Something About Valdez

Maren had accepted the compliment anyway. She needed one uncomplicated morning. One useful task. One chance to be known in Valdez for something other than the woman who had once returned a borrowed kayak with a gull nesting in it.

“Are you Maren?” the man asked.

He stepped around the shed carrying the salmon’s detached tail under one arm. He was tall, sun-browned, and wearing a faded blue T-shirt with a whale printed across the chest. His dark hair had been pushed back by the wind and had immediately escaped again. A smear of silver glitter crossed one cheek.

Maren looked at the tail. Then at him.

“That depends,” she said. “Are you here to accuse me of something?”

His mouth tilted. “Not yet.”

It was an irritatingly good smile. Open at one corner, as if he had already found the joke and was generously allowing her to catch up.

“Theo Mercer,” he said. “Float wrangler. Occasional fisherman. Full-time victim of other people’s craft supplies.”

“Maren Holt. Booth volunteer. Temporary owner of these supplies and, apparently, this wagon.”

“Excellent. We can be introduced properly after we stop the salmon from becoming a traffic hazard.”

A gust caught the loose tail. Theo lunged. Maren dropped the wagon handle and grabbed the other end just before it swept into a stack of lemonade dispensers.

The tail was lighter than it looked, but awkward and floppy, its cardboard ribs poking through the glittered fabric. Theo’s fingers closed over Maren’s a few inches from hers.

“On three,” he said.

“Why do people always say that when they have no plan?”

“Because ‘on one’ sounds panicked.”

“It is panicked.”

“Good. We’re aligned.”

They hauled the tail toward a flatbed trailer. Maren’s boots skidded on the grass, and Theo caught her elbow before she went down. His hand was warm through her sleeve.

For one brief, inconvenient second, she noticed everything: the clean scent of soap beneath the sawdust, the faint roughness of his palm, the fact that his eyelashes were darker than his hair.

Then the tail collapsed between them.

Theo looked down at it. “That’s not ideal.”

“That is a phrase people use when they are about to make a bad situation worse.”

“Then I’m using it correctly.”

Maren retrieved the wagon and scanned the chaos for Mrs. Kessler. The booth supplies were supposed to be stacked beside the blue tent, but beside the blue tent sat two crates of fake gold nuggets, a hand-painted sign reading VALDEZ: WHERE THE MOUNTAINS MEET THE PICKLES, and a woman in a feathered hat arguing with a man dressed as a crab.

Her wagon, meanwhile, was missing half its contents.

“The bunting,” Maren said.

Theo followed her gaze. A strand of silver ribbon stretched from the salmon’s head to a nearby float shaped like a giant coffee mug.

“That’s not ours.”

“It absolutely is ours.”

“Then why is it on the coffee?”

“Because someone moved it.”

“Who?”

Maren looked at the crowd. “That is the question I was hoping not to answer before breakfast.”

A whistle shrieked near the parade route. The first floats were due to line up in twenty minutes. Her borrowed supplies - three folding display boards, a box of historical postcards, the booth banner, and a dozen jars of Mrs. Kessler’s famous blueberry relish - were scattered through the staging area like evidence.

Theo set down the salmon tail and rubbed glitter from his cheek, only spreading it farther.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll retrieve your things.”

“We?”

“You have a wagon. I have local knowledge.”

“You have a fish tail.”

“I contain multitudes.”

They moved through the crowd together. Theo knew everyone, or at least behaved as though he did. He waved to the crab, apologized to the woman in the feathered hat, and called a man named Lyle “a menace to structural integrity.”

Maren found the first display board wedged beneath a stack of hay bales. The second had been used as a tabletop for a plate of cinnamon rolls. The third was nowhere in sight.

“Your booth chair said the supplies would be in one place,” Theo said.

“My booth chair also once labeled a box of napkins ‘ceremonial linens.’ I should have asked follow-up questions.”

He glanced at her. “You always this calm?”

“I’m not calm.”

“You’re speaking in complete sentences.”

“That’s my panic voice.”

His gaze lingered on her face, curious rather than amused. “What does your regular panic voice sound like?”

“Mostly inventory.”

“Of course it does.”

She wanted to dislike how easily he read her. Instead, she found herself smiling despite the heat creeping up her neck.

They located the banner hanging from the coffee float’s rear axle. Theo climbed onto the trailer rail while Maren held the ladder steady.

“Don’t fall,” she said.

“I appreciate the confidence.”

“I’m protecting the banner.”

