Rust & Starlight
Chapter 36 : The Harvest Festival
The Millbrook Harvest Festival was held every October, but this year it felt different.
Maybe it was the weather — a perfect blue sky, the air crisp and cool, the leaves turning gold and red along the county roads. Maybe it was the town itself — the banners strung across Main Street, the smell of caramel apples and hayrides, the laughter of children running between booths.
Or maybe it was the absence.
Wren had attended the Harvest Festival every year since she was a girl. First with her parents, then with Luke, then alone — a widow in a crowd, smiling when she didn’t feel like smiling, buying a caramel apple she wouldn’t eat just to have something to hold.
This year, she almost didn’t go.
Mason was in Chicago, playing the second week of the tour. He’d called that morning, his voice groggy from the time change, and asked if she was going.
“I don’t know,” she’d said.
“You should go. Mabel will be there. The town misses you.”
“The town misses you, you mean.”
“The town misses seeing you happy. There’s a difference.”
She’d promised to think about it. Now, standing in her bedroom, staring at the dress she’d worn to the county fair — the one that made her feel pretty — she wasn’t sure.
Go, she told herself. You can’t hide forever.
She put on the dress.
The festival was in full swing by the time she arrived.
The parking lot behind the co-op was full, and she had to park on a side street and walk. The familiar sights and sounds washed over her — the Ferris wheel, the livestock barn, the stage where the bluegrass band played off-key covers. Children ran past her, sticky with cotton candy. Couples held hands, their faces flushed with cider and autumn air.
She was alone.
She’d known she would be. But knowing and feeling were different things.
“Wren!” Mabel’s voice cut through the noise. She was standing by the pie-eating contest booth, wearing a purple windbreaker and a wide-brimmed hat. “Over here!”
Wren walked toward her, weaving through the crowd. Mabel pulled her into a hug — quick, fierce, the kind that said I see you and I’m glad you’re here.
“You came,” Mabel said.
“I almost didn’t.”
“I know. That’s why I’m glad you did.” Mabel hooked her arm through Wren’s. “Now come on. The pie-eating contest starts in ten minutes, and I intend to win.”
“You hate pie.”
“I hate losing more.”
The pie-eating contest was exactly as ridiculous as Wren remembered.
Ten contestants sat at a long table, their hands tied behind their backs, their faces hovering over plates of apple pie. Mabel was the only woman, and the oldest contestant by at least thirty years. She looked utterly unbothered.
The announcer — a local farmer named Earl — counted down. “Three, two, one, GO!”
Mabel dove in.
She ate with a ferocity that belied her age, her face buried in the pie, her dentures working overtime. The crowd cheered. The other contestants dropped out one by one, their stomachs defeated. But Mabel kept going, pie crust flying, whipped cream smeared across her cheeks.
When the last pie was gone, Mabel sat back, lifted her face to the sky, and burped.
The crowd erupted.
“You’re disgusting,” Wren said, handing her a napkin.
“I’m victorious.” Mabel wiped her face. “Now help me find some water. I think I swallowed my dentures.”
They walked to the food stalls, Mabel leaning on Wren’s arm, the crowd parting around them like she was a returning general. People called out congratulations. Someone offered her a T-shirt that said Pie Champion. She accepted it graciously.
“You’re a celebrity,” Wren said.
“I’ve always been a celebrity. People just didn’t notice until now.”
They found a bench near the livestock barn and sat down. Mabel pulled a bottle of water from her purse and drank deeply.
“So,” she said, “how are you really?”
Wren looked out at the festival. The Ferris wheel turned slowly, its lights just beginning to glow in the fading afternoon.
“Lonely,” she admitted. “I didn’t think I would be. I’ve been alone for three years. But somehow, after Mason, being alone feels different. Harder.”
Mabel nodded. “That’s because you let someone in. Once you do that, you can’t un-do it. The walls don’t go back up the same way.”
“Do you think I made a mistake? Letting him in?”
Mabel turned to look at her. Her eyes were sharp, but kind.
“No. I think you made the bravest choice of your life. Loving someone is always a risk. But not loving — that’s a guarantee of misery.”
Wren looked down at her hands. The blisters from the chicken coop were healing, replaced by new calluses from the garden.
“I miss him,” she said.
“I know.”
“It feels like there’s a hole in my chest.”
“That’s not a hole. That’s him. Taking up space.” Mabel patted her knee. “And that’s a good thing. Empty is empty. Full is full. You’re full, Wren. Even when he’s not here.”
They sat in silence for a while, watching the festival go by. Families, couples, children — all of them wrapped in their own stories, their own joys and sorrows.
“Mabel,” Wren said, “can I ask you something?”
“You can ask. I might not answer.”
“Why didn’t you ever marry?”
Mabel was quiet for a long moment. Then: “I did. Once. A long time ago.”
Wren stared at her. “You never told me that.”
“There’s a lot I never told you.” Mabel’s voice was soft, distant. “His name was Frank. He was a farmer, like everyone else around here. We were young, in love, planning a future. Then the war came — not Afghanistan, the other one. Vietnam. He went, and he didn’t come back the same.”
Wren’s chest tightened.
“He drank,” Mabel continued. “Not like Luke — not violent. Just… absent. He was there, but he wasn’t there. I stayed for five years, trying to reach him. Then one day I realized I couldn’t save someone who didn’t want to be saved.”
She looked at Wren.
“So I left. Moved to Millbrook, started working at the co-op, built a life. I never married again because I never found anyone who made me feel the way Frank did in the beginning.” She smiled, but it was sad. “That’s my secret, Wren. I’m not tough because I never loved. I’m tough because I loved and lost, and I survived.”
Wren reached over and took Mabel’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t be. I’m not.” Mabel squeezed her hand. “And neither are you. You’re surviving, Wren. You’re thriving. And you’re going to keep thriving, whether Mason is here or not.”
The sun set, and the festival lights came on — strings of bulbs crisscrossing Main Street, the Ferris wheel glowing against the darkening sky. Wren bought a caramel apple and ate it, the sweetness sticky on her lips.
She was still lonely. But the loneliness had softened, edged with something else. Gratitude, maybe. For Mabel. For the town. For the life she’d built, even when it felt like she was building it alone.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Mason: “How’s the festival?”
She typed back: “Mabel won the pie-eating contest. She’s a menace.”
“I knew I liked her.”
“I miss you.”
“I miss you too. One more week, and I’ll be home.”
“The orchard is blooming. You’re going to love it.”
“I love you. That’s enough.”
She smiled, tucked the phone into her pocket, and walked back to find Mabel.
They stayed until the festival closed, watching the last of the Ferris wheel riders descend, the vendors pack up their booths, the families drift home. Mabel drove Wren back to the farm, the truck bumping down the dark road, the stars bright overhead.
“You going to be okay?” Mabel asked, pulling into the driveway.
“I’m going to be fine.”
“Call me if you need anything. Even if it’s just to talk.”
“I will.”
Mabel nodded, put the truck in reverse, and drove away. Wren stood in the driveway, watching the taillights disappear, then walked to the house.
The porch light was on — she’d left it burning, a beacon in the dark. The orchard was silent, the trees heavy with blossoms, their fragrance drifting on the night air.
She sat on the porch swing, the same one she and Mason had painted together, and looked up at the stars.
One more week.
She could wait.
She’d been waiting her whole life for someone like him. A few more days was nothing.