Page 152 of Her Wicker Guardian

“I’m adjusting the rate.”

“You can’t change taxes whenever you want.”

Her fingers are still tense around mine.

“Welcome to big government.”

I give her another potato.

We stay.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Rachel

Saturday is louder than Friday.

By noon, the square is packed. People on the sidewalks are shoulder to shoulder, the vendor booths have lines curling around them, and every few minutes somebody I know appears out of the crowd long enough to say hello before moving on.

The bear has become one of the festival’s unofficial landmarks. Children pose beneath it. Teenagers take pictures pretending to be eaten by it. People keep asking Locke how he built it, and every time he answers, he sounds a little less surprised that they’re asking him at all.

The man who asked about owls comes back with his wife, and after seeing the bear in daylight, she decides one owl isn’t enough. She wants a pair.

Locke looks at me from across the platform as though this is somehow my fault. I shrug, and he smiles. He looks more at ease here than he did yesterday, and I let myself relax with him.

Locke is beside Tom near the bear, talking through some finishing detail only the two of them can see. Shannon is holding court nearby, while Janet carries a bag of kettle corn everyone keeps stealing from and Laura has somehow become responsible for three folding chairs that don’t belong to anybody. Mom and Dad have claimed two of them and are watching Locke answer questions as if they’ve been doing this for years instead of since yesterday.

For once, Locke isn’t the crisis everyone has gathered to discuss. He’s part of the festival now, answering questions while people come and go around him.

A man from the garden center wants to know whether he could make trellises. A woman with two little girls asks if he ever makes rabbits. One of the girls reaches out and touches the back of Locke’s hand after asking permission, then whispers, “It’s warm.”

Locke crouches so he’s closer to her height. “So are you.”

She laughs and runs back to her mother, and I have the ridiculous thought that I could stand here all day and watch this.

Then somebody says my name. Not loudly. That’s worse.

“Rachel.”

Every muscle in my back tightens before I turn.

Trent stands ten feet away.

For one second, I’m not in the square. I’m in the kitchen listening to his footsteps come closer. I’m in the hallway with his voice lowered because the quieter he got, the worse the night became. I’m standing beside our bed trying to decide whether answering him will make things better or only make them last longer.

Then the festival comes back around me: music from the stage, children shouting somewhere behind me, the smell of fried dough, Locke several yards away near the bear, my friends scattered through the crowd.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, keeping my voice level.

His face changes at the question, not much, just enough to tell me he expected something else. Maybe fear. Maybe apology. Maybe relief that he’s here to straighten me out.

“I’ve been trying to talk to you.”

“I know.”

“You don’t answer.”

“Also true.”