“We’re saving the Summer’s End Festival—together.” I smoothed the bright yellow tape down, a rush of excitement sparking as I said it out loud. “Seven o’clock at Marigold’s tonight. Pass it on,” I added.
Her eyes softened. “Well, it’s about time somebody did something. My family comes into town every year for this. There’s no way they can afford that admission price!”
That was all the encouragement I needed.
Next stop: Callahan’s Garage tucked behind the Market. It had been in the Callahan family for decades, and although it wasn’t technically on Main Street, it was still a pillar of the community. My grandmother and I never owned a car—we had no use for one, really—but I saw them at every Bluebell Cove event growing up.
“Afternoon, Neal!” I called, brandishing a fluorescent sign. Easton barked.
He grunted, metal clinking as he tinkered beneath the hood of a truck. “What’s that?”
“Festival meeting. Marigold’s. Seven.”
Neal squinted at the poster over his shoulder. “Thought they had that figured already.”
“That depends if you want to dress in black tie and spend a hundred dollars on a ticket,” I retorted.
He wiped his hands with a bandana and rubbed his graying scruff. “Heard something ‘bout that. Suppose I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Well, I think we can stop it,” I replied, showing him my sign again. “Will you tell Ben to come?”
Neal sucked his teeth. “I can try. Why don’t you put it up on the glass there?” He turned back to the truck without another word and picked up his tool.
I taped it to his window and gave Easton a victorious pat. “See? This is going to work.”
We made our way down the street, plastering signs on every surface that would hold tape. Tourists stopped to read them. Teenagers walking home from school whispered and giggled until my face turned bright red. A couple of Main Street businessowners shot me skeptical looks, but no one moved to tear them down.
I ducked into the Morning Bell next, Easton tugging happily at his leash as though he knew what was coming. The sweet smell of pastries and the sound of coffee beans grinding was enough to make my stomach growl. Rachel was at the espresso machine, hovering over a comedically taller Cameron as he steamed some milk.
“Georgie Wheeler,” she said, narrowing her eyes when she spotted the roll of painter’s tape in my hand. “What are you scheming?”
“Not scheming,” I said, holding up a sign and wiggling my eyebrows. “Saving. Seven o’clock tonight. Marigold’s.”
Her brows knit together as she left Cameron’s side and leaned over the counter to read. Then, with surprising quickness, she snatched the sign right out of my hands. “Finally,” she muttered, marching from behind the bar to the front window. “I’m glad you’re back. I love you, but sulking isnotyour color.”
I bit back a grin. “So… you’ll come?”
Rachel gave me a what-are-you-talking-about look. “That’s not even a question. Now, hand me that tape.”
By the time we left, Easton had the crumbs of several treats stuck to his snout, and I was nearly bouncing on my toes. This wasworking.
The next stop was Gulliver’s Books. The bell jingled, and Joe emerged from a velvet curtain behind the register, his glasses fogged up from the steam of his teacup.
“Should I be worried?” he said with a single brow raise.
“Not exactly,” I started, sliding the sign across the counter toward him.
“Savingthe festival,” Joe muttered dubiously, “I don’t know about this. I could really use those triple profits.” He pushed it back to me and took a long sip of his tea.
My gaze drifted around the shop for a second before I turned back to him and sucked in a sharp breath. “Marigold’s is struggling too, Joe.”
I couldn’t believe that, after all that time of bottling it up, I said it out loud. But when he spoke up the other day, it stuck in my mind; maybe, just like my conversation with Margot, more people would let their guards down if I did first.
“Then you’ll understand why I’m in favor of the gala,” he replied, though his eyes softened.
I nodded. “I do. Trust me, I do. Those profits are tempting. But you know that’s not what Bluebell Cove is about.”
Joe sighed, long and haggard. Suddenly, as he watched me from behind his teacup, I saw just how tired he was. “That’s a beautiful sentiment. But sentiment doesn’t pay my bills.”
