Page 57 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

It’s green as far as the eye can see, with plenty of pickles. There are cartoon ones, inflatables, and others constructed from papier-mâché. Most of the workers at the booths are dressed head to toe in green and white, and some wear period costumes, like Livia.

The festival surrounds the playscape at the center of the park, with the line of booths backed by trees. It moves on to the baseball field adjacent to the park, and the concession stand seems to be the source of power for a temporary stage with a green awning.

A barbershop quartet is in the process of testing the sound. They all wear round flat-topped hats with striped shirts. Green, of course.

“This is absolutely delightful,” Kelsey says, her hands clasped together. She looks like Sandy fromGreasewith her big bow pulling back her bright hair. And all that yellow. Even the white shoes. I wonder if she did it on purpose.

But I don’t ask.

“It looks early to scout a future husband.” There’s precious little in terms of a crowd yet. Most of the people are setting up to work.

“He could be serving.”

“Hard to take a stroll with him, then.”

She frowns. “True. But I’ll keep my options open.”

“What flavor of meet-cute are you after?”

“I don’t think I want to trip and fall again.” Her cheeks pink up.

“What does that leave? There’s no elevator. We decided the confrontation one was risky.”

She studies her surroundings. “There was picking up the wrong order. That would be easy here if he’s in line to get something. I could order right behind him, and then pick up his instead of mine.”

“That sounds adorable.” I hate it already.

“There’s also getting rescued.” She points at the midway games, throwing darts at balloons, knocking over pins, and other feats of skill that are likely rigged.

“Are you going to put yourself in the line of the squirt gun?” One of the games is a race where you move your horse by squirting water into a target.

“No, just by losing and being sad about it. See if someone will step right up and win for me.”

“That one seems unlikely.”

She clasps both hands together next to her cheek and flutters her eyelashes.

“That’s good,” I admit.

“See?” She drops the act.

“We’ve watched entirely too many romantic movies.”

She laughs. “We have.”

We walk the festival for a good hour, eating sandwiches on pickle bread—I wanted to call it “dill dough,” but Kelsey read my mind and warned me that I better not dare start gossip. We drink sweetened pickle juice and try pickle fudge.

But nobody seems quite right. Too young. Too old. Too married.

I’m pleased, actually.

Then both of us see him at the same time. Kelsey halts walking.

He’s buying a paper bag of pickle popcorn from a vendor. His sandy hair falls near his eye. He has a decent build and dresses well enough in jeans and a collared shirt.

And no ring. He has a younger girl with him who is clearly his sister. She takes the popcorn from him and runs off. He laughs and shakes his head.

“He loves his baby sister,” Kelsey says, her voice all breathy.

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