She beamed. “I can assure you that the profits you all normally see from the festival will almost triple from the switch to a fundraising gala.” A few people leaned forward as she moved to her laptop and the slide changed. “As you can see here, this would be the estimated earnings foreachMain Street business.”
My jaw hinged open. Gasps filled Town Hall, broken by scattered applause and hoots of laughter. It was easily moreprofit than any business had seen from a Summer’s End Festival… ever. And as a fundraising event instead of a carnival and a market, we’d be making more money than we spent on it.
Claire knew it was an undefeatable idea. Her victorious grin made that clear.
When the meeting ended, she fielded a procession of grateful business owners who looked as if they wanted to kneel and kiss her feet. I remained seated, stomach churning, until the final Bluebell Cove resident left.
“Can I speak with you, Claire?”
I caught her on the steps of Town Hall, shielded beneath the portico as a mist of drizzle blanketed everything outside.
She offered me a tight-lipped smile and paused as she tied her trench coat closed.
“The fundraiser is a great idea, I just…”
The silence buzzed with tension as I grappled for the right words to say.
“Georgie, I don’t have all day,” Claire said, twirling her umbrella at her feet by the crook handle. “I have about a million things to do for this gala, which is now in ten days.”
I cleared my throat and forced it out. “The festivals aren’t just about the Main Street businesses—I mean, sure, we rely on it. But so do all the other vendors that we’ve used for decades. And now I have to call and tell them not to come.”
She swept her gaze down Bluebell Lane, seemed to be bored with what she saw, and turned to me. “Dire circumstances call for uncomfortable choices, I’m afraid. And the kind of people paying fifty dollars for a ticket aren’t going to want balloon animals or greasy carnival food.” Claire paused and shuddered at the thought. “I understand that you’re unhappy, but… what other choice do you all have?”
That was it. We had been backed into a corner by an unprecedented weather pattern, and now a Bluebell Covetradition was getting stomped to smithereens by a red-bottomed stiletto.
What was next?
???
The couch sagged beneath me later that night, surrounded by a trail of crumbs and a fortress of pillows. Easton had claimed the opposite cushion, belly up, chainsaw snoring rattling through the air. The glow from the TV painted the room in a shade of orange as Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, after two hours of will-they-won’t-they, finally proclaimed their love in the middle of Central Park. I sighed, stale tears wavering at my lash line as I stuffed my final cookie in my mouth.
A firm knock rattled the door.
I froze, mouth agape as morsels of cookie tumbled to my chest. No one had ever knocked on my door that late. In fact, most people on this street were asleep by now.
Swallowing, I padded over and cracked the door.
Rhett stood there, damp hair curling at his temples, a dusting of tiny raindrops gracing his flannel-clad shoulders. He held out a paper bag as if it was a peace offering. It would’ve been adorable if I hadn’t resigned to ignoring him completely until he left town.
“I brought donuts,” he deadpanned.
I narrowed my eyes. “At ten at night?”
No store in Bluebell Cove was open at this hour.
“They were half-off.”
Against my better judgment, I stepped aside. He toed off his muddied boots and followed me into the living room, setting the bag on the coffee table. Easton jumped awake and sprung fromthe couch, tongue already lolling to the side as he cried and pushed his face into Rhett’s palm.
We stood on opposite ends of the living room, my eyes fixed on the rolling credits just so I wouldn’t have to look at him. I was about to say I was going to bed when he finally spoke.
“I hate being paraded around like some prize steer.”
I blinked. “What?”
“With Claire. With my parents. With anyone who thinks standing next to me says something about them.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Guess that’s what I was raised for—looking good on paper.”
Rhett let out a long breath and pressed a hand to the back of his neck. “I spent years chasing everything they told me to—schools, degrees, even people. And when I finally had all of it, I—” He hesitated, his gaze flicking to me, startlingly raw. “The only reason I came here was for my uncle. He’s the only one who ever cared about who Iactuallyam.”
