Page 38 of Snow Much Trouble
His response is immediate.
Good idea. Drive safe.
That's it. No "I'll meet you there" or "can we talk." Just concern for my safety, which somehow makes me feel worse.
I toss my phone onto the passenger seat and check my face in the mirror. My mascara has held up surprisingly well, though my eyes are definitely puffy. I look exactly like what I am: a woman who just had an amazing weekend and then panicked and ran away from it.
The holiday market is easy to find by following the crowd. It's set up in the town square, with white tents and twinkling lights strung between the bare trees. There are vendors selling handmade crafts, hot cider, roasted chestnuts. A small stage is set up at one end where a local band is playing country Christmas covers. It’s so early I wonder if this is a breakfast with Santa sort of thing.
After parking, I grab my guitar and wander through the stalls, trying to distract myself. Maybe I can find a bench and try to write. Instead, I let an hour slip away while I buy a hand-knitted scarf I don't need (though it does remind me of Dylan's grandmother's scarf) and a jar of local honey. A woman is selling ornaments shaped like musical notes, and before I can stop myself, I've bought two—one for me, one that I tell myself I definitely won't mail to Dylan.
Who am I kidding? I'm absolutely going to mail it to him. Though I don’t have his address. I guess I could send it to Four Brothers Bourbon and hope he never gets it.
The band finishes their song and the lead singer announces they're taking a short break. She spots me standing near the stage, my guitar case visible where I'd set it down next to a bench. She’s an older woman wearing a sparkling red dress and a giant lime green puffer coat over it. It’s a vibe for a Sunday morning.
"You play?" she calls out.
"I do."
"Want to sit in for a song? We love having guests." Her smile is warm and genuine.
Every instinct tells me to say no, to keep my head down and my emotions in check. But something about this moment—the crisp air, the giant Christmas tree, the fact that I just walked away from something real—makes me impulsive.
"Sure," I hear myself say. "Why not?"
The band welcomes me like an old friend. The silver-haired singer’s name is Janet and she asks what I want to play. I suggest a classic country Christmas song that every musician knows. We run through it once quickly, and then Janet is handing me the microphone.
The first notes flow out of my guitar and I start to sing.
It feels good. Really good. Like coming home after a long trip. My voice is steady, the words familiar, and for the first time since I left the cabin, I can breathe properly. The small crowd that's gathered claps along, and I can see people swaying to the music.
This is why I do this. This feeling right here. The connection, the joy, the way music can make everything else fade away.
I'm halfway through the second verse when I see him.
Dylan is standing at the edge of the crowd, snowflakes just starting to fall again and catching in his dark hair. He's wearing his navy hoodie and jeans, and he's staring at me with an expression I can't quite read.
My voice falters for just a second, but I recover and finish the song. The crowd applauds, and Janet is grinning at me.
"That was beautiful, honey," she says. "You've got a real gift."
"Thank you." I'm trying to figure out how to gracefully exit the stage, but Dylan is making his way through the crowd now, and my heart is pounding so hard I'm surprised the microphone isn't picking it up.
He stops at the base of the stage, and we stare at each other for a long moment.
Then Janet, bless her meddling heart, says, "Looks like you've got a fan. Want to do another song?"
Before I can answer, Dylan calls out, "Can I say something?"
Janet looks delighted. "Sure thing, sugar. Come on up."
This cannot be happening. This is not a movie. This is my actual life, and Dylan Lennox is climbing onto a stage at a small-town holiday market where I'm supposed to be clearing my head. I’m wearing my boots with the heels, my new scarf, and really wishing that I had done more with my hair.
An epic moment needs epic hair and this feels like something epic is about to happen.
He takes the microphone from Janet, and now I'm the one staring at him like a deer in headlights. He gives me a wink.
"Hi," he says into the mic to the crowd. "I'm Dylan."
