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Throughout my life, I’ve only done a few things at 4 a.m. besides sleep. Once I had the stomach flu and puked at four a.m. That’s a lovely memory.
Another time, I took a redeye to New York, and we had a layover in Atlanta, so I’m pretty sure at four a.m. that day I was chugging caffeine in every form I could find, trying not to fall asleep until we boarded for the last leg.
And last night? At four a.m., Theo and I, with a lot of help from forklift operators and community members helping transport the goods by hand, secured the last booth from inside the mansion to the tent outside.
And without a speck of caffeine in me to boot. With the adrenaline that comes when you decide to do something as crazy as that, we didn’t need any.
As it always does in an emergency, New Hedge came together. And now, after about three hours of sleep, I’m rushing around my apartment in a state of confusion, willing my fuzzy head to start operating at a level that will allow me to get dressed, in Victorian dress, no less, and make it over to the opening of the closing day—the beginning of the end.
Camilla comes upstairs to do my hair, finding more patience to do the ringlets around my hairline than I could ever muster, even on a day where I’m not sleep deprived.
She drives me to Barrie Mansion—she got more sleep than I did—and we stare at the wreckage as we pull up.
“It looks better in the daylight,” Camilla offers.
I can’t look away from the historical treasure, built at the beginning of the twentieth century, looking so torn up. Caution tape lines the entire pathway around the mansion. Makeshift boards have been secured to the roof to keep out the elements until a lasting fix can go in. It’s a pock on the beautiful, red brick masterpiece. Plywood covers the hole in the wall upstairs that the branch made, which is scattered in pieces in the snow on the front lawn, piles of sawdust littering the otherwise pristine white blanket. The maintenance crew has shoveled a walking path through the snow around to the back so people can avoid entering the mansion altogether.
“This is so sad,” is all I can utter.
Camilla pulls over near the makeshift path. “I’ll drop you off here. You don’t need to try to walk through the parking lot in your red velvet dress and satin flats.”
I make my way around the back of the property to the tent, heartened by the lines already forming outside and the greetings from people who know me personally or recognize me as the face of the festival.
The face of the festival. It’s been a wild ride. And the best thing to come of it is my love—soul deep—of Theo.
I enter the tent, nice and cozy, thanks to the extra generators and heat lamps we gathered throughout the night. There are even bits and pieces of the décor from inside the mansion to brighten things up in here. Although, I don’t think it’s necessary. The booths and the people in them do that job well enough.
“Aria, I’m glad you’re here.” One of the volunteers at the makeshift front desk area smiles, her nose a sharp pink. “Be sure to let people know we’re still taking last-minute donations in the big stocking if people are so inclined.”
“Sure,” I nod.
As I turn to station myself at the entrance, there’s Theo, in his frock coat and Victorian boots. It feels too long since I’ve seen him, even though it’s only been a few hours. It’s no longer snowing, but the sky is overcast—a dull white. In the dim light of the tent, his features are strong, the line of his shoulders making me stare.
“How do you look like you slept eight hours last night?” I ask him as I pull him into a hug.
“I don’t think you’re seeing clearly,” he says, his warmth engulfing me.
“You could be right. I have blinders on when I look at you.” I push him to arm’s length, soaking him in. “All I see is the guy who spent his entire night making this whole thing work.”
“We pulled it all together. You and me.”
“I like the thought of you and me,” I tease, glancing at his lips. I wish I could ravish his lips here and now, but this is a family friendly event . . . and we’ve had enough scandals around here.
Although, on second thought, if kissing him causes a scandal . . . I’ll be a rebel all day long.
We move apart when I hear someone’s phone taking a photo of us.
Great.
The woman giggles as she lowers her phone. “I couldn’t help it. You’re so cute together.”
The friend next to her laughs. “That was some good staring. I’m going to tell my husband to ogle me like that.”
We greet people for the next couple of hours, recommending at times that they be sure to stop by Shorty’s booth, and if they’re so inclined, to contribute to Santa’s Helpers on their way out.
The crowds don’t let up, but I only have eyes for Theo.
I’m an independent woman. With the utmost respect, I throw my hands up at Beyonce, because I’m a honey making money. And soon, with my new position at Wolfe Strategies, I’ll be a mama who profits dollars, no doubt.
