Page 35 of Since the Day We Left

“Of all nights.” Wendi pressed her fingers to her temple. “You’ve got to be kidding me right now.”

“Where’s your fuse box?” Miles asked.

“Storage.” She gestured toward it. “But I wouldn’t know what I’m looking at.”

“Let me check.” Miles headed to the back, and Max trotted after him.

“Nope. Not this time.” Wendi caught his collar. “Let Miles work.”

The dog whined, straining toward the back-room doorway Miles had disappeared through.

Arthur chuckled, easing himself into a chair. “Guess someone’s got a new favorite.”

Wendi looked downward. “Et tu, Max? Thought Arthur was your favorite?”

“Ah, I’m not worried. Little guy still loves me, I’m sure.”

As Arthur reached down and patted Max, she paced the length of the shop, checking her phone.

Still no new RSVPs.

The names on her RSVP list weren’t exactly promising: Marjorie from the Chamber of Commerce. A couple of council members who’d said they’d “try to stop by.” Mrs. Finch, whose “confirmation” was a rambling text about her granddaughter maybe coming.

Wendi sighed, scrolling through the sparse responses again. RSVPs were one thing; showing up was another thing entirely. She’d learned that lesson the hard way after the holiday craft fair, when half the vendors who’d confirmed never showed, leaving her with an embarrassingly empty shop and too much mulled cider.

The lights flickered again. Her pulse spiked. If the power went out mid-auction ... game over.

Might as well text Laurel now.

At last, Miles emerged from the back.

“Well?” She winced at her own tone.

“We’re good for tonight, but you’ll need an electrician to stop by first thing tomorrow.” He wiped his hands on a rag. “The wiring’s BC-era old.”

“Fantastic. Just what I needed.” She exhaled, then softened. “Really. Thanks, Miles.”

“You know I’ve got you. Everything else all set?”

They did a final walkthrough, adjusting displays and double-checking the bid sheets. Arthur’s mystery painting stood front and center, sure to draw attention.

“I think we’re good.” Wendi glared at Max, who had tangled himself in ribbon.

Almost good.

“Come on, troublemaker.” She scooped up Max’s things, shaking her head. He followed her to her office, tail between his legs.

“You know why you can’t be out there tonight, right?” She lined up his food, water, and a mangled blue chew toy. “Let’s review your rap sheet, shall we? Mrs. Peterson’s stolen biscuit. Councilman Baker’s coffee—RIP, his new suit.” Max tilted his head. “And the craft fair? A full-blown hostage situation—three people tangled in yarn, Max. Three!”

He wagged his tail.

“And we agreed never to speak of the police chief’s toupee incident.” She scratched behind his ears. “This is too important for Max-imum chaos, okay?”

Wendi stared at her small dog, marveling at how a thirteen-pound Yorkipoo could create such disproportionate havoc. It was almost magical, his uncanny ability to steal the spotlight—even if for the wrong reasons. She bent down and kissed the top of his head. “I’ll be back soon. Be a good boy.”

As she closed the door, his whine rose behind her—relentless, guilt-inducing.

The show must go on.

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