Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Her lips part, but before she can speak, the older woman beside us at the railing cries out and darts sharply to the left, flapping an arm over her head. I glance up to see two seagulls fighting over the pretzel she still clings to with one hand as she flails at the birds with the other.
Launching into motion, I shoo the birds with large sweeps of my arms as I bellow, “Hey, get outta here! Get your own snacks, you greedy little shits. Scram! Buzz off!”
On my third swoop, my fingertips brush the feathers of the closest bird, and they both flap away with outraged screeches, cursing my name as they swirl into the sky.
“Are you okay?” Caroline asks, slipping an arm around the woman’s shoulders to help hold her steady.
The woman brushes the back of her hand across her face. “I’m fine, thank you.” She exhales a shaky laugh. “I don’t know why I kept holding on. It’s not like I want to eat a pretzel after a seagull’s had it, I just…couldn’t seem to let go.”
“I think we all have that problem sometimes,” Caroline says kindly. “You want a hand downstairs to the main deck? They said the snack bar would be open the entire trip. You can grab another pretzel.”
The woman smiles and pats Caroline’s hand. “Oh, no thank you, honey. We’re almost there. I bet they’ll have better things than pretzels at the fair. Are you a crafter? I’m a quilter from way back. Nearly thirty years now!”
“My grandmother is a quilter,” Caroline says. “She tried to teach me when I was in high school, but I could never get the pieces cut straight. I learned to crochet, instead. I make crochet elves for my inn’s winter wonderland display every year.”
“How fabulous! What fun, I love an elf.” The woman’s eyes sparkle as she turns to me, “And what about you, handsome? You look like more of a knitter to me.”
I grin. “Nah, nothing with needles for this klutz. Can’t be trusted not to impale myself. I stick to watercolor in the park on weekends.”
Caroline’s brows lift. “Yeah? You paint?”
“I’m bad,” I warn her. “Really bad.”
“I want to see,” she says, looking no less excited.
“I’m serious,” I insist. “The one time I posted one of my paintings on social media, I lost half of my followers.”
She beams. “Nice. If it offended that many people, it must be art.”
“Art isn’t here to make friends,” the woman agrees with a sage nod. “Art is meant to inspire emotion. Positive and negative.” She takes a bite of her pretzel and chews thoughtfully.
Caroline shoots her a wide-eyed look.
With a curse, the woman turns to spit the bite over the railing into the water.
By the time we assure Harriet, as she tells us to call her, that she isn’t going to die of a seagull-born illness, help her down to the main deck to buy a water from the snack bar, and get her settled in a seat near the windows, it’s nearly time to deboard.
Caroline and I hover near the exit doors, grinning at each other like we have a secret.
“You have to show me your art,” she whispers. “I’m so curious.”
“Only if you show me yours,” I say, loving the way her eyes darken as she replies, “Oh, I’ll show you mine. I’ll text Kayla and ask her to take some shots of the elves. If you play your cards right, I might even have her slip one into the mail for you as a holiday treat.”
I would much rather have Caroline as a holiday treat, but I nod and thrust a hand her way. “It’s a deal.”
She takes my hand, and I squeeze her fingers, deciding the sway of the ferry as it docks is a good enough excuse to keep holding on as we wait for the gangplank to open.
I’ll have to let go eventually, but not now.
Not right now…
fifteen
. . .
Caroline
The island is pure holiday magic.
The massive lawn between the abandoned military housing blocks—Governors Island was once a Coast Guard installation—is packed with crafters of all kinds. Leo and I grab a hot cider and wander in circles under the lights strung overhead, admiring hand-poured candles, jewelry, ornaments made of found materials, and charming oil paintings of the city in winter.
I select a pair of dangly, moon-and-star earrings connected by whisper-thin silver threads for myself, and Leo buys another hat—a sock cap this time. I try to pay for it, but he brushes me off, shouldering me out of the way as he extends his credit card toward the clerk.
While he’s distracted, I slip across the lane to purchase a watercolor of a cranky-looking ginger cat in a peppermint-striped scarf that I saw earlier. It’s a pretty penny, but it’s perfect, and I want to do something to thank Leo for this perfect day.