I shake my head. “Cardinal sin, indeed.”
The Mavericks mumble at my sassiness, and a piece of caramel popcorn hits my cheek. “Hey!” I scoop it from the ground. “I used the name-brand ingredients for this. Show some respect.”
Pap shuffles the deck. “I’m good as long as this Thomas boy showsyourespect. Let us know if he needs roughing up,” says the man with a double hip replacement.
Mom links her arm through mine like Tilly often does. “Those events are fancy. Do you need a dress? Because we can go shopping.” She brightens. “I know I missed my chances to get your prom gowns, but I’m here now.”
She’s missed more than just gown shopping, but I’m not ready for that conversation yet. You know, the one where I ask where she’s been the past twenty-some years. She moved out when I was three to pursue her own life. At least that’s what Gran claimed. I know Mom traveled a lot for her job as some sort of international tour guide, but I never asked her to explain all the particulars. It was my teenage self’s mild version of rebellion,as in, why should I invest in her life when she hardly cared about mine. “I already have a gown.” I watch her shoulders lower. Barely into her forties, she’s retained a youthful glow I hope I inherited. Yet the dejection on her face makes her appear older. Despite my mountain of mommy issues, I soften. “But I still need shoes.”
She nods rapidly with a growing smile. “Then we’ll find you the perfect pair. Besides, I need to find a pair of boots for this costume.” She runs a hand over the fur trim. “You’ve outdone yourself with this.”
“I enjoy it.” And I do. Sewing is one of my creative outlets. I’m grateful that everything is coming together for the float, but something—no someone—is missing in all of this. I glance at Gran’s empty chair. As hurtful as it sounds, my birthmother stands only a few feet from me, but Gran had been my true mom all these years in April’s absence. This will be my first Thanksgiving without her, and I’m not sure my heart can take it.
The venue for the Firefighters’ Charity Gala is a historic inn at the edge of Silver Creek. This facility is used for everything from benefits to bingo tournaments. But tonight, with the addition of soft twinkle lights and silver chiffon panels sweeping from marble pillars, the space has been transformed into one of elegance. Beyond an archway comprising shimmering Christmas bulbs, numerous tables are arranged around a gleaming dance floor. An orchestra is gathered in the left corner, playing a gentle rendition of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas,” and a coffee bar is situated to the right, my favorite barista standing behind a stainless-steel espresso machine.
Tilly glances over and makes an exaggerated motion of fanning her face, followed by an enthusiastic thumbs up. I’m grateful for her support, but man, I wish I had even an ounce of her poise. Seconds ago, I nearly faceplanted into a potted poinsettia while climbing the steps to the building. Fletcher deftly clasped my elbow just in time.
Fletcher follows my gaze. “Ah, your friend.” He helps me out of my wrap and hands it to the attendant.
“Tilly’s working the drinks and dessert tables, but I’m hoping she gets a break long enough to hit the dance floor. Shelovesdancing.” I throw Fletcher an obvious hint he clearly doesn’t catch, given that his attention is hyper-focused on his cufflinks.
He cleans up nice. He moves about with the ease of a man who wears tuxedos regularly. Meanwhile, my contouring bra is digging a trench into my skin. Though even shapewear discomfort can’t dampen my mood because the ambiance is something straight out of a movie. “Everything looks so beautiful.”
His gaze runs over me. “I agree.”
I fight a blush. “Thank you.” My gown’s a 1960s vintage, but no one would know. I found the floor-length evening gown at an estate sale, and it became my first restoration project. It had some fraying along the seam, so I decided it would be the perfect place for a side slit. I’m not usually one for a thigh-high opening, but in this case, it works. The black silk whispers over my form. Nothing flashy. Just a quiet statement that matches my style. I completed the look by sweeping my hair in an updo with a few tendrils framing my face.
His mouth quirks. “I thought you hated exercise.”
My brow lowers. Is he talking about the Turkey Trot? “Running? Yeah, it’s not my thing.”
He looks pointedly at my bare arm. “You don’t get that from waffle fries.”
Nope. You don’t. My muscle tone isn’t some indicator that I love working out. Not even close. But I’m not going to explain the motivation to Fletcher. It’s too personal. I smile my thanks at his masculine appreciation and leave it at that.
Fletcher introduces me to several people I’ve seen around town, though never actually spoken with. The banquet room is quickly filling, and the dance floor is attracting more couples. A silent auction lines the side of the space by the coffee bar.
Fletcher nods at the tables brimming with goods that will hopefully bring in support for the fire department. “Did The Memory Bank donate something?”
“Yeah, a vintage basket filled with tea items.” I put it together last week after Chief Garrison Todd visited the store, asking for donations. Though I did turn down his request of my stocking their firefighters’ yearly calendar. It’s for a great cause, but last month Adelaide tried to sell me a cardboard cutout of some guy named Fabio. I suspect he was once popular, considering after I refused, four female customers got into a bidding war over it. Adelaide raked in a hundred bucks, and I scored a headache. Half-dressed people donotbelong in my shop.
As if I conjured him up, Chief Todd approaches. “Hey, Greta.” He beams. “Did you change your mind about the calendars? I got a box in my truck.”
“Goes against my brand. All my merchandise is at least fifty years old.”
His dull blue eyes spark with mischief. “Mr. October is fifty-seven.”
I snort. “Hard pass, Chief.”
“Oh well. Thought I’d try.” He takes a sly glance at Fletcher and lowers his voice. “If you need me to introduce you to some single firefighters, let me know.”
Fletcher chuckles. “Are you trying to take my date away?”
“Not at all.” Chief Todd’s innocent expression seems well-practiced. No doubt it’s one he uses on Mrs. Todd. “Have you seen Remington yet?” he asks Fletcher.
“No, but he doesn’t like this kind of thing.”
The chief’s jowls shake with a heavy sigh. “He’s had a rough year. I guess we can cut him some slack.” The two men continue the conversation while I try to keep up. After several nods and some well-placed I-agrees, the chief’s gaze drifts over my shoulder. “There’s the fire marshal. Excuse me.” He gives a parting smile.
