Two volunteers check our names at a long table just to the left of the elaborate gates. I don’t recognize either person. Another volunteer guarding the gate welcomes us into the spacious brick-paved courtyard of a gorgeous, gigantic two-story dark wood shingle craftsman house.

The setting is as magnificent as the house; it must sit on at least three acres of lawn bookended by forest. Behind the house, the hillsides of greater Seattle frame the background, looking closer than forty-five minutes via ferry across the Puget Sound.

In front of the house, several yards from where we stand, a large canvas tent is set up over light pink linen-draped tables – just in case rain decides to visit. For now, however, the sky is the clear, bright robin’s egg blue of a perfect long summer evening.

“Wow,” I say softly, taking it all in, “this is like one of the events my mom designs, and I’m sure like many you’ve attended.”

“Not at too many private homes like this,” Rune shakes his head, “this is really something.”

The atmosphere is festive, with a happy, chatting crowd milling about. Music is being piped in from hidden speakers.

“Isn’t this a Gregg Allman song?” I ask, listening for a moment to the groovy rock instrumental playing in the background. I recognize the song because it’s one of my dad’s favorites.

“It was written Dickie Betts, but yes, it’s the Allman Brothers…Jessica,” Rune says, steering me towards one of the bars set up around the party’s parameter, “Your dad would disapprove; it didn’t come out until 1973, but sometimes Gregg likes to follow me around.”

When I raise my eyebrows at this surprising statement, he changes the subject, “You’ve never been here before?” He asks as we join the line for drinks.

Gregg Allman follows him around? Does he talk to Rune in his head the way Theo has started talking to me? This isn’t the place to have such a conversation; I’ll probably never tell Rune (or anyone else) that Theo talks to me in my head. Still, it it makes me feel less alone with my strange situation.

Someday, I will ask Rune what it was like to play such a well-known rock star. Dressing up as Pattie Boyd has given me a new appreciation for the commitment and work it must have taken him to play Allman. I’m only dressed up for one evening, and it took a lot of effort. Rune had to dress up, sing in Allman’s distinctive bluesy growl, play the organ, and pretend to fall in love with Cher.

“No,” I bring myself back to the present when I realize he’s waiting for my answer, “this is the first time this host has ever held an event for ReWild. They’re friends of the new board member Amy Pennington.”

“Jack’s new friend?” Rune asks. I nod, trying not to look bummed, “Hey,” he squeezes my shoulder, “you got this, Pattie Boyd.” When I give him a disbelieving grimace, he leans closer, “No one here is rocking a mini dress quite like you are.”

This makes me laugh and feel a bit better, which he intended. I’ll do my best not to focus on my hurt and embarrassment over Jack tonight. My goal is to just be here now at this beautiful event with my handsome friend. It’s getting harder to remember that I’m still mad at him, even though he’s got such a terrible reputation. He’s doing me a big favor by being here tonight.

It’s a much larger turnout than the ReWild fundraiser last summer. There must be more than one hundred people milling about. The only ones I recognize are a few staff members here and there.

The mostly late middle-aged and older crowd are dressed in varying degrees of boho chic and hippy casual. Many people, especially women, only wear lavish floral crowns with colorful summer party attire to honor the Summer of Love theme, but there are a lot of very flared jeans.

As I imagined, our outfits are the most thought out. I’m glad Rune insisted we make such an effort. People give us smiles of appreciation and toast us with their glasses as they walk by. As he passed, one man leaned in and sang a snippet of Eric Clapton’s Layla to me, one of the songs Pattie inspired. His wife was not amused.

“Give me your keys,” I tell Rune suddenly as we step up to give our order to the bartender, remembering what I’d decided earlier today, “I’m the designated driver.”

“You sure?” he asks, reaching into his jacket pocket.

“Yes. You’re doing me a big favor, and I don’t drink much anyway. I’m sort of a lightweight.”

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Good to know,” he says, giving me one of those looks I can’t read and handing me his keys. I do my best to ignore the frisson that runs through me as his fingers lightly brush mine.

“Hey,” I say to distract myself, as Rune hands me my ginger ale and picks up his strawberry basil crush, the drink of the night, “let’s make a toast in Theo’s honor for our fantastic outfits.”

“Absolutely,” Rune agrees, clinking his glass to mine, and then coughs after his first sip, “Whew!” He whistles, “No wonder everyone’s so happy. This will certainly help with the fundraising.”

He hands me his martini glass containing the bright red drink. I take a sip and cough as well.

“Wow,” I say when my throat clears, “be careful with those. I’m pretty sure I can’t carry you out of here.”

“Don’t worry,” he winks, “I can hold my drink.” I hope he’s right. A couple of those and I’d be either dancing on one of the tables or under it.

As we approach the tent to find our table, we run into ReWild’s Executive Director, Emily Ferguson. She’s strategically located to greet people on their way to their seats. Smart.

