“A list…” I echoed.
“Of potential sponsors.”
“Sponsors?”
“Yes.” She wrinkled her nose. “You sound like a parrot.”
I sipped my cortado and didn’t bother trying to read her list. “Sponsors for what, Georgie? Are you secretly a NASCAR driver?”
She leaned over the table. There was that concerning twinkle in her eyes again.
“For theFallfest.”
My mouth parted. “Sponsors? Since when do we have sponsors?”
“Right now, we don’t.” Georgie leaned back in her chair and pinched her eyebrows until tiny smudges appeared. “And, I mean, I’m not sure if weshould.”
I held her notebook up to the light and strained to make out some sort of word. Whatever twisted form of cursive she used, I’d never encountered it throughout the many unhinged manuscripts that had landed on my desk over the years. I traced my nail under row ten, which was ever-so-slightly legible, and felt my brows fly up my forehead.
“That’s a huge company,” I mumbled.
“I know.”
“The kind of huge that could put a lot of us out of business.”
“Exactly,” Georgie replied, sounding miserable.
I set her notepad down and draped one leg over the other. “Then you ignore them. Or decline. Or send them a verystrongly worded email about how Bluebell Cove supportssmallbusinesses. Whatever strikes your fancy.”
“Right.” She hesitated. “But—”
“But what?”
Georgie frowned, the pen streaks on her skin making it look almost comical. “I’m worried, Margot. To accommodate more people, we need more activities. More everything. Apparently, the rooms at the country club are all booked out. That’s more than two hundred guests. And—”
I held up a hand. “You need to breathe, okay?”
Her head bobbed in response as she paused to drag in a long breath.
“We can figure this out. Together.” I snapped her notebook shut. “But what we don’t need is a bunch of corporate sponsors stinking up Bluebell Cove.” The thought of Main Street businesses being bought by chain stores and restaurants made my skin crawl.
“You’re right. I know you’re right.” Georgie sucked down the rest of her drink and abruptly left our table to get another, which she most likely didn’t need.
I hugged my arms to my chest, watching through the window as another gale burst through the trees and sent a flurry of leaves drifting in the wind. Visitors trickled in and out of shops, a parade of colors and patterns in varying degrees of coats, scarves, and hats. If I closed my eyes, I could see it: the Morning Bell transformed into the leviathan that haunted every street corner in Manhattan, Captain’s Table mutated into some kitschy, soulless corporate Frankenstein.
We’d survived for decades managing to retain our small-town spirit while profiting just enough from the travel industry. Perhaps, though, all of this sudden exposure was more of a double-edged sword than any of us could’ve anticipated.
Georgie sank back into her chair, set her fresh latte down, and rubbed furiously at her eyebrows. “Why didn’t you tell me I looked like an ink-stained clown?”
I grimaced. “Distracted, sorry.”
“By—” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “—Teddy?”
I continued staring outside. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Am I being that ridiculous? I mean…”
Whatever Georgie was saying blurred into a wet, underwater murmur, like someone speaking through a fish tank. The café around me dissolved into a smear of movement and sound—cups clinking, a hiss of steam from the espresso machine, the buttery smell of croissants turning sickly in my nose.
