This time she laughs so hard her mouthful of coffee sprays across the kitchen. “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” she’s laughing and lurching for the roll of paper towels.
“Sit down,” I tell her. “I’ve got this. Drink your coffee and stop making fun of me for wanting to take you somewhere you’ll like.”
“What about you?”
I squat down, wiping a few drops off the tile. I look up at her. “I like making you happy.”
She raises her hand to her chest and holds it there. “Stop it.”
“What?”
“You’re willing to go through torture just to take me to do something I want to do?”
“It won’t be torture. I’ll be with you. Having fun.”
She shakes her head, then she’s down next to me, takingthe towel out of my hand. “Let me clean up my own mess. And I’ll let you take me to this hello spring thing.”
“Deal,” I say, standing.
I finish my coffee and rinse my mug while Hallie wipes all the surfaces within ten feet of where she was standing. She finishes her coffee and we head out toward Cookeville.
Hallie reads the article on my phone while I drive. “Hello Spring is held at the Putnam County Fairgrounds in Cookeville. We have over two hundred vendors and food trucks, live music and much more!” She looks over at me, a giddy smile on her face. “I really am going to like this thing.”
“I knew it.”
We spend the day going from booth to booth. Hallie admires people’s handiwork and we even buy a few things to take home with us. I’m carrying bags that contain a few hand-hammered sterling bracelets, local honey and fresh jam, and a handmade soy candle that Hallie said smelled like heaven.
She’s walking through a booth with aprons and dish towels now, and I’m watching her face light up as she reads the ridiculous sayings to me.
She giggles, covering her mouth and reads one to me. “I know how to grill this. I watched a YouTube video!”
Her eyes meet mine and I smile. She’s having the time of her life.
“You need dish towels,” she declares, popping a fist onto one hip and glancing around at the canopied vendor’s offerings.
I walk in under the canopy. “I don’t need dish towels. I have two sets.”
“Not fun ones,” she looks up at me, eyes wide, smile full.
“Because dish towels need to be fun?”
“Exactly.” Her eyes soften. “Life is serious enough, Greyson. Have some fun dish towels.”
“Fine,” I concede.
If she wanted to buy out the canopy, I’d say yes.
“Look!” Hallie exclaims, grabbing one and reading it. “Kiss the Cook!”
“Does that mean you’ll be following the instructions on my towels?” I ask.
“I most definitely will,” she says with a wink.
Her face falls for the briefest moment, so I pick up another towel and read the embroidered caption. “Life’s short. Lick the bowl.”
“Yes!” she says. “That’s perfect!” And just like that, we’re back in our own four-day world where clocks and limits and reasons this can’t continue dissolve like sugar in coffee.
“What about a chef’s apron?” she asks. Then she bursts into laughter and can’t even get the caption out. “I Like Pig …” she snort-laughs. “I like …” Her hand is on her abdomen and she’s gasping for breath through her laughter.