Emily’s one of those incredibly energetic late middle-aged women like my mom with the skills and ability to run a small country. She wears her iron-gray curls in a chin-length, curly bob. With a large piece of statement turquoise at her throat and a flowing, colorful caftan, she seems more like a high priestess of a secret order than someone celebrating the summer of love tonight, but the outfit suits her.

“Shelby!” she exclaims, “I hardly recognized you. Make sure Jack gets a photo of the two of you for our email newsletter. You look fantastic!”

I almost wince at the mention of Jack’s name, but smile gamely instead, “Emily, this is my good friend and neighbor, Rune. He deserves the credit for picking out our outfits. Rune, this is our Executive Director Emily making it all happen.”

“A pleasure,” Rune says, shaking her hand, “It sounds like an amazing organization.”

“Thank you, it is. I can’t take credit though; it’s a team effort,” Emily tells him, then leans in conspiratorially, “Are you a creative too, Rune? Might we hope Shelby will recruit your talent for our fledgling movement the way she has our photographer, Jack?”

Oh no. I’d totally forgotten about Emily’s blunt forwardness in promoting the cause. I hope Rune isn’t put off by her.

“Shelby can be persuasive,” Rune says knowingly, giving Emily a full-wattage grin, “You could say I’m a creative. I’m in entertainment production.”

“Marvelous! I must hear all about it very soon, but for now, you both go enjoy yourselves,” Emily says, clearly having no idea who Rune is, but happy at the thought of more talent, “I can’t wait to share your video in the presentation tonight, Shelby, everyone’s going to be so impressed.”

“You make videos?” Rune asks as I lead him through the maze of tables.

“Not the actual filming part, no, but I storyboard and edit them,” I tell him as I recognize Luna and her family across the room.

I shared with Rune in the car that we’re sitting with my friends who own Hummingbird Floral Farm. We’re the last two to arrive at our table. It’s situated a few rows back from the front, off to the right, with an excellent view of the podium.

“Shelby,” Luna waves us over to the two open seats, “look at the two of you!” I sit next to my friend and kiss her on her warm brown cheek before introducing Rune to everyone.

“Awesome,” Dan, Luna’s husband, says enthusiastically, standing up to shake Rune’s hand across us, “we get the cool kids at our table.”

He’s a tall, affable, barrel-chested, sandy-haired man in his mid-40s, a few years older than Luna. I like him almost as much as I like Luna. They’ve both been a lifeline during my time of getting used to living in a new place and caring for Theo, even more so after his death.

“Of course, they’re at our table!” Luna says, “We’re the creatives,” she gestures to the beautiful floral arrangement on the table of sweet peas and peonies that are as deliciously fragrant as they are delicately pretty and the elaborate floral crown on her head.

“My compliments,” Rune does a little bow to her, his right hand over his heart. This makes Luna flash her gorgeous smile and laugh, tossing back her long, curly black hair, usually tamed in a braid.

“Don’t forget we’re also farmer activists!” Dan’s dad, Tom, pipes up. He’s almost a replica of his son, but twenty-plus years older, with a head of shaggy white hair. He’s wearing a Grateful Dead t-shirt that looks as if it might indeed be from the 1960s.

“Don’t scare him,” Pat, Dan’s mom, says. She’s also wearing her shoulder-length silver-gray hair down tonight and sports an elaborate floral crown. The crowns are Luna and her daughter’s handiwork. They’re famous regionally, and even in Seattle, for creating them for weddings.

“No fear, this is perfect,” Rune holds up his glass like a toast, “I’m with the right team. Cheers!” Everyone raises their glass and cheers along with him.

I share with Rune that Dan’s parents, Tom and Pat, were good friends of Theo and Rueben and sit on the board of ReWild.

“The two of you must have had great fun going through Theo’s collection,” Pat says, “you look wonderful.”

“This is all Rune; he came up with our rock muse Pattie Boyd and swinging sixties photographer theme,” I tell everyone.

“Even your eye-makeup and hair?” Leslie, Dan’s sister, asks. She’s a stylist here on the island at a posh salon. With her keen fashion sense and constantly evolving hair, she’s one of the only people I’ve met here who seems like they could fit into my old life in Santa Monica.

“No. That’s all Shelby’s artistic skill,” Rune says, leaning back in his chair and putting his arm along the back of mine, “I just picked out the shortest mini dress that went best with this jacket.”

“Wise choice,” Dan winks at Rune. I have a feeling he means more than the dress. I’m a bit conflicted. It’s good that he thinks I’m a catch; a little sad, this is all a ruse to help my crushed heart.

By the time the wait staff starts bringing around platters of hummus, tzatziki, and seasonal vegetables as shared appetizers, we’re deep in conversation. Everyone’s catching Rune up to speed on what ReWild focuses on.

“So, the purpose of tonight is to start fundraising to buy land for a permanent location?” Rune clarifies.