“Ah. Romance is alive.”

Maren looked up sharply. Theo was grinning down at her, one hand hooked around the banner cord.

“Get down before you become part of the parade,” she said.

He did, landing close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. The banner slid into the wagon, revealing a long scrape along its painted wooden frame.

Maren stared at it.

The coffee float’s front wheel had crushed the corner.

“Oh,” Theo said quietly.

The cheerful noise around them seemed to sharpen. A generator coughed. Someone shouted for more zip ties. The salmon’s loose eye rolled under a table.

“That wasn’t there when I left it,” Maren said.

“I figured.”

“It was in the supply shed.”

“I figured that too.”

“Then why are you looking at me like I drove the coffee float through it?”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Theo’s expression changed. The teasing slipped away, leaving something more careful. “I’m looking at you like you’re about to take responsibility for it because you think that’s what organized people do.”

Maren opened her mouth, then closed it.

Before she could answer, a woman in a yellow festival vest hurried toward them with a clipboard pressed to her chest. Maren recognized her from the planning meetings: Dana Price, logistics coordinator, champion of laminated schedules.

“Who moved the Heritage Booth supplies?” Dana demanded.

Maren raised a hand. “I’m trying to find out.”

Dana’s eyes dropped to the damaged frame, then to the banner in Maren’s wagon. “Maren.”

The single word carried a verdict.

Theo stepped slightly in front of her. Not enough to block Dana’s view, just enough to make it clear he was there.

“I moved the banner,” he said. “The coffee float was already - ”

“You were assigned to the salmon float,” Dana cut in. “Maren, you signed the equipment release.”

“I signed for the supplies,” Maren said. “I didn’t move them.”

“You had the wagon.”

“Yes, because I was bringing them to the booth.”

“And the frame was damaged while the supplies were under your care.”

A small audience had begun to collect. The crab paused nearby. The woman in the feathered hat leaned closer, interested.

Maren felt the familiar old heat rise beneath her collar. Not embarrassment exactly. Something tighter. The sensation of being placed in a story before she had a chance to tell her own version.

“I didn’t damage it,” she said.

Dana flipped a page on the clipboard. “The report needs a name.”

“Then put down whoever drove a coffee float over a display frame.”

“That would be difficult to verify.”

Theo’s jaw tightened. “There are tire tracks right beside it.”

“Thank you, Theo. I’ll ask for your statement later.”

Maren looked at him. He had been joking with her five minutes ago. Now he was standing beside a crooked banner, glitter on his cheek, clearly deciding whether to make this worse.

She wished he would.

She also wished he wouldn’t.

Dana held out the clipboard. “Just initial the damage acknowledgment.”

Maren stared at the line marked RESPONSIBLE VOLUNTEER.

Her hand had gone cold.

“I’m not initialing that.”

Dana sighed as if Maren had personally invented inconvenience. “Then I’ll list you as the volunteer in charge.”

The crab made a sympathetic clicking noise.

Theo reached for the clipboard. “That’s not the same thing.”

“It is for the report.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

Dana pulled it back. “Do you want to explain that to the parade committee while the salmon sits in the street?”

A shout rose from the far end of the staging area. The salmon, apparently, had escaped again. Its enormous head rolled between two parked trucks, scattering a flock of paper seagulls.

Every person nearby turned.

Maren looked at the damaged frame, the missing supplies, the crowd watching her, and Theo’s hand hovering uselessly at his side.

Then she grabbed the silver ribbon.

“Where’s the tool box?” she asked.

Theo blinked. “What?”

“The tool box. If the frame is going on the float, we can brace it from behind.”

Dana frowned. “Maren - ”

“Unless you’d prefer to explain to the committee why the Heritage Booth is represented by a blank space and six jars of relish.”

Theo’s smile returned, smaller this time but warmer. “Tool box is under the salmon trailer.”

“Of course it is.”

They ran.

The next ten minutes became a blur of rope, zip ties, splinters, and shouted instructions. Theo crawled beneath the coffee float while Maren held the damaged frame upright. He passed her a wrench without looking.

“Left side,” he said.

“Your left or my left?”

“The one that makes the frame stop falling.”

“That is not a direction.”

“It’s the best one I have.”

She braced the frame against her hip. The wood dug into her palm. Theo emerged with a length of metal tubing and a streak of grease across his forehead.

“Can I trust you with this?” he asked.

Maren glanced at him. “You’ve known me for twenty minutes.”

“And yet you’re the only person here who hasn’t tried to attach a decorative object to the wrong vehicle.”

