Page 36 of Sterling Clay

“Thank you,” Dutton mumbles, not offering his eyes to Clay, and lacking sincerity in his gratitude.

“Anytime, buddy,” Clay answers, the response stilted. He presses in the code to open his home and pushes at the door to swing inward for us to enter. Once inside, I tell Dutton it’s time for a bath and he heads to the guest room without a glance back at us.

“I failed, didn’t I?” Clay says from behind me.

I spin to face him. “It’s the thought that counts. Besides, you couldn’t help that the store was sold out.”

Clay shakes his head, cupping the back of his neck. “It wasn’t that. I’d been making all those suggestions. Coming up with things I thought a boy would like but he . . .”

My lips tighten, twisting a bit, before I fill in the blank. “He doesn’t like those things.”

“Gotta respect a kid who knows what he wants,” Clay sheepishly adds. “I’ve just had a different upbringing.”

I stare at him, understanding what he means.

“My dad was a man’s man, so to speak.” Clay narrows his eyes and turns his gaze toward the wall of windows. “But how much of a man are you if you belittle your kids and knock around a few of them?”

My mouth falls open, shock running through me. Not Clay. Not his family. They seem so well-adjusted, so loyal to one another. But no one knows better than me, ghosts can live in everyone’s history. Specters we don’t openly admit haunt more than our dreams.

“What happened to you?” I whisper.

Clay shakes his head. “Another day. I want to make sure Dutton is okay.”

I sigh, hanging my head. “I just want him to be accepted for who he is. No matter who that is.”

“Don’t we all want that?” Clay counters, not really questioning the thought but stating a fact.

And who are you, Clay Sylver? Because there’s certainly more than meets the eye about him. And maybe he understands us a little better than I think.

The following day, when a package is delivered for Dutton, my faith in Clay is fully restored with the arrival of a pink Power Princess costume.

Chapter 13

[Clay]

With the Harvest Fest looming, I’d been busy once more, although we have an entire committee which handles vendors and distributors. This year, my sister-in-law Halle is involved as she’d proven quite the party planner. She’d helped the local art studio, appropriately named Art’s Studio, host a fundraiser last fall. The event garnered the attention of our mayor, who requested Halle’s assistance on two town festivals: Founder’s Day and Spring Fling. Now, we’ve hired her to oversee the fest.

I arrive at Sylver Seed & Soil early on Saturday, pitching in wherever help is needed. The last forty-eight hours with Mavis have been strained and the busyness of the fest is a good distraction from my thoughts.

I want to understand her. I want to know her better.

The beauty of her soul seeps out of her, like a hazy aura, and I want to capture a sliver of that warmth. Bottle it up like a firefly in a jar, only I’d never trap such an innocent creature. I don’t want to stifle Mavis. I just want her to relax a little, but amid the wavering vibe is constant tension. Like she is one flap from flying away from me.

I’d hoped to bring Mavis and Dutton to the event with me, but the lead up to the fest was just too chaotic. Mavis agreed to meet me at Sylver Seed & Soil around noon. As I’m standing behind a table where we are passing out miniature pumpkins for the decorating contest, I do a double take at a woman dressed from head to toe in black. The sleek outfit outlines all her curves. Her dark hair is parted and twisted into two tight buns on the top of her head, like bound antennas. A vibrant orange material with black edging and white dots drapes over her shoulders and along her arms.

“Butterfly,” I breathe out as Mavis approaches with a mini pink Power Princess beside her. However, I can hardly take my eyes off Mavis. She looks mystical, like a butterfly queen, especially when she spreads out her arms to emphasize the delicacy and beauty of the material.

“That’s gorgeous,” Violet says beside me. Halle’s sixteen-year-old daughter has been recruited to pass out the small gourds for the decorating contest and manage the entries.

Mavis smiles. A true radiant beam lights her eyes and stuns me. “Thank you. My grandmother gave this to me before she passed away.” She smooths her hands down the flimsy, sheer material, pressing it over her belly.

I’m transfixed by the shimmery black outfit she wears beneath the whimsical drape. The body-hugging costume gives away all her hills and valleys. She’s a glorious landscape for everyone to appreciate. But I want to pull her aside, hide us both from prying eyes, and discover first-hand the tantalizing scope of all those dips and curves myself.

“Thank you,” Dutton says, drawing my attention to him for a second, noticing his gratitude extends to Violet who just handed him a small pumpkin.

“You can decorate it any way you want,” Violet reminds him.

“I’m going to make it a mini Power Princess.”