Page 34 of Since the Day We Left

As she moved to a collection of hand-carved wooden figurines donated by a local artist, her phone buzzed. Another message from Laurel. The third today.

Laurel: Have you decided yet?

The old Wendi wouldn’t have hesitated—she’d have already texted her back with a “yes” and started packing. Instead, she stuffed the phone back into her pocket. New York could wait.

Max pawed at one of the displays, dangerously close to a ceramic vase.

“Max, bed.” She tapped her leg.

He hit her with the look—the one that usually got him out of trouble—then made a break for the watercolor palettes.

Too late. He crashed into the table, and the palettes clattered to the floor.

“Max!” She dropped to her knees, gathering them up. “Unbelievable.”

The dog licked her cheek, clearly thinking he’d been helpful. As she returned the last palette, her stomach twisted.

What if no one comes? What am I even doing?

The bell above the door chimed. Miles stepped inside. “Fear not. The cavalry is here!”

Wendi smiled at his dad joke. “Okay, General Custer. You’re early.”

“Ouch. That didn’t end well for him.”

She smirked. “Fine. Julius Caesar?”

“Eh, that might be worse.”

“General Washington?”

“That’s definitely better.” He nodded, glancing around the transformed space. “This looks great.”

“It’s getting there.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I was about to move those tables.”

Miles waved her off, rolling up his sleeves. “I’ve got it.” He hoisted the first table effortlessly and carried it where she pointed.

Side by side, they arranged chairs in rows facing the podium she’d borrowed from the library. Their hands brushed as they reached for the same chair. That spark again—that thing that happened every time they touched.

Not now. Focus, Wendi.

The bell chimed again. Arthur shuffled in, clutching a canvas covered with a sheet. “Hope I’m not interrupting.” Arthur’s eyes twinkled. “Brought something special.”

Wendi stepped away from Miles, feeling heat in her cheeks. “Perfect timing. Here, let me—”

“Ah-ah,” Arthur said, hugging the canvas close. “This stays under wraps till auction time. A surprise, you understand.”

“Of course.” Wendi nodded. “We’ll save it for last.” She struck a pose, hand over heart, and mouthed a lyric from “Save the Best for Last.”

Arthur’s bushy eyebrows knotted. “What are you doing?”

“Vanessa Williams? ‘Save the Best for Last?’ 1992?” His blank stare didn’t budge. She gasped and clutched her chest, staggering back. “Tragic. Absolutely tragic.”

Arthur shook his head. “Kids today and their music. Now, Patti Page—that was a voice. ‘The Tennessee Waltz’ could break your heart.”

Miles chuckled, and something in Wendi’s chest loosened at the sound.

Just as Arthur set his covered painting on the easel, the lights flickered. Once, twice, then again.

---