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While we ate, I showed her the new website for the winery. It was flawless on mobile devices; my web designer was an exceptional find. Lara, in an act of solidarity, bought a ticket to The Stomp between bites of BBQ.
“Woo-hoo, first sale!” She held up her hand for a high five.
We smacked palms, and then I logged in to the admin side of the site to see if her sale had gone through. I refreshed the screen half a dozen times, not believing what I saw. My social media ads had only started running that morning, and I’d already sold twenty tickets. Cameron and Wilson’s internet fame totally worked to sell wine.
“Oh, shit.” I showed Lara my phone.
“That’s great.”
“I don’t know, is it? It means I’ve got to pull this off.” I fanned my face with my paper napkin.
“Here, drink this.” Lara handed me a fresh beer.
I took three big gulps and pressed the cool can against my jugular, wishing my pulse would return to normal.
“I sold tickets.” What a moment ago scared the hell out of me was suddenly an achievement. I was doing it—succeeding without the support of a big marketing firm. No boss reviewing my work. No team second-guessing my choices. Me. “I’m fucking amazing.”
Lara nodded likeyeah, no shit Sherlockand held up her beer, and we toasted my newly discovered badass-ness.
“Well, Miss Awesome, want to check out some art and oddities?”
“Sure. This is probably my last vacation day until after The Stomp. Let’s shop.”
The fest was unlike anything I’d ever seen. In Chicago, we had plenty of neighborhood street festivals. The vendors’ booths were generic tents put up for the one- or two-day event, and then they were gone. The Arts and Oddities Fest wasn’t like that. It was a village of permanent shacks that had grown up organically over the years. Some looked ready to fall down in the next storm, made of corrugated metal and old wood. Others were slick and fancy or charming and quaint. People were everywhere. Many browsed casually—drinking and talking with friends. Others looked like hardcore shoppers pulling trolleys behind them full of their purchases.
“How do you not get lost?” We wound down another twisted lane in the craft village, past a tidy booth selling handmade wood toys that was across from a thatched cottage staffed by a groupof women that looked like a witch’s coven selling herbs and crystals.
“I’ve been coming here my whole life, so that helps. But there are landmarks. Like the Wiccans back there, they have been here forever. They do a brisk business at Halloween too. Up there you turn left at the rusted-out VW van selling tie dye, and that will lead to the section where the bigger salvaged items and antique sellers are.” Lara waved or smiled at many of the vendors we passed. A few called out hellos and promised they’d see her later at The Pub.
“Big sounds interesting, let’s go there.” The tie-dye and crystals were interesting, but not anything I’d buy. I had seventeen suitcases. I wasn’t looking to add an eighteenth filled with tchotchkes.
“I aim to please.” She led me down the left path.
“And you do. This has been awesome. I haven’t done this kind of female bonding in years.”
“Me either. When Tyler gets home from summer camp, I’m back on the daily grind. Juggling him, The Pub, and my parents who won’t retire.”
I nodded in understanding; life got in the way of fun.
Ahead was a wide-open square with oak trees arching over the most impressive booths we had seen today; they were fully enclosed, and many had air conditioning units that promised an escape from the heat.
“Fancy.” I admired the offerings in the first vendor’s window. Expensive crystal, china, and housewares, artfully arranged in a way that reminded me of the high-end stores on Michigan Avenue.
“This one is a favorite.” Lara pulled me into the next building.
Inside, it was more like a home than a gallery. The art and furniture were displayed as they might be in one of the multimillion-dollar vacation homes in the hills outside Elmer. Icould imagine curling up under the cream chenille throw on the leather sectional with a good book and a glass of wine.
“I see why. Can we move in?”
“That is our vision here at The Enclave. We want all our customers to see their home reflected in our space.” He delivered the very artistic speech in a flat monotone. The man, a twenty-something-year-old with electric purple hair and a gauge in one ear big enough I could have hooked my finger in it, leaned on the cash wrap.
“Hey, Randy, I see your mom’s got you working again.” Lara and the guy shared a brief one-armed hug.
“Yeah, totally blows.” He flipped a page on a big art book that rested on a side table with zero enthusiasm.
“Randy’s mom is a big interior designer in Houston. Her family has had a booth here for what, like seventy years?” Lara asked.
“Something like that.” Randy wasn’t excited by family history either, apparently.
