I lean in to kiss her cheek. “I will. Thank you for letting me go.”
She nods, and we walk together to the entryway, where Irene waits, poised and polished.
“Ready, Clara?” she asks with a sparkle in her eye.
“I am.” I offer my aunt one more smile and step out into the evening.
The sky is still awash in fading gold, and Irene takes my arm as we descend the steps toward her waiting car, the door already open.
I raise an eyebrow as we approach. “Forgive me if it’s rude, but how does a secretary afford a car and chauffeur?”
We both slide into the back seat, and the door shuts with a solid thump.
She chuckles, the sound rich with amusement. “My late husband did very well for himself. My children are all grown now, off with families of their own. I work in the office mostly for conversation and to feel useful.”
The car lurches as it turns onto the road.
“That’s lovely,” I say, watching the homes blur past the windows. “Do your children live nearby?”
“They do. I’m hoping for a grandbaby soon, something small to chase around and spoil.”
The ride doesn’t take long. As we crest the final hill, I spot the fairground lit like a dream—strings of lights crisscross overhead, casting everything in warm hues in the growing twilight. Laughter and music drift into the car, and my heart leaps at the promise of something lively.
When the car stops, the chauffeur opens the door, and we step out. The air is thick with the scent of roasted corn and sweets, of dust and summer sweat. It doesn’t matter the station in life, they all mingle freely—laughing, dancing, and drinking. For tonight, the lines between them seem to blur, if not disappear entirely.
As we walk arm in arm, Irene produces a silver flask from her bag. She twists off the cap and takes a swig, then hands it to me.
“Oh, I don’t know...” I hesitate, eyeing the metal container.
“Go on,” she coaxes, tapping it gently against my arm. “We’ve only got a few hours. Any mischief will wear off before you’re home.”
I take the flask with a nervous smile, raise it to my lips, and—perhaps trying too hard to be brave—take a mouthful far larger than I should. The burn is instant and sharp. I cough, sputtering as I hand it back.
“What is that?” I force out, catching my breath.
“Grain alcohol. A bit stronger than the old wine you’re used to, I expect.”
The heat settles in my stomach, a slow, simmering warmth. “I should say so. How did you get your hands on something so strong?”
Irene points across the way. “Prohibition might have shuttered the bars, but we all still have our ways. Let’s sit over there—under the tent with the other women from the office.”
As we weave through the crowd, the music swells. A fiddle sings above the hum of voices, and the stomp of boots on hard-packed earth shakes the air. I take it all in—the lantern glow, the laughter—until a group of ranch hands pushes past us, their worn hats tipped low, skin bronzed by the sun. Their voices are loud and boisterous.
And then my eyes land onhim.
At the tail end of the group, his gaze collides with mine, and the world narrows to a single point. Noise blurs, light softens, even the air seems to still, as though the whole night holds its breath.
His eyes are deep, steady, and impossibly warm. A crooked smile curves his lips, lit with curiosity. The way his chestnut curls peek from beneath the brim of his hat, and his shirt hanging open at the collar, with short plaid sleeves that strain against his arms makes my pulse race.
We walk past one another in a slow, magnetic pull, and neither of us looks away. For a heartbeat, maybe even two, the air thickens.
My chest tightens as he passes by. I can’t help but glance back.
And there he is, already looking over his shoulder, his smile deepening at the sight of me turning. My cheeks flare hot, and I turn quickly, heart racing like a drum in my throat.
“Here we are,” Irene says, breaking the moment.
I take the seat she offers, offering polite greetings to the women at the table, but my eyes keep scanning the crowd—searching for curls beneath a cowboy hat and the smile that made time stop.
