Under the Wishing Tree (Oakwood Hollow #1)

2. Present

2

Present

Eden

The incessant sound of hammering jolted me awake.

“What the hell is that?” I grumbled, stomping over to the window and peeking out. It was barely four in the morning, the sun still deep in slumber, but my neighbor Steve was already hammering away at his front yard. Steve, who’d denounced electric tools that one year he almost cut a finger off, and had built his booth with manual tools ever since.

Festival day.

With a huff, I stomped back to bed and crawled under the blanket. But I couldn’t fall back asleep, not with all that noise outside, and definitely not once my mind snapped awake and made a racket of its own. I rolled onto my back and stared up at the stamped tin ceiling of my bedroom, my brain buzzing with memories of the person I’d met on this day two years ago.

And hadn’t seen since.

I rubbed my stinging eyes, berating myself for still holding onto hope. It had been over a year since his last letter. And while I could pretend to be fine every other day of the year, on festival day the longing came rushing back, sharper than ever.

I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Today is just another day, I reminded myself before getting up and starting my routine.

After getting dressed, I went out into the chilly autumn air. My mood started to lift as I walked through the serene streets of Oakwood Hollow. At this time of the morning, the streets were still blanketed in darkness, but there was an amber incandescence in the air, promising dawn’s impending arrival.

I hadn’t planned on it but, at the last minute, I turned and made my way past the old white church, and to the town cemetery. It was not much more than a small plot of land watched over by maple trees, the gravestones sitting quietly amongst the fog and the red fallen leaves.

I walked the usual path, straight to my father’s grave. Most days I’d come by with cleaning supplies and wash the lichen and mildew off his gravestone, but today’s trip would have to be brief.

“Hi, Papa.” I wrapped my arms around myself, fighting back a surge of melancholy. My father passed away eight years ago and, still, I missed him every day; his goofy jokes, his hugs, even his tendency to nag. He had a habit of setting his glasses down somewhere and then forgetting them. It happened so often that he started to buy more to replace them until, eventually, people were finding his glasses all over town.

For years after his death, his glasses showed up in random places and, for a time, it was almost like he was still there with me. But I knew the discoveries wouldn’t last forever. Eventually, the last pair was found and it was like I lost him all over again.

“Just wanted to stop by and say hi. See what you’re up to.” I paused for a moment, listening to the quiet. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t be walking out here by myself in the dark. But Oakwood Hollow is safe, remember? Isn’t that why you brought me here in the first place? Yes, I’m taking care of myself. Eating well and drinking more water.

“Anyway, it’s festival day again. It’s still as annoying as it’s always been. Old Joe next door is still adding gnomes in his yard. The latest one bears a striking resemblance to Michael Jackson, glitter glove and all. Oh, and the mysterious pumpkin reverse bandit is back at it again. A few days ago, I set out two pumpkins in front of the cafe. Now there are over a dozen. Maybe I should just start selling them,” I said with a soft laugh.

“Oh, and Nellie is still trying to set me up on blind dates, and I’m still saying no. She told me she would introduce me to a handsome man at the festival tonight, but she’s going to be disappointed when I don’t show up.” I was quiet a moment, then, “You know why I’m not going.”

A soft sigh passed between my lips. “I hope you and Mama are having fun up there, slow dancing to Side A or whatever the name of that band was that you loved.” I cleared my throat to ask him a question, one that I’d been trying to ask for the past several months, but those were words I didn’t want to speak out loud.

Instead, I bent down and brushed a wayward leaf off the top of his gravestone and pressed my palm over the engraving of his name. “Miss you, Papa. Say hi to Mama for me.”

As soon as I reached the cafe, I jumped into my usual morning routine, turning on the lights, taking chairs down from the tables, prepping ingredients, and making sure we had enough for the influx of customers that day. I brought out the mannequins that I lovingly called Cecelia and Robbie (named after my favorite novel) and set them out by the pumpkins out front.

Then I brought out my favorite mug and a cozy blanket and sat out on the porch steps. With elbows on my knees, I sat there for a time as the world slowly awakened. The sky above the town shifted from a deep purple to delicate shades of pink, orange, and gold, painting the morning with a quiet kind of beauty.

With coffee mug warming my hands, I watched people start their day, greeting each other as they passed by. In the square, the festival construction began, people assembling booths, setting up games, hanging up string lights in the trees. In the distance, I spotted Hank in his usual cargo pants and baseball cap, helping Miss Maisey at her face-painting station. After, when they thought nobody was looking, Hank presented her with what looked like a flower carved out of wood before turning his cap backward and dropping a kiss on her lips.

My heart pinched at the sight. Miss Maisey was a retired middle school teacher who had lived alone with her cats for as long as I’d known her. How wonderful it was that she’d finally found some love in this world, and with Hank of all people, the grumpy town handyman who claimed he hated everyone but wouldn’t even think twice to help a person in need.

My eyes dropped down to the dark liquid in my mug as the familiar weight of loneliness settled over me. I’d grown used to being on my own since my father passed and, for the most part, I’d managed just fine. But, for a fleeting moment, I thought I’d found it—that elusive feeling of belonging with someone.

Yet, once again, the universe had taken them from me.

I stood up and headed back inside, determined not to let my mind wander down that path again. But the moment I found myself behind the counter, the memories came rushing back, of a tall, dark-haired man walking into the cafe with a green duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

I could tell right away he was military—from the cut of his hair to the self-assured way he carried himself. We often had many tourists passing through, especially around this time of year, but we didn’t get many like him.

Certainly not someone so handsome.

A wry smile touched my lips as I recalled the way he’d ordered, straight to the point but polite. I’d immediately tagged him as an easy customer, someone I wouldn’t have to really engage with, who would eat his food in peace, pay, then leave with little fuss. That was, until he fixed me with those light blue eyes with flecks of amber in the center and started asking me questions about myself, about the town, slowly drawing me out of my shell.

If I’d known then what I know now, I might have not agreed to bring him to the wishing tree.

But, then again, maybe I would have made the same mistakes all over again.