“Brody? Oh. At the lake. You don’t need to leave. Bob said he’d put up my tent.”
Nate took a step backward. “Bob? Are you kidding? He’s a would-be politician. All he can do is eat rubber chicken. I have to lift the poles.” He couldn’t help it but he held up his arm and flexed his bicep. It was something he’d been doing a lot in the last few weeks because every time he flexed, Terri gave a very satisfying expression of appreciation.
But Stacy’s frown didn’t change. She was utterly unaffected by his display of muscle.
He took another step back. “I really do need to go. They’re expecting me. And I have to oversee your booth. The boxes you sent fill a dump truck.”
“I guess,” Stacy said, then regained her usual happiness. “You’re right. I have much more in the basement of Mom and Dad’s house. Why don’t you go to the lake to work on the tent and send Bob to me?”
Nate had an idea that suggestion was supposed to make him feel guilty—or maybe jealous—but it didn’t. “Great idea! I’ll do it.” He got to the door before he turned back. In a few steps he crossed the distance between them and pulled her into his arms. He had to bend down to reach her and she had to stand on her toes, but their lips met.
This time, it was Stacy who got passionate and Nate who pulled away. “Keep up with that and I’ll never get out of here.”
“That’s the whole idea,” Stacy said with absolutely no humor.
“You’re so cute.” He touched the tip of her nose with his finger, then was out the door before she could say another word.
He drove much too fast to get to the lake, and when he saw the chaos he was relieved. He needed that to take his mind off his own problems.
There were pickup trucks everywhere and it looked like a hundred people were unloading them—and they were all arguing about how to do it. Some booths were tents, some were being built out of pine, some were prefabricated of plywood. Sellers did a lot to attract customers to them.
A straw hat blew across the gravel and landed at Nate’s feet. He picked it up and smiled at the middle-aged woman chasing it. She looked as though she didn’t know whether to cry or kill someone.
“I hate my husband,” she said. “Really and truly hate him. I should have listened to my mother and dumped him twenty-four years ago.”
Nate slid an arm around her shoulders and handed her the hat. “What do you say we go beat him up?”
“Only if I get to help.”
Thirty minutes later, he’d settled six arguments and had found Terri and her uncle Frank, then got the glass guy and the pot holder woman together.
Best of all, he’d made a date to have lunch with Terri. No! he corrected himself. No date with Terri. They were in business together and needed to discuss it.
And, he promised himself, as soon as Widiwick was over, he was going to spend a whole lot of time with his bride-to-be and rediscover what had made him fall in love with her in the first place. Yes, he thought. That’s all he needed. Time with Stacy and it would all come back to him.
By twelve thirty, Nate was hungry, thirsty and ready to throw people in the lake. The petty complaints they came up with were appalling. “My space is too far from the toilets,” a man said. Nate bit his tongue to keep from saying “Use a tree.”
Two women were arguing over the colors of their side-by-side booths. Nate started to step in but Reverend Nolan caught his arm. “Save your breath. Those two are sisters.” Nate nearly ran away.
When it was almost time to escape to some peace and quiet, he saw Mrs. Lennon alone in the midst of what looked to be a hundred pots, ranging from new to old tin cans, all ready to be filled with flowers. Her tent was up, a light tan trimmed in dark green, and she had a big sign: Garden Day.
All in all, a nonangry person looked like a haven. “You okay? Need any help?” he asked.
“You couldn’t possibly move that big urn to the front, could you?”
“Sure.” Nate slid his forearms under the iron pot, lifted with his legs and carried it to where she pointed and set it down.
“My goodness, but you are a strong young man. You must have to work to keep the girls away.”
Nate picked up another big pot and moved it to the front. “I just wish all of them thought that,” he mumbled. When he stood up, Mrs. Lennon was staring at him, her eyes asking what he’d meant. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I better go.”
“How about a tall glass of homemade lemonade?”
“Who do I have to murder?”
She motioned him to the back of the tent where she’d set up a little table and two chairs. A big container of lemonade and a box of cookies were on top. “Help yourself.” He took a seat and she sat across from him.
“Whoever thought up this festival should be shot,” he said. “I mean the very first person who invented it, not the Widiwick part.”