She closed the laptop.
The rain continued its steady drumming against the windows.She sat in the sunroom, hands aching, body sore, doing absolutely nothing productive.
It felt strange.Uncomfortable.Like wearing shoes that didn’t quite fit.
But it didn’t feel wrong.
By afternoon, the storm had settled into a steady drizzle.She showered, applied antiseptic cream to her palms, and dressed in jeans and a soft sweater.The casual clothes felt foreign after trying to maintain her professional armor, but it was time for a change.
She was contemplating lunch when someone knocked on the cottage door.
Bryan stood on her porch holding a white paper bag and two disposable coffee cups.Water dripped from his jacket.His hair was plastered to his forehead.
“I brought food,” he said.“And coffee.Figured you might not want to venture out in this mess.”
She stepped back to let him in.“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”He handed her one of the cups and set the bag on her kitchen counter.“But I wanted to talk about the festival without an audience.Thought this might be easier than meeting at Harbor Brew with half the town watching.”
“Good point.”She opened the bag and found two wrapped sandwiches from the Sandpiper.The smell made her stomach growl.“I haven’t eaten since the muffins this morning.”
“Winnie’s blueberry ones?”
“How did you know?”
“She has a sixth sense about when people need baked goods.”He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat.“I’ve lived here my whole life, and I still don’t know how she does it.”
She unwrapped her sandwich and took a bite.Fresh grouper, perfectly seasoned, with some kind of citrus aioli that made her want to ask for the recipe.“This is incredible.”
“Family recipe.My grandmother’s.She used to make these for festival volunteers.Said good food was the foundation of community.”
“She sounds wise.”
“She was.”He picked at his own sandwich.“She’s the one who taught me that the festival wasn’t about the events or the attendance numbers.It was about giving people a reason to gather.To remember they belonged to something bigger than themselves.”
She set down her sandwich.“I didn’t understand that before.I was treating it like a marketing campaign.Build awareness, drive attendance, measure ROI.”
“That’s what you know how to do.”
“But it’s not what the festival needs.”She wrapped her hands around her coffee cup, feeling the warmth through her bandaged palms.“I’ve been thinking about what you said about the festival being tied to your memories of your grandfather.”
He looked up.“Yeah?”
“My mother used to drag me to this street fair every summer when I was a kid.Small-town thing, nothing fancy.Local bands, craft booths, and funnel cakes.”She heard herself talking and couldn’t quite believe it.She never shared personal stories.“I hated it.Thought it was boring and unsophisticated.I wanted to be anywhere else.But now...”
“Now?”
“Now, even though I don’t like to admit it, I think back about it and I...miss it.”
“You should go back to one again.”
“Well, Mom would love that, but it seems like I’m always too busy.”
“We make time for what’s important.”
She nodded.“You’re right.I just didn’t want to...to get trapped back in that small-town life.”
A hint of hurt flashed across his eyes, but he quickly recovered.“So you’re a confirmed city girl.”
