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Chapter Five
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"The main thing is reallyto just think of everything. Plan for every eventuality, and you'll be fine. Don’t overthink it, it’s that simple. But of course, you already know that. If you were able to do the Millbreen wedding, this will be like a walk in the park."
Grace rolled her eyes. She hadn't pulled away for the afternoon to have her own job's high-level description parroted back at her, yet here she was, not bothering to hide her disdain for her companion’s elementary advice.
"Wow, that's really illuminating. Thank you so much for meeting me today to give me that little nugget of wisdom, Tris. Truly I never, ever would have figured that out without your sage words of advice. I’ll be sure to stop into the city council meeting this month when you explain that water is, in fact, wet." The satyr across the table grinned broadly, giving her a little wink. His cherub-like curls tumbled over his forehead, grazing the bridge of his nose, and she clenched her hands into fists to keep from leaning across the table and pushing them out of his face. His name was Tris, and Grace had known the cocky bastard for years.
People like Tris existed on the periphery of every elite social circle. Attendees at every party, somehow securing invites to the most exclusive of soirées without fail, like a Greek chorus moving at the edges of friend groups and families and people who typically only had two things in common: power and money. They never seemed to be related to anyone of any social importance or hold any jobs that made the engines of commerce hum, but they were always there, always present, until the thought of having a function and not inviting them was simply not considered.
He was a gossip columnist, a profession that fit him to a T, she thought. She had first met him at a wedding she’d planned — the daughter of a local politician, whose country club nuptials had been canceled at the last-minute due to an overbooking. By the time Grace had been brought in to manage the affair, everything that could have gone wrong already had. It had been up to her to smooth ruffled feathers, to restore order, and to turn an existing cluster fuck into a storybook happy ending and she did so with a smile. Tris had been a guest, an acquaintance of someone or another. He’d been hazy on the details of exactly who it was he had known, but he possessed an invitation, an easy gift of the gab, and more importantly, a flask of top shelf whiskey in the inner pocket of his impeccably tailored jacket. When he'd proffered it to her, she hadn't hesitated, and his number had gone into her file of contacts, as someone who knew everyone. Florists and caterers, hall owners and country club directors; anyone who was anyone who had anything to offer was someone with whom he was acquainted, and by Grace being acquainted withhim, she was, by dint, acquainted with everyone.
She'd been shocked to find him in Cambric Creek, running into him for the first time in years at the same place where they now sat, the Black Sheep Beanery, the busiest business in town. Tris, for his part, hadn't seemed that surprised.
"The wheel always comes around, darling. Everyone you know will eventually wind up in some other place, and someday, you will too."
A laughing trio approached their table from the pickup counter — a towering orc who was handsome enough to grace billboards in his underwear, and two human-looking women, one in a lab coat and the other in scrubs.
“Hold on, the new doctor gets a Danish!” The ewe-faced woman who owned the coffee shop had followed the group down the aisle, brandishing a paper bag she handed to the young woman in the lab coat, the girl’s glasses slipping down her nose as her head dipped bashfully.
“What does that make me, chopped gizzards?”
The sheep woman’s beaming smile never left her face as she rolled her eyes at the chuckling orc.
“That makes you a private practice doctor who can afford to pay for his coffee, Kanar.”
The trio took the table behind them as Tris returned her eye roll with a dazzling smile of his own, sipping at his tea.
"Really, it's just a little community planning committee. I don't know what you're worried over. If it's raining, have an umbrella. If it's hot, offer her something cold to drink. I don't need to tell you how to plan your event, that's what youdo, Gracie. The point is to let her see that you are prepared for any outcome, meaning their little festival will be in good hands."
She had already bought weights for the tables, and would make sure they were secured to the legs of her own before the werecat who headed the committee arrived for their meeting, in the event of a never-before-seen windstorm. She would have sparkling water and flat, had already purchased a case of sparkling elderflower lemonade, and would rim the glass in the farm's own honey — a sweet, refreshing reminder of the bounty that Saddlethorne provided the community.
