And I catch sight of Rafe, who I haven’t seen since our encounter in the graveyard. He stands on the periphery of the crowd, next to a statue. Torchlight flickers across his features, sharpening the angles of his face.
His attention isn’t on the stage.
It’s on me.
Pulse jumping, I shift into shadow.
Harrison Locke’s voice booms across the square. “Miss Bogaard, the fire’s coming fast! You must find your father and get to safety!”
I run onto the stage, trying to lose myself in the role—a school teacher who single-handedly savedthe lives of sixteen children. But Rafe’s attention is distracting, his stare so unwavering its borderline inappropriate. As the scene plays out, it becomes obvious. He’s not watching the performance; he’s watchingme. A fact so flustering, I fumble my big line.
Instead of saying, “If this is to be my last night, let it be one of courage, not fear.” I replacefearwithfate, which never happened in rehearsals. By the time the performance is over and the curtain call ends, I’m ready to march out onto the lawn and give Rafe Vandenberg a piece of my mind.
But he’s gone.
And Twig is getting sick in a garbage can.
He suffers from migraines. Bad ones. Sometimes, they make him throw up. Last fall, he got one so severe, he had to miss Hollow Horror Night at the drive-in, when they played the first threeNightmare on Elm Streetsback to back to back. This year, it looks like he’s going to miss the lantern ceremony.
Harper and Naomi invite me to join them downtown, where the lanterns are launched. But I like watching them drift downriver. Which leaves me on my own, wandering through the stands and stalls in Willowmere Park, no longer in period attire. I’ve changed into my street clothes—a Nirvana tee under an oversized flannel, black leggings, and a pair of white hightop Converse All-Stars.
Night has fallen. Fog rolls thick over theBlackwillow River, where the branches of weeping willows dip into its currents. The scent of roasted nuts, warm cider, and kettle corn mingles with the cool air. From atop the covered bridge, a lone violinist plays haunting Appalachian folk songs.
People claim their spots with lawn chairs and blankets. Small children run around wielding paper lanterns and sparklers. The Boathouse’s outdoor patio is hopping with patrons and servers. I prefer to sit along the river’s stone wall, thirty yards or so past the bridge, where I can let my feet dangle above the water and watch the lanterns arrive like glowing specters through the fog. The magical sight never ceases to take my breath away.
I pass a local writers group as they take turns reading poetry by candlelight, and catch a stanza of a young woman’s piece. “What is a lantern but borrowed fire? What is a life but borrowed time?” The contemplative question hits just the right note. I’mfeelingcontemplative. Which I suppose is an appropriate mood since theProcession of Lightsisn’t meant to be a celebration, but a reverent ceremony.
At the local beekeeper’s booth, I purchase two honey caramels wrapped in wax paper for Twig. They’re his favorite. At the Blackberry Bramble Wagon, I buy a pecan tart for myself. I pass by theWish Upon the Riverstall, where you can buy a smooth stone for a dollar, write a wish upon it, and toss it into the dark waters. There’s a DIY lantern stand. I have two from years past, both carved withstars and moons. And next to it is the Reflection Table, where people can write letters to lost loved ones, seal them inside envelopes, and set them to sail inside their newly made lanterns.
I take a bite of my tart, thinking about my mother and all the things I would tell her if I could, when a low voice rumbles in my ear. “Nothing says ‘honoring the dead’ like setting fire to paper and polluting the river.”
I turn around.
Rafe.
He stands behind me looking offensively handsome, the top two buttons of his shirt undone and that lock of midnight hair falling across his eyebrow again. He tosses a small stone into the air and catches it in his palm. “Does the EPA know about this, or …?”
“The lanterns are biodegradable.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
People meander past us.
I step off the path. “What are you doing here?”
He steps with me, his gaze teasing with a dash of puzzlement, like there’s something about me that stumps him. I can’t imagine what. Surely I can’t be the only girl to have rejected his advances.
“Are you going to accuse me of following you again?” he asks.
“If the shoe fits.”
His attention drops to my sneakers before slowly sliding up my body in a way that makes me want to cover myself. “As much as I wouldloveto follow you around, I’m here for my family.” He nods toward The Boathouse’s patio. “Networking dinner with the Everlys. We’re schmoozing.”
I spot Henry and Cosette, a formidable couple in their sixties. Cosette is president of the Foggy Hollow Preservation Society. The couple sit across from a woman I assume is Isabel. She’s too far away to make out her features, but not so far away I can’t tell that she’s perfectly arranged—hair, outfit, makeup.
Jude sits beside her.
He’s not attending to the dinner conversation, either.
