Page 10 of Melting the Grump
But I'm smiling as we continue our inspection. The air carries the scent of fresh hay and soil, along with hints of cinnamon and apples from a vendor testing their cider press.
We spend the next hour examining each area, discussing electrical needs, spacing, and traffic flow. Despite my determination to maintain professional distance, I find myself relaxing into our easy rhythm. Abigail listens to my concerns without defensiveness, incorporating suggestions and offering creative solutions to problems I identify.
"Scott! Abigail!" Meredith from the town council approaches, bundled in a wool coat. "Glad I caught you both. Have you seen the weather alert?"
I pull out my phone, noticing several missed notifications. "What's going on?"
"That storm system is moving in faster than expected. They're saying we could get our first snow squall of the season by early afternoon." She looks worried. “We’re asking folks to pack up their demos and head home within the hour.”
As if on cue, I notice the sky darkening to the west, clouds rolling in with ominous speed. The air has taken on that peculiar stillness that often precedes a significant weather change, and the temperature seems to have dropped several degrees since we arrived.
"We'll finish up quickly," Abigail assures her, but I can see disappointment etched in her features. She's been planning this inspection for days.
"I'll help everyone secure the site," I offer, already mentally cataloging what needs to be done. "Abigail, you should head back to town."
She gives me a look that clearly says she has no intention of leaving. "I'm staying to help. This is my responsibility."
Meredith hurries off to warn others, leaving us alone as the first gusts of wind begin to whip through the hollow, sending leaves spiraling into the air.
"Abigail—" I begin, but she cuts me off.
"Don't even start. I'm not leaving until everything is properly secured."
There's a stubbornness in her tone that I recognize all too well. Rather than argue, I nod toward the vendor stalls. "Then let's get moving. We don't have much time."
We work alongside vendors and volunteers, securing canopies, anchoring displays, and covering equipment. The wind strengthens by the minute, carrying an icy bite that hints at the approaching squall. Leaves and small debris swirl through the air as the sky continues to darken.
"That's the last of it," I call to Abigail over the rising wind. Most of the workers have already left, vehicles streaming out of the parking area. "We need to go. Now."
She nods, tucking her clipboard into her bag as we jog toward the entrance. My truck sits where I left it, one of only a few vehicles remaining. We're halfway there when the first snowflakes begin to fall. Large, wet flakes that melt on contact with the ground but signal the intensity to come.
My phone buzzes with an alert. "They've closed Route 16," I tell her, scanning the message. "That's the main road back to town."
"What about the county road?"
"Accident blocking the intersection." I look up at the rapidly deteriorating conditions. The wind has become fierce, snowflakes now mixing with sleet, reducing visibility by the minute. "We might be stuck here for a while."
Concern flashes across her face. "There's a storage barn on the far side of the hollow. It's solid, they use it for equipment year-round."
"Lead the way."
We turn back, leaning into the wind as we follow a path that curves around the edge of the field. The temperature continues to drop, and the occasional snowflake has become a steady curtain of white. By the time the barn comes into view, a weathered structure of gray wood with a sloped roof, my ears are numb and Abigail's cheeks are flushed bright pink.
The barn door creaks as I pull it open, and we stumble inside, grateful for the immediate shelter from the wind. It's dimly lit, sunlight filtering through small windows near the roof, but dry and surprisingly warm compared to the chaos outside.
"Thank god," Abigail murmurs, pulling off her now-damp cap and shaking out her curls.
I secure the door behind us and take stock of our surroundings. The space is larger than it appeared from outside, filled with stacked chairs, folding tables, and bins of seasonal decorations.
"There should be supplies," Abigail says, moving deeper into the barn. "They keep emergency provisions here."
She's right. A metal cabinet yields blankets, bottled water, a battery-powered lantern, and—most importantly—matches and kindling for the stove. Within minutes, I have a small fire started, the warmth beginning to radiate outward as Abigail arranges blankets on a cleared space of floor.
"Quite the cozy apocalypse bunker," I comment, trying to lighten the mood as I join her on the blankets. The space is tight, forcing us to sit close, our shoulders nearly touching.
She laughs, the sound somehow brighter in the dim barn. "Always prepared. That's my motto."
"I thought that was the Boy Scouts."
