Page 37 of Mountain Man’s Mystic Touch

Chapter 7

Loralee

Rocco walks away from my booth with the rose quartz in his pocket. He told me the stone changes nothing. Then he accepted it, placed it close to his body, and carried it into the crowd. I manage not to point out the contradiction. That may be the strongest evidence of personal growth I have demonstrated all week.

He disappears between a pottery display and a vendor selling hand-carved bowls. His attention diverts constantly as he walks, moving from the crowd to the booth entrances, then toward the restricted lane behind them. Twice, his hand brushes the pocket containing the stone. The contact appears unconscious.

I smile and return to my notebook. I have fifteen minutes before my next appointment and several observations I want to record while they are still clear.

The morning produced nothing unusually strong, but the festival’s energy has changed since yesterday. Anticipation has become movement. Thousands of emotions overlap along the paths. Excitement, impatience, affection, hunger, and curiosity. There’s a particular strain experienced by parents attempting to prevent small children from touching everything within reach.

Beneath it is something less distinct — restlessness.

I felt it before Rocco told me about the man photographing locks and cash-handling procedures. Knowing the possible cause should make the impression easier to dismiss. Instead, the unease remains like a faint vibration beneath the surface of everything else.

A woman stops at the front of my booth and examines the Autumn Premonition candles. She lifts one of the dark red vessels, removes the lid, and inhales.

“Apple,” she says.

“Apple, cinnamon bark, and woodsmoke.”

“My husband will say it smells like something is burning.”

“Some people lack seasonal imagination.”

She laughs and buys two. The transaction is ordinary. The candles fit neatly into a padded bag, and nothing in the woman’s energy suggests more than a pleasant afternoon.

Still, when I close the cash box, the metal latch feels unusually cold beneath my fingers. I pull my hand away.

“Loralee?”

I look up. Two women stand at the booth entrance. I recognize one immediately, although we have never met. Delaney’s face appeared throughout the autumn wedding campaign and across more social-media posts than I could count. She is even more striking in person.

Beside her stands a redheaded woman carrying two cups of cider and a beautiful face filled with curiosity.

“I’m Chloe Stone,” she says. “This is Delaney.”

“I know.”

Delaney’s eyebrows rise.

“From the campaign,” I explain. “Not from a vision.”

“That is mildly disappointing,” Chloe says.

Delaney accepts one of the cider cups from her. “Give her time. We’ve only been here ten seconds.”

They enter the booth together. Chloe looks first at the lanterns and fabric, then toward the private treatment area behind the screens. Her attention takes in every detail with the focused appreciation of someone accustomed to creating beautiful spaces.

“This is gorgeous,” she says. “I heard about the new booth near the wellness garden, but no one mentioned all this.”

“I arrived after another vendor canceled.”

“Then their unfortunate timing became our good fortune.”

I like her immediately. Delaney lifts an Autumn Premonition candle and smells it.

“Mason would approve of this one.”