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I knew perfectly well that he was making fun of me, but now I thought that maybe I did need sunglasses. What if the spotlights were so bright that they made me squint and I missed something?

His hand found my upper back and rubbed in soothing circles. “Relax. It’s going to be amazing.”

“Or it’s going to be a disaster.” My heart flipped at the thought. There were so many things that could go wrong. One of the vendors driving up from the city could have blown a tire en route and not had the signal to call me and let me know, or we hadn’t gotten the word out to the right communities and nobody would show—

“It’s not going to be a disaster,” Seth said firmly. “It’s going to be amazing.”

He couldn’t know that, but I’d learned by now that there was no use in arguing with him about whether the glass was half-full or half-empty. I drew in a deep breath, setting my very heavy tote bag down with a thump. A tube of ChapStick rolled out and disappeared with a plink under the couch, but that was okay. I had two others in there just in case.

Trying to distract myself from the feeling of impending doom, I took a few deep breaths and tried to remind my brain that the odds of everything going wrong like that were actually very low, something my new therapist had recommended. I’d only started talking to her virtually a week ago, but I’d promised Seth that I’d give therapy a real go before declaring it useless. More importantly, I’d promised that to myself. So be it.

Wind howled outside. I braced myself for the chilly gust sure to come through my terrible cheap windows, but I remained warm. I blinked. That was distracting enough that all thoughts of how much of a disaster tonight might be fled. “Are my windows less drafty or is it just me?”

“Oh yeah, forgot to tell you,” Seth said. “I was so cold the other night that I resolved to fix them. It actually wasn’t that hard.”

“Who knew you were so handy?” I certainly hadn’t.

He shrugged modestly. “YouTube helped. It’s amazing how many things you can do when you just watch a video on how to do them. You’re welcome.”

“Thanks.”

“I already said you’re welcome. You ready?”

I took one last glance around the apartment, then down at myself. I’d selected jeans, one of Seth’s ugly Hanukkah sweaters we’d brought back with us just for this occasion—the one with the light-up menorah—and my warm puffy jacket to go over the ugly Hanukkah sweater so that nobody would actually have to see me wearing it. It was the spirit that counted. “I guess.”

“It’s going to be amazing,” Seth said for the third time, opening my front door before I could protest that I needed just one more—

Wait. I actually did need just one more thing. Before putting on my muddy boots, I darted over to the kitchen counter and palmed the knitted dolphin Kylie had made, tucking it away in my pocket. It wasn’t like I believed in good luck charms or anything, or like I found its presence on me comforting, or thought of it fondly. It was just a fun thing to have around.

(I’d named him Judah Maccasea.)

It was a quick drive to the site of the festival. I spent it looking out the window and taking deep breaths. Snow-topped trees flew by, perfuming the air with pine even through the closed windows of Seth’s car. He said, “Perfect weather. Enough snow on the ground to be appropriately festive, but not enough to impede travel.”

“It’s cold, though,” I said. “People might not want to come out in the cold.”

“It’s winter in Vermont. People know it’s going to be cold.”

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. Why bother? Maybe he was even right. I mean, nobody came to Vermont in the winter expecting a tropical vacation.

My heart lifted as we drove over the bumpy gravel of the parking lot, because the field was glowing with light. I could see the giant blow-up menorah, the fake flames high and proud, even from here. Since it wasn’t actually Hanukkah, we wouldn’t need to light anything, so I’d gone with the money-saving option.

Though I wouldn’t should we do this next year, because, if the event was a success and we did it again, it was going to be held on the actual holiday. That was one thing I’d insisted upon to Lorna during our phone call. We could extend it through winter break if we chose to, but I wanted to be able to light the menorah every night with the crowd. Everybody singing the blessings together like that was important to me and, I imagined, to them.

As we got out of the car, the speakers were already playing the selection of Hanukkah music Seth and I had painstakingly gathered from all around the Internet. Live music—a band headed by the bass player from the Eighth Night Ball, who told me he and his singer and guitar- and keyboard-playing friends knew all the same songs—would begin in a bit, when hopefully the attendance would be at its peak.

“Everything looks good,” Seth said. He wrapped his arms around me, pulling me in for a quick hug before the madness set in. “How are you feeling?”

My immediate reaction was to say panicked, or nervous, but honestly? Everything did look good. I’d done all I could. Now I just had to hope the people would come.

Over the next hour, they did. The vendors started setting up. I greeted the cookie-decorating people, Benjamin’s friend from Boston with his homemade menorahs (I had my eye on one sculpted out of wire flowers if it didn’t go quickly), the performers who’d be telling the Hanukkah story every half hour on the hour. The smells of frying dough and potatoes perfumed the air. There were a few minor hiccups—a missing electrical cord; some spilled applesauce—but nothing that couldn’t be remedied by Seth making a quick run to the local hardware store and supermarket.

Obviously, I had to stop by my own booth first. Maggie had been delighted to help out for the festival, and had dived into the job of making the Hanukkah specials I’d dreamed up absolutely perfectly every time. Since the festival was at night, I’d made sure to have plenty of decaf options on hand, as well as some spiced-up options for anyone who wanted to slip a little rum or vodka in their chocolate gelt latte or latke-ccino (one of the perks of living in a small town is being on a first-name basis with the guy who does liquor licenses).

I spent the rest of the time running around, getting forms signed and checking on all the details, but during a rare quiet moment I found myself standing at the edge of things, my hand in the pocket of my coat, stroking the small, fuzzy head of Judah Maccasea the dolphin (not for comfort or anything; just because it was fuzzy and fun and, fine, he was my good luck charm). I didn’t want to get my hopes up too high, but traffic at my café had been up by a fair amount this morning, mostly unfamiliar faces.

Unfamiliar faces that I started to see trickling in as the gates officially opened. Locals were scattered among them, curious at the new event in town or here to help work the booths, but mostly they seemed to be real tourists? Which was great? Exactly what I’d wanted?

I wasn’t sure how to deal with getting exactly what I wanted. My first instinct was to run away, or to tell myself that I hadn’t wanted it that bad anyway.