Watching his jaw flex, he seemed to struggle to keep that practiced mask of indifference in place. A thousand unsaidwords hung overhead like icicles, ready to impale us if we made a misstep.
I already knew Rhett was going to break my heart when he left. It was my decision just how much.
I looked away. “Goodnight, Rhett.”
And before he could reply, I tugged Easton toward home.
???
All night, I tossed and turned, sick about my conversation with Rhett, and the state of Marigold’s, and the festival being ripped from my hands. Just over a week ago, I would have been relieved by someone more qualified taking the reins. Maybe it was just something about Claire, but suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to be in charge again.
Town Hall buzzed with anticipation the next morning. Folding chairs scraped against the floor as people packed in for the “official” emergency Summer’s End Festival planning session. I wasn’t sure what made this one moreofficialthan mine, but I supposed having an international event planner dripping in designer clothes probably did the trick.
I couldn’t remember the last time I stepped foot in Town Hall—most gatherings like this were held at Captain’s. Apparently, Claire had specifically requested to hold the meeting here.
It was a small, unassuming building at the end of Bluebell Lane; the exterior wrapped in red brick, framing tall, white-paned windows and columns guarding the wide stone steps. Two flags flanked the doorway, their fabric catching in the breeze, tidy shrubs lining the path leading up to thick double doors.
Inside, vaulted ceilings held a system of original beams, hanging over well-polished walnut floors and a stage with a podium. Particularly unfussy for a historical property.
Claire stood on the platform, radiant in a cream blazer that looked like it was made for her. She clicked through a slideshow on her laptop, each polished graphic splashing above her on the projection screen.
“Instead of bake-sale pies, we’ll have catered hors d’oeuvres,” she said, beaming. “And I’ve already contacted a quartet from Boston willing to volunteer their time. No need for a free band from the high school.”
Murmurs rippled. Mrs. Henderson frowned. Frank loudly muttered something about “fancy city-folk nonsense.”
Dot, of course, clapped. “Brilliant! Exactly the touch this festival needs.”
I sat in the second row, struggling to keep the scowl from my mouth. Every word felt as if she was pushing decades of Bluebell Cove traditions off a cliff.
Claire clicked to the next slide: a glossy mock-up of ticket booths and velvet ropes. “And to cover costs, we’ll shift to a modest admission fee. One-hundred dollars should suffice.”
That did it. The room erupted. Farmers, business owners, teenagers—they all started talking at once, united by a single problem: the festival had always been free, no matter what.
My pulse thundered.
I stood, the squeal of my chair against the floor turning a room full of heads. “With all due respect, Claire, this doesn’t sound like the Summer’s End Festival.”
The words rushed out before I knew what I was doing. I quickly clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking.
Claire scratched her eyebrow with the tip of her nail, nodding as if truly contemplating my words. Her heels made tiny divotsin the stage’s carpeting as she circled around the podium and faced us all.
“I understand your concerns. I really do. But to my understanding, you all needed my help because the Summer’s End Festival was—” She paused and pursed her vermillion lips. “Going to… miss the mark this year. Am I correct?”
People began to sit. My face burned as I stayed standing.
“It’s no one’s fault that a storm has cancelled your outdoor event.” Claire cast an easy smile over the audience. I realized, with a wave of nausea, that she had successfully recaptured their interest. “Things like this happenall the time—and fixing it is my specialty. But you have to let me try. Do you think you can do that?”
To me, her tone was bordering on patronizing. But as I glanced behind me, no one seemed to care. They hung on each of her words, apparently enraptured by her shiny hair and lofty promises that traveled further than anything I could’ve devised.
Then her eyes, sharp as a hawk, fell on me.
“Do you have any other concerns, Georgie?”
I did. But something told me it wasn’t the right time. Flopping back down in my chair, I crossed my arms and waited for her to resume.
“Well. I understand that charging for tickets concerns all of you. But, as I have surmised, this festival is important because it supports the small businesses here—correct?”
Mutters of assent rolled through the crowd.
