Lacey's Arc

Chapter 2 of 8

The water was gone by morning. Billy pulled Lacey's car free with a chain, then drove her back toward town. But he didn't stop at the bakery. He turned down a rutted track and parked beside a strange little building on wheels. Rough timber, faded planks, a patched roof. A hand-painted sign read The Front Porch. He climbed out and studied it like a puzzle. "Bakery owner owns this too," Billy said. "She might rent you the corner porch for your crafts. Cheap. If she thinks people will buy." He knocked a loose board back into place. "But she wants to see finished work first. Not sketches." Lacey's stomach dropped. Her samples had drowned in the flood. She had nothing to show. "I can't prove anything," she said. "Everything I made is ruined." Billy pushed his cap back and looked at the field around them. Wheat grew wild past the fence, heavy gold heads bending in the wind. Beyond it, a tangle of flowers burst in reds, yellows, and purple. "You make things with your hands," he said. "So make something." A fluffy golden dog trotted out from under the porch, dark muzzle sniffing the air. It circled Lacey once, then leaned its whole weight against her leg. She laughed and scratched its ears. "Okay," she said. "Okay. Come on, then." She waded into the field with the dog at her heels. She cut a bundle of wheat and tied the stalks with a strip of her skirt hem. She picked the brightest blooms, careful of the buds. Her hands moved fast now. This was the part she trusted. Back at the porch, she worked on the plank bench. She had no resin left, but she had wire, thread, and the small tools she always kept in her bag. She wove wheat into a tight golden wreath. She pressed three flowers flat and bound them onto a pendant cord. The dog watched, chin on its paws. Billy leaned in the doorway, quiet, saying nothing. When she finished, she held the wheat wreath up to the light. The heads caught the sun and glowed. The bakery owner came out to see. She was a small woman with flour on her sleeves. She turned the wreath in her hands, then the flower pendant. She pressed one to her nose and smelled it. "People driving through will want these," she said. "Fresh. Local. My customers already stop for bread." She looked at Lacey. "The corner's yours. Two weeks. Fill it and prove it sells." Lacey's chest went tight and warm. She had a space. A real one. Then the woman added, "But you'll need a lot of stock by Saturday. Market day. Empty shelves and I give the corner to someone else." Lacey looked at the bare porch, then at her two small pieces. Two weeks had just become three days. She had a spot at last, and almost nothing to put on it.