My lungs seize. Where are the tents?
I grab the nearest person wearing a green shirt. “Where are the tents?” I accidentally shout in the volunteer’s face, and he flinches.
His name is Alec, according to the name printed on his chest. I don’t recognize him, so he’s probably one of Perry and Devin’s friends from softball. “I’m sorry, um, but the event doesn’t start until noon,” he stammers.
Oh, right. I unbutton my white linen jacket and flash my own green volunteer T-shirt at him. I figured it’d be a good idea to wear it for the hours I can help today, and simply cover up when Smith & Boone attorneys start arriving.
Alec’s eyes widen in understanding. “Oh, you know the Szymanskis. Sorry, I thought you were just some random person.”
Brie circles a finger at her own green shirt. “Hello, we’re volunteers.”
“The tents?” I press.
“I don’t know where they are, sorry. Devin’s on the phone with the rental company now.”
“Where is he?”
Alec points at a spot halfway down the block, and I take off at a jog. I silently curse myself for not arriving earlier. But Brie and I didn’t get home from our painting escapades until almost three in the morning, and ten o’clock seemed like a reasonable time to set our alarms.
“What’s wrong?” Brie asks, trotting at my heels.
“The tents aren’t up. They were supposed to be delivered this morning and setup should have started by now.”
“Ohhhh, that’s not good.”
No, it’s not. I spot Devin farther up the block with his phone pressed to his ear, but it’s what’s in the distance behind him that makes me stop abruptly. Brie collides with my back with an oof. At the end of the street, behind the barricades at the corner of Providence and Twenty-Eighth, is Roger’s warehouse… and my mural.
It looks even more beautiful in the daytime than I’d ever hoped. Along the top of the white wall, “Blooms & Baubles” is painted in the same large purple font that’s on their sign, and the words “Delivering Joy to Ohio City Since 1946” are painted underneath with a large black arrow pointing directly to Perry’s shop. Below the words are a collage of people—old and young, Black and white, of every size, shape, and color—grouped arm in arm in front of a background of multicolored flowers raining down on them like swirling snowflakes.
A couple with a small child about Jackson and Liam’s age pauses to study the mural. The little boy points up at it, and his dad picks up him to give him a better view.
Brie loops her arm around my shoulders. “It’s beautiful, Cass. Truly.”
I let out a shaky laugh, my heart so full it threatens to burst like a pi?ata filled with rainbows. I almost forgot what it felt like to put a tiny piece of my soul on display… the joy of seeing others, even complete strangers, connect to it in some small way.
“Still no word from Perry yet?” she asks.
My smile fades. “No.” When I woke up this morning, I expected to find a voice mail or at least a text from Perry expressing his delight at the mural that appeared overnight on the side of his dad’s warehouse. But I haven’t heard a peep from him since yesterday. Maybe he doesn’t like it? Or maybe he thinks I stepped out of line and now he’s angry with me?
Brie bumps me with her hip. “I bet he didn’t realize you painted it. And besides, I’m sure he’s been swamped with festival prep today. What with the tent debacle and everything.”
“That’s right, the tents.” I let my own mural distract me. “Come on. Let’s see what’s going on.”
We hustle the last few yards to where Devin is pacing the street, talking on his phone. His words become clear as we approach. “What do you mean you can’t deliver the tents until twelve? Our event starts at twelve. They should have been here an hour ago! No, I won’t hol—” Punching the air, he curses.
“Is that the rental company?” I ask.
He shifts the phone away from his mouth. “Yeah, and they’ve completely dicked us over. They’re giving me some line about not guaranteeing their delivery window, even though the contract specifically said ten and I confirmed with the manager yesterday that everything would be delivered on time.”
“Did you get the confirmation in writing?”
“Does ‘email’ count as writing?”
I beckon for the phone. “Let me talk to them.”