The other laughed. “Yeah, but who in town’s gonna afford a hundred bucks just to sit in a tent?”
“Notmyparents.”
Their laughter followed me.
It was like this everywhere I turned: half the town seemed preoccupied by Claire’s shiny promises, and the other half shaking their heads but too resigned to argue. And there was me,stuck in the middle, trying to figure out how I could possibly go up against someone like her.
Easton nosed at a puddle, splashing water onto my boots. I tugged him along, trying to swallow the lump forming in my throat.
We ended up at the end of Main, where the road met Harbor Street and stretched out to the white sands of the beach. The sky had cleared to a pale, tentative blue, and gulls bobbed lazily on the calm tide.
I sat on the worn bench near the diner, leash looped around my wrist, and allowed myself to slip away.
I was eight the year my grandmother first let me bake a pie for the contest. It was blackberry, the crust lopsided, and my hands had been sore from rolling dough and attempting a lattice top. The whole festival gathered around the wooden tables decorated with autumnal bunting, laughter echoing through the town plaza down the road.
When my pie earned a third-place ribbon, Frank hoisted me onto his shoulders like I’d just won Olympic gold. The sun had been warm on my face, the smell of sugar and cinnamon thick in the air, and for one shining moment I’d believed Bluebell Cove was thebestplace on earth.
The prize wasn’t what stuck with me. It was the feeling—when everyone there, resident or tourist, felt part of something special. When, for a weekend, Bluebell Cove belonged to anyone who wanted it.
Thatwas the festival’s magic. The reason they always came home to it.
Not galas. Not hors d'oeuvres or profits or VIP tents.
I blinked hard, my throat tightening. Easton rested his chin on my knee and stared with those huge, curious eyes.
Margot had been right. Claire might’ve had the credentials, but she didn’tgetit. She couldn’t. She hadn’t grown upsticky-fingered from competitive pie making or exhausted from manning carnival ticket booths or dizzy from twirling under the web of string lights above Main Street with every other kid in her town.
Ihad.
And maybe—just maybe—that made me the right one to save it after all.
By the time I trudged home, the afternoon light had splashed a wave of gold across the rooftops. My hair was frizzed from the sea breeze, the bottom half of my jeans were soaked from puddles, and my heart beat felt steadier than it had in days.
I set a pot of water on the stove and wrenched open the drawer to my entryway table. Sometime in the last couple days, during one of my sulking episodes, I had shoved my notebook in there so that I’d never have to see it again. The edges were bent, some of the pages were wrinkled, and several remnants of paper had been left hanging on the metal spiral.
A smile stretched across my lips as I traced my fingers over the notes I was looking for.
I had been so focused on what wedidn’thave—the carnival rides, out-of-town vendors that were dropping like flies—that I forgot what really made Bluebell Cove so special.
Deep down, I was sure that there would be others who’d feel the same.
Easton thumped his tail against the floor beside me as I began to draw.
Chapter Eighteen
It felt good to be Georgie Wheeler again.
Nothing—and I meantnothing—could keep me down for too long.
I rushed through my notebook sketch before finding an unlined piece of paper and recreating it with a marker. My drawing skills started and ended at pottery and sign making—but that was all I needed.
“Okay, Easton,” I muttered, tapping my marker against my chin. “What says:this isn’t over, Claire?”
He rolled to his back with a grunt, paws in the air, and grinned at me.
“Not helpful,” I said, but I smiled anyway.
The sign read:
