“Gee, thanks.”
“Sit,” she commanded, pulling a muffin free and thrusting it into my hand. “Now. Explain why Georgette Wheeler is currently doing her best impression of a hermit.”
I sank back onto the couch and counted the reasons on my fingers: “No Marigold’s. No festival. No Georgie.”
Multiple syllables were overrated anyway.
Margot sunk onto a floor cushion, tearing her muffin into neat quarters on the table. “Let me guess—the meeting yesterday with Claire still has you down?”
“Pretty much.” I ripped off a huge chunk of my muffin. “But it’s not that she’s perfect. It’s that she’s perfect,andshe has everyone convinced she’s saving the festival. Like we would’ve been helpless without her.”
Margot chewed thoughtfully, one eyebrow raised. “And this upsets you because…?”
“Because it’s not right! This town doesn’t need a fancy gala with an absurd entrance fee. It needs—” I broke off, scowling at the rest of my muffin. “It needs to feel like—” I motioned wildly, crumbs flying everywhere. “Bluebell Cove.”
She tilted her head. “So why are you sulking instead of saying that to everyone else?”
“I did. Kind of.”
“You tried once and then retreated to your cave.”
I glared. “Thanks for the recap, Margot.”
She popped another piece of muffin into her mouth, entirely unbothered. “Look—you’ve got two choices. One: keep wallowing on the couch with your carbs and—” She swept a concerned gaze over my lumpy cushions and wrinkled her nose. “A thin blanket of dog hair. Two: fight for the Summer’s End Festival. And maybe,” she added slyly, “for your carpenter, too.”
I nearly choked. “He’s notmycarpenter.”
Why did everyone keep saying that?
“But you want him to be.” She pointed her muffin piece at me like a judge’s gavel. “Be honest—I’ll bet you practically levitated when he showed up at your door last night with a bag ofdonuts, of all things. That’s like your version of a bouquet.”
I forgot that Margot fielded several panic-induced texts last night about Rhett’s appearance at my door. My ears burned.
“You don’t know that.”
“Don’t need to. You’re about as transparent as glass.”
I shoved the rest of the muffin into my mouth just to keep from answering.
Margot sat back with a satisfied sigh. “Now. Are you going to keep pouting, or are you going to do something about it? Because this—” She waved at me. “Is not the Georgie I know.”
After Margot left—with the smug warning that she’d “check in later to make sure I wasn’t sulking again”—I tugged on my rain boots and jacket. The air outside was damp and cool, the streets still shining and puddled from last night’s storm.
I told myself I was walking Easton, but the truth was, I needed to move. I needed to feel the town’s pulse, even if I dreaded what I found.
Main Street buzzed more than usual for a Friday morning in September. Shopkeepers swept their stoops and wiped their windows until they gleamed, and the post office door beside Callahan’s Garage creaked with a steady stream of neighbors clutching packages.
As I passed, voices drifted toward me.
“Claire’s plan is ambitious,” Mrs. Patel said outside the Cove Market, her arms laden with a heavy brown bag of groceries. “But imagine what that kind of fundraising could do for us.”
“Tourists don’t need pomp and circumstance to see that Bluebell Cove is special,” muttered Mrs. Henderson, wrapped in a Market apron. “They need a reason to feel welcome. Claire doesn’t know the first thing aboutwelcome.”
I walked faster, cheeks heating. Mrs. Henderson was an unlikely ally.
Farther down, near the Morning Bell, two teenagers leaned against the window, sipping iced coffees.
“Did you see the part about the VIP tent?” one asked. “It looked like Coachella!”
