Page 59 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door
Maple Fest is charming, caramel-scented, hay-bale-lined madness.
There are booths everywhere. Homemade soaps, local honey, hand-whittled duck whistles—which Marcy insists are useful—and more maple-flavored things than I knew existed. Maple popcorn, maple lollipops, maple jerky. I was handed a maple-scented candle by a child in a squirrel costume. No explanation.
And in the middle of it all is Marcy Fontaine, dragging me by the wrist.
“Keep up, Rivière,” she says, weaving through the crowd with purpose. “The scavenger hunt waits for no man.”
I don’t say it out loud, but she could lead me off a cliff at this point and I’d follow. The relaxed long skirt she’s wearing is doing impressive things in the autumn breeze. But more than that, it’s the look on her face.
She’s glowing.
It’s the kind of smile that happens when someone forgets they’re being observed. I want to tell her about the silly bachelor auction business, just to put it behind us, but I don’t want to break the moment. Her eyes are lit up, her cheeks pink from the cold, and her hair’s come loose in a way that makes me want to reach out and tuck it back.
“You love this,” I murmur.
She glances over her shoulder. “What gave it away? The fact that I know everyone’s names, or the way I just high-fived the maple candy judge?”
I grin. “Both.”
We stop at a booth where a woman in flannel offers us tiny cups of maple cider. Marcy sips. “This is new. They infused it with smoked vanilla this year.”
I try it. It tastes like a holiday hug. “This is dangerously good.”
She nods. “I used to think this place was the end of the road,” she says quietly as we wait for a turn at the ring toss. “Like I washed up here. But now… I don’t know. When I look back now, it feels more like a beginning.”
I don’t say anything right away. I just watch her toss a ring, get it on the first try, and shimmy her shoulders like she just won something more than a duck whistle.
“The kids at Happy Horizons will love it,” she says as she tucks it into her bag.
Marcy fits here.
She knows every booth owner and which kettle corn stand is superior. She’s not calculating things in her head or fencing with me using sarcasm. She’s not the ice queen. She’s justhere.
And I can’t stop looking at her.
“You’re staring,” she says, not looking at me as we continue strolling between stalls.
“I am,” I reply, shameless.
“Careful. I might start thinking you’re not completely full of it.”
“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Nearby, the square dance band strikes up. A crowd’s already forming around the gazebo where locals start to pair off with practiced steps.
I spot Lucian in the mix, dancing with the cupcake lady. They spin around with contagious enthusiasm.
“I didn’t know they had something going on,” I murmur.
Weston appears beside me like a ghost. “Either that or she bribed him with baked goods.”
Marcy laughs, nudges me with her elbow, and I swear I feel it three vertebrae deep.
“You want to try?” she asks.
“Square dancing?”
She lifts an eyebrow. “Afraid you’ll trip over your fancy French feet?”
