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My heart aches as I take in the sight of her, a longing deep within me that I’m unable to fully comprehend. Then I slip out of her window and step out into the sticky summer morning air. As I ascend the fire escape, my thoughts linger on her. Someday, she will find out about my feelings. Find out that we are meant to be. But for now, I must stick to my plan.
I head home and start getting ready for work. Today is the Fallbank Annual Craft Fair. I have to write an article about it, but more importantly, Gwen will be there. And after she finds out her oven is no longer in operation, I’ll be the one to swoop in and offer to help her out.
I am a splendid cook, after all.
I turn into the parking lot of the Fallbank Community Center. The organizers have moved the craft fair indoors for the past few years. Too many weather-related incidents in the past because of the increasingly temperamental Pennsylvania weather, I’m told. William claimed it had been a total disaster four years ago, something about a tornado warning.
Right now, I find myself wishing a cyclone would drop on top of the facility as I search for a place to park. After several minutes of circling the lot, I finally find a spot. Is this event always this busy? And here I thought I arrived early enough—not that I want to stick around longer than necessary. But Blake is a diligent worker who goes above and beyond.
I sling my bag around my shoulder and step out of my car. Fastening on a friendly smile, I nod at the couple walking past as I walk toward the community center. There are a few souls brave—or foolish—enough to set up their booths out front underneath the awning. People mill around and children laugh and scamper about. Internally, I sigh, knowing that this is going to be a long day.
Entering the building, I make my way to the gymnasium, where the fair is already in full swing. Limited recreational activities in small towns make events like these major draws. Through the halls, I weave around the people browsing and purchasing handmade crafts of all kinds. Occasionally, I force myself to look interested to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to myself.
As I’m about to go into the gym, a voice calls out my name from down the hall. “Hey, Blake!”
It’s Colton Avender, the freelance photographer that the Chronicle hired for the event. He looks relieved to have caught my attention and his expression perks up as he jogs toward me. I can’t help but notice how his brown curls stick to his forehead, suggesting he’s not used to the humid weather. And even though we’re about the same height and age, our similarities end there. His fashion sense is abhorrent, with a striped shirt haphazardly tucked into his form-fitting jeans.
At least Itryto look professional, I think.
He grins widely, like he’s an old friend of mine from high school or something. His demeanor is off-putting, but I maintain a warm smile as he pulls his camera from his bag. “I’m glad you’re here. We have a lot to get done.” He holds it and caresses it like it’s a beloved pet. “So, where do you wanna start? I already snapped some pics while I waited.”
I grab my notebook from my bag and survey the area, tapping the pen against my leg. “Let’s start there, in the gym. We can walk around, talk with some vendors. That way, we can get some interesting stories and photos.”
Colton, his freckles glowing, seems happy to oblige. He follows me into the gym as I navigate introductions with the vendors. While I take notes and shoot questions at them, he takes photos here and there. Though his presence is annoying, it’s thankfully not a burden. I’m not much of a team player, and I’d rather get enough material without interference. Thankfully, people are more than willing to talk.
Finishing the article should be a breeze.
After recording some funny anecdotes from a couple peddling their lurid photography, Colton chats with them about lenses and other nonsense as I go to the end of the gym—where I see a table with two women behind it. Gwen is one of them. As I approach, Jennifer Breck looks up from her jewelry and smiles shyly. Gwen and I briefly make eye contact as she handles a customer.
“H-hello,” Jen greets, fumbling over her words like a scared rabbit.
“Hello, Miss Breck,” I say, doing my best to put her at ease. “I’m writing an article for the Fallbank Chronicle, and I was wondering if you’d like to explain a little about your craft.”
She pauses for a moment before she responds, taking a deep breath. “Well, my craft is all about creating unique art pieces using items from nature. Like leaves, stones, and wood. Many from the nearby woods and riverbeds. I love to let the materials tell me what they want to become—like I’m having conversations with them.” Her face flushes, her chin dipping from embarrassment. “I-I know that sounds weird.”
“No, no. I think it’s really interesting,” I say, jotting down notes. “Please continue. How did you get started in this craft?”
She smiles softly. “My mother was an artist. She taught me everything she knew about crafting with nature. And soon, it became my passion. I guess you could say it’s in my blood!”
I chuckle, and she joins in with a playful giggle, appearing to feel lighter. I write everything I can down, about the different stones she works with, their metaphysical benefits, and how she incorporates them into her pieces. She radiates excitement from every word, her passion for her craft momentous. She then grabs a box from underneath the table and pulls out a necklace.
“It’s gorgeous,” I remark truthfully. It seems to almost sparkle in the light, radiating a sort of ethereal glow. “How much is it?”
“Fifteen dollars,” she replies. “I know, it’s a lot, but?—”
“I think you’re underselling yourself,” I say, grabbing my wallet from my pocket. I hand her a twenty-dollar bill. “Keep the change, Miss Breck. Think of it as a tip for being such a good interview subject.”
Gwen stares at me with unexpected tenderness as Jen wraps the necklace and puts it in a delicate gift bag.
“Thank you so much!” Jen says.
“You’re welcome, Miss Breck. You deserve it.” I give her a warm smile. “Your art is really special. Good luck with your future projects!” We bid each other farewell, and I turn to Gwen, who is still watching me with that same look in her eyes. “Something the matter?”
“Nothing,” she answers after a moment of consideration. “I just think you’re a good person.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying to remain humble. “I try.”
She chuckles, but her face goes taut. “It wouldn’t hurt if more people followed in your footsteps.”
