After I make an appearance in the office, I find myself wandering around the festival. The event is set up in the park, with vendors, artisans, and food trucks along the outside, and the carnival is in the middle. For as long as I can remember, the Turkey Festival has been a part of Plymouth, and as an adult, I found it odd we’d celebrate Thanksgiving the way we do.
“Mr. Groff.” I turn at the sound of my name. Evelyn Pritchard is waving me toward her. “Mr. Groff, I don’t see your name on the pie-eating contest.”
I pat my belly and shake my head. “Sorry, Mrs. Pritchard, I love pumpkin pie, but I don’t know if I could eat more than a slice or two.”
“Oh, nonsense,” she says, waving her hand in the air. “When it’s topped with my homemade pumpkin-flavored whipped cream, you can eat a whole pie.”
She’s wrong. So, very wrong. “Let me think about it.” I wave and step away from the booth and back out into the crowd, hoping to hide among the masses. The rides are going, kids are laughing, and a man walks around on stilts making animal-shaped balloons.
The whole reason I’m down here is to see Maeve. She said she was working but never mentioned if she’d be here or at the station. I probably should’ve checked the station house first since it’s closer to my office. As I round the bend to where the medic tent is, I see a group of kids standing there, undoubtedly collecting the free items they’re handing out. I know I took the stress ball and pen they offered.
I don’t know what spurs me to do this, but I stop walking and just watch her interact with the kids as soon as I see Maeve. She’s crouched down to talk to the kids, whereas another medic is bent over. Maeve is a natural with the children. She pulls her stethoscope from around her neck, cleans the earpieces, and then gently sets them into a little boy’s ears. She holds the diaphragm up to his chest, and his eyes go wide. Oddly, I’m jealous of the attention and finally step forward. When Maeve sees me, she stands and takes her instrument back from the child.
“Hi,” she says, which is much better than the last couple of times she’s greeted me.
“Hey, Mr. Groff.” Logan comes up to me and gives me a fist bump.
“Hi, Logan. You can call me Kyler or Ky. How come you’re not in school?”
“Half day,” Maeve says. “My parents went over to Manchester to finish grocery shopping for Thanksgiving, and Logan didn’t want to go, so he’s here.”
Something tells me that Logan is bugging his mom while she’s trying to work. “Why don’t I take Logan for a bit.”
Maeve’s eyes go wide while Logan jumps up and down.
“We’ll stick to the area, probably go sign-up for the pie contest or something.”
“You don’t really have to this, Kyler. He’s fine, just hanging out.”
Logan feels otherwise and lets his mom know it with a long, drawn-out, “Mom.”
I set my hand on her forearm and let it slide gently down until our hands touch. I give her a reaffirming squeeze. “Until dinner, I’m free. I’d love to hang with Logan.”
Maeve looks from me to her son and back to me. “Are you sure? He’s a good boy but a chatterbox and can be a handful.”
“Without a doubt. We’ll be back,” I tell her. “Maybe with gifts and milkshakes.”
Logan kisses his mom goodbye, and I leave my cell number with her, just in case. When we are a few feet away, I turn to see what she’s doing and find her staring at me. Well, more than likely, she’s watching her son, but for a moment, I’m going to assume she’s checking me out.
“Do you work?” Logan asks.
“I do. I manage about thirty banks all over New Hampshire.”
“Do you have any kids?”
“Nope, I don’t have a wife either.”
Logan looks at me oddly. “If you had a wife, you wouldn’t be talking to my mom.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t.”
I steer us toward the food trucks. I’m starving, and if I remember correctly, young growing boys can eat a house and still be hungry an hour later. Logan and I walk up and down the food alley, looking at the menu until we decide we’re doing to have deep-fried Oreos with vanilla ice cream and corn dogs. He wanted to top this off with cotton candy, but I told him there was no way I’m getting him high on sugar.
We sit down at one of the picnic tables and dig in.
“How do you like Plymouth?”
“It’s okay. I miss my dad, but he’s never home, so at least I have my poppy.”
“If I remember correctly, you’re a Ravens fan.”
He nods, and his smile beams brightly.