engine and firemen lined up in their uniforms. They man a booth piled with fire management pamphlets and souvenirs that kids can win playing carnival-style games.
But what really catches my attention is the line of women snakingaround the booth-filled pasture to get Ambrose’s autograph.
“There’s your gentleman caller,” Gran exclaims. His navy blue uniform fits to a tee, snazzy and disciplined, from its silver buttons to the shiny belt buckle.Talk about a main attraction.
Ambrose patiently speaks to each woman, taking selfies with them and signing TV show memorabilia.
“We should go talk to him,” Gran orders.
“No way. We’ll be stuck in line for an hour,” I mutter, only to catch his gaze as he glances up. It sears into me, his mouth shaping a shy “Hello” as he rakes his fingers through his thick hair.
“Do you see the way he looks at you, Cat? Like you’re the only woman who exists?”
“No, what I see is the way women fawn all over him. It’s ridiculous.”Will he have to deal with this all month?Part of me wants to march over and claim him, remind those women he’s not their fantasy but my reality …if only I had the guts.
Instead, I hang back, invisible.Always invisible.Except to him.
I frown as fans near the front of the line fight for his attention, until he rips his eyes away, returning to signing posters and shirts, and looking miserable.
After the events of yesterday, my concerns about Ambrose’s fame seem tiny, minuscule. Barely worth my attention in the larger grasp of his mortality and highly dangerous line of work.
Ambrose’s gaze finds me again, and a goofy grin captures his kissable lips. My heart melts, and yet I hold back. Still bracing. Still shielding. Still trying to protect the heart that may already be lost.
He motions us over. But the last thing I want is to get caught up in the celebrity hubbub. So, I shake my head, mouthing, “We’ll come back.”
