“Did you hear?”
My ears perked, though I tried to stop it.
“About the governor? Oh, yes!” Another woman replied, the voices coming closer behind me. Footsteps grew louder against the linoleum. Panicking, I lurched backward and crouched behind a display of fish on ice.
Was it ethical, as the head of the Summer’s End Festival, to spy? Perhaps not. But I also had no desire to be subjected to another gala conversation that was just gloating dressed up as pity.
“I can’t believe Claire really got him to come.”
That was Dot. I’d know the thinly veiled brag anywhere. Which would mean the woman with her was probably her Button Jar counterpart, Florence. She was kind—but in a way that wastookind, causing her to be dragged along by Dot’s whims and grudges.
I set my basket on the floor and tried to adjust my squat without my sneakers squeaking.
“It does make you wonder who else will be there, doesn’t it?” Florence said with a gasp of veritable glee.
Dot grunted. “Lots of VIP’s, I’ll tell you.”
“Do you think we’ll feel out of place?” I saw Florence’s orthopedic shoes shift closer from beneath the display. “My closest black tie dress is twenty years old,” she whisper-yelled.
“How about we go to the mall in Port Camden tomorrow?” Dot replied.
Florence clapped. “Oh, yes. Let’s. Although—”
Dot groaned.
“Don’t you feel bad for little Georgie?”
Heat marched up my neck. I pressed against the display and tried my best to defy physics and sink into the floor.
“Georgie’s notlittleanymore,” Dot retorted with a scoff. “She had every opportunity to join us at the gala. Turns out she’d rather make a statement and risk bankrupting half the Main Street businesses in the process.”
Focused on attempting to melt into a puddle, I hadn’t realized that they were rounding the display until they stared down at me. Florence smiled and pushed her cat-eye glasses up her nose, the chunky acetate earrings she always wore dangling in the process. Dot squinted as if she caught me stealing from the cookie jar.
“Hi, Georgie! What are you doing on the floor?” Florence’s eyebrows knitted together as she blinked at me.
“I’m—”
“She’sspying,” Dot interrupted and crossed her arms.
I started to protest—then remembered I was crouched on the linoleum. “No, I was at the deli counter,” I responded, awkwardly ambling to my feet. “And I… er— thought I saw a leak in the display.” Nodding, I patted the hard plastic covering the fish like a concerned mechanic.
Florence began, “Well, isn’t that thoughtful—”
“Claire just told us that there’s no more tickets available for the gala,” Dot cut in again. “So, if you’re trying to weasel your way in, it’s not going to happen.”
“She did?” Florence asked, cocking her head like a bird.
I threw my hands up and took a step back, abandoning my basket. “The Summer’s End Festival is still happening. Trust me when I say I havenointerest in the gala.”
Well, maybe a teeny-tiny amount of interest that kept me staring at my phone and wishingsomeonewould call.
“I take it you haven’t seen the forecast,” Dot replied with a smirk.
The dumb expression on my face must’ve been enough. Florence pursed her lips and cast her eyes to the floor. Dot’s smile began to look suspiciously Grinch-adjacent.
“Needless to say, the storm’s a sure thing now,” she began. “It’s predicted tofloodMain Street.”
My knees nearly buckled as her words sunk in. I pressed a hand to my chest, faded memories from the last heavy storm fifteen years ago flashing through my mind. The row of dead fish to my left made my stomach turn—I could practically feel the chill of the calf-deep floodwater lapping at the curbs as it receded. It took many of us years to recover.