"Honestly, you should be glad it's Greta. Sandi would've put you through the gulag. Speaking of which," he raised a caramel-colored eyebrow meaningfully, “I would make sure your political affiliation is on clear display, if you know what I mean. The were community is putting up a united front, and it'll make them happy to know Saddlethorne is a part of that."
She waved away the suggestion, taking another sip of her coffee. The Beanery was a vital hub of connections — the entire town passed through its doors on a weekly basis and she knew if she ever had trouble pinning someone down or getting them on the phone, she would be able to stake out the coffee shop and run into them eventually.
"I don't know what I can do about that. I have no idea who Cal is planning on voting for. What am I supposed to do, have ‘Hemming for Mayor’ signs lining the drive?"
"Well, I wouldn't go quite that far, but at least one wouldn't hurt. Street-level, so people can see it when they're coming up the road. Shout it loud and proud."
"But I really don't know if —"
"It doesn't matter, Grace.” Tris leaned over the table, his thick tumble of curls falling around his horns. From a distance, he gave the impression of being at least a decade younger than he was, but from her current vantage point only inches away, she was reminded that he’d been around the block — around and around and around — for years, and that she’d be wise to take his advice. After all, she reminded herself with a sigh, that was the whole point in meeting with him today. Tris was a valuable asset, and she wasn’t about to turn her nose up at his knowledge and opinions.
“Cal is free to vote for whoever he wants to, come elections. It's a private booth, no one needs to go in with him. ButSaddlethorneshould be advertising their support. Especially ifyouwant to contract likethis. Like I said, the entire were community is united. The cats, wolves, bears, all of them. Shifters too. You don't want to be on the wrong side of this one, trust me."
Grace scowled. She didn't like having to play games involving local politics, and wanted the business to stand on its own merits, using the talking points she'd painstakingly developed over the past three years. Worst of all, she knew he was right. She wanted this contract badly, wanted it for Cal and the farm and the business it would bring him, that recognition of being a community landmark in a dying profession. More than that, she was forced to admit, she wanted it for herself — tangible proof that she was good at her job, that she had earned her place in the community and wasn’t just another human moving in because she wanted to fuck the neighbors. She wasn’t there just to experience a non-human dating pool, and she didn’t want people to assume she was. She wanted this planning community contract, and that meant she couldn’t afford to be making enemies with the committee itself.
That Jackson Hemming would be elected as the town's new mayor come November was a foregone conclusion. The Hemming family had, after all, been at the forefront of Cambric Creek since the town's inception. Mayors, judges and magistrates, town treasurer, city officials both elected and appointed — if there was a position of power to be had in Cambric Creek, odds were good a Hemming had held it at one point, and would do so again in the future.
The future, it seemed, was here, and Grace knew Tris was right. If she wanted to be the planning committee's official venue for future events, it wouldn't do to have Cal running off at the mouth about how much he liked the incumbent candidate. She had no idea how Cal felt, nor how he was planning on voting, but that in and of itself was a bit damning. Everywhere she went in town, people fawned over the handsome werewolves, and the fact that Cal had never voiced an opinion on the family's return to political power didn't bode well. She pressed her mouth in a flat line and huffed,aggravatedthat Tris was right, but unable to deny it.
"Fine, I'll get a sign. At the road, like you said. Right in sight of all that southbound traffic on weekends. Is there anything else you can tell me about Greta? Anythingactuallyhelpful?
The handsome satyr smirked, making a great show of sipping his tea once more. “Gracie, I don't know what you're so worked up over. It's a stupid little festival. You're the biggest farm in town. Where else are they going to go? The winery? Enoch would run them off before they even had a chance to put on their brand-new equestrian boots and designer sweaters. Fucking relax, will you?"
She listened as attentively as she was able as Tris chattered on for the next thirty minutes or so, but she found it impossible to fully concentrate on her companion’s conversation. Every few minutes she would flip over her phone, checking to see if she had any missed notifications, double checking the volume to make sure she'd not turned it off, triple checking that she'd not accidentally swiped on the 'do not disturb' feature.
