Page 2 of Love and Pumpkins
“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you!”
“Welcome. And if you’d like to return the favor, I need a right fielder for the game tonight.”
Oh, no! Caught!
“Um, Mr. Curtis, remember that time in high school PE when the softball hit me on the leg and left a bruise the size of a small squash?”
“Right, but you were playing shortstop then. I won’t make that mistake today. The game’s at seven. Bring your mitt.”
“Yes, sir.” I give him a playful salute. I’m not a skilled player, but I don’t want to let the mayor nor the team down.
We part at the edge of the vendor area. He’s manning the ticket booth this morning. I’m sure if I hadn’t agreed to play, he would have found some unsuspecting festival-goer to stand in before noon.
How did I let myself get roped into softball? Maybe being the early bird pays off in unwanted extracurricular activities. Definitely something to remember for next year. Maybe I’ll purchase a flatbed trailer, preload it with all my wares, and pull up into my spot ten minutes before shoppers arrive. That would be a clever solution!
Not that I can afford a big-ticket purchase anytime soon. The furnace in our building broke, and if I don’t get it fixed before winter, I won’t be able to keep my store open. Let alone the challenge Chloe and I will have living there with a broken furnace. A wave of dread makes my skin shiver even in this heatwave.
Back at my booth space, I set up the three eight-foot tables and move them into a u-shape. Covering the tables with the tablecloths reminds me to text Chloe to bring me the store-branded banners that drape over the tables. I had asked her to iron them and forgot to get them from her when I loaded my car last night.
Chloe had asked me about the furnace, and it had put me in a funk. I forgot all about the banners.
Sighing, I decide to run home and get them myself. Besides, I could use a quick shower to cool off.
The risk falls not only to Chloe and me. Seven independent artisans have mini booths set up in my boutique, and the store is a critical income source for two of the seven.
If I think about it too much, I might have a full-blown panic attack. I push thoughts of the furnace aside and ruminate on the fact that I couldn’t come up with an excuse fast enough to get out of playing softball tonight.
Sorry, Coach-Mayor, I have a hot date tonight. We’ve rescheduled three times already; I can’t miss it!
He would have seen right through that excuse. It’s no secret that I haven’t dated in two years, not since my last broken engagement.
That’s right, the last one. One of two broken engagements. Not only am I no good at saying no when the coach asks me to play softball, I haven’t been good at saying no when surprised by a sparkling diamond ring either. Even though I knew in my heart in both instances it was way too soon, that I wasn’t ready for a lifetime commitment, I had said yes.
Like a pushover. It’s difficult to say no; that’s why I belong to three community organizations and volunteer for every good cause anytime I’m asked.
It wasn’t until I told my mom about each engagement that I knew it was wrong to accept their proposals.
She had looked at me with her large brown eyes and said, “Really, Phoebe?” and I broke down and cried. She’d hugged me tightly and told me that if that was my reaction, it wasn’t right, and I had to break off the engagement.
At least I know that my mom’s the ultimate sounding board for important life decisions. If I can tell herimportant news—such as an engagement, or the decision to purchase an eighty-year-old building that needed “some” work in order to open a retail boutique after the previous nine businesses had gone kaput in under a year—and I don’t cry, then it’s probably a decent decision.
And I’ve been good with those decisions (the building purchase and starting a business, not the engagements), until now. When I received the furnace repair estimate with the nearly five-figure price tag, I almost cried on Mr. Turner’s shoulder. Though we’re living through a heat wave right now, the weather could turn cold within weeks.
The fate of my retail shop and my living arrangements rides heavily on a successful market this weekend. I’m really hoping the extreme heat doesn’t keep the shoppers away. Holding my head up in this town if my store closes before hitting its second anniversary will be next to impossible.
This weekend needs to be profitable, with no surprises.
Chapter Two
Not only was I fully set up an hour before the festival began, I had time to dash home to shower and toss the sweat-drenched denim shorts and heavy T-shirt in the hamper. I changed into a pair of lightweight cotton shorts and a baby blue tank top. I may look more ready for the gym than a vendor fair, but at least I no longer have the giant wet spot on my back.
Mrs. Johnson kindly kept an eye on my booth while I was gone. Her booth is directly across from mine, and she’s selling her famous apple, pecan, and pumpkin pies—all with a heavy dash of cinnamon to tickle one’s taste buds. Those are three separate kinds of pie, not all in one. Though an apple-pecan-and-pumpkin pie might be delicious.
While I was gone, which was only thirty-three minutes (I timed myself), the booth owner on the left side of me arrived and set up their tables, but there’s no sign of product or vendor around.
Curious, I stroll over to Mrs. Johnson to see who my neighbor will be for the event.
“Oh, that was some young man I didn’t recognize,” she said, waving her hand, holding a small placard displaying her prices. Ten dollars a pie—a bargain! I’ll have to purchase a pumpkin pie before they sell out.