“That’s a low bar.”

“In Valdez, it’s a sturdy one.”

Together, they secured the frame. Theo’s hand covered hers around the zip tie as he guided it through the brace. He paused.

“Tell me if I’m crowding you.”

The question, quiet beneath the clatter and music, caught her off guard.

“You’re fine,” she said.

His eyes held hers for a beat. “Good.”

Then he pulled the tie tight.

The frame held.

A cheer went up from somewhere behind them. The salmon was being dragged back by three teenagers and a woman carrying a mop.

Maren let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was keeping. Theo leaned against the float, close enough that she could see the tiny flecks of blue paint on his knuckles.

“You did that,” he said.

“We did that.”

“No. You saw the problem and fixed it.”

“I also signed a release form that apparently makes me the criminal mastermind behind a coffee-related collision.”

His smile faded.

Maren looked down at her scraped palm. “I know how this goes.”

“How what goes?”

“People decide I’m careless. Then I work twice as hard proving I’m not. By the time they believe me, I’m too tired to enjoy being right.”

The admission sat between them, more honest than she intended.

Theo’s voice softened. “Who decided that about you?”

“Everyone who has ever watched me drop something.”

“That sounds like a lot of people.”

“It is a surprisingly popular hobby.”

He reached into his pocket and offered her a clean bandanna. “For the hand.”

She took it. Their fingers touched.

“I don’t think you’re careless,” he said.

“You’ve known me twenty-three minutes.”

“Twenty-four. And you caught a flying fish.”

“Anyone would have.”

“Not anyone. Lyle tried to catch it with a funnel.”

Despite herself, she laughed. It came out shaky, but real.

Across the staging area, Dana called, “Maren Holt! I need your initials for the damage report!”

The laugh disappeared.

Theo looked toward Dana, then back at Maren. “You don’t have to sign it.”

“I know.”

“But?”

“But if I don’t, she’ll put my full name on it anyway.”

“You could contest it.”

“I could spend the rest of the summer explaining that I did not personally drive a coffee mug into a wooden frame.”

Theo studied her. “You’re planning to stay?”

The question was simple. The answer wasn’t.

Maren tied the bandanna around her palm. “I’m planning to finish the booth.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

A parade horn blared. The repaired coffee float lurched forward, its frame wobbling but holding. Sunlight flashed off the silver ribbon between them.

Maren looked at Theo, this stranger with glitter on his face and a talent for appearing exactly when things became impossible.

“I haven’t decided,” she said.

His gaze dropped briefly to her mouth, then lifted again. “Good.”

“Good?”

“I’d hate to win you over before I’ve had a proper chance to annoy you.”

Before she could answer, Dana arrived with the clipboard.

“Maren,” she said, louder this time, “the report.”

Maren took it.

The page listed her name beneath DAMAGE ASSOCIATED WITH HERITAGE BOOTH SUPPLIES.

She stared at the ink. Then at the repaired frame. Then at Theo.

He didn’t tell her what to do. He only stood beside her, waiting.

Maren picked up the pen.

She initialed the line - not RESPONSIBLE VOLUNTEER, but the smaller box marked WITNESS TO DAMAGE.

Dana frowned. “That isn’t an acknowledgment.”

“No,” Maren said, handing back the clipboard. “It’s a warning.”

Dana marched away, muttering about paperwork.

Theo leaned closer. “That was almost intimidating.”

“Almost?”

“You still have relish on your shoe.”

Maren looked down. A blueberry-colored smear decorated the toe of her boot.

She should have been furious. Instead, she laughed again, and Theo’s grin answered hers.

The repaired float rolled toward the parade route. Her booth supplies were finally back in the wagon. Her name, however, remained attached to the damage report, bold and official.

Theo nodded toward the line of floats. “I owe you an ice cream.”

“You owe me a statement.”

“That too.”

“And possibly a new banner.”

“Definitely that.”

Maren tightened the knot on her bandanna and started walking beside him, pushing the wagon through the bright, crowded grounds.

“Fine,” she said. “Ice cream first. Statement after.”

Theo glanced at her. “You trust me to choose the flavor?”

“No.”

“Excellent. We have somewhere to begin.”

Behind them, the salmon’s loose eye popped free again and bounced down the road.

Maren kept walking, though she couldn’t stop smiling - and couldn’t shake the feeling that by sunset, her name might be attached to far more trouble than a damaged coffee float.

End of chapter one. 7 more chapters in the full book.