Chapter 39
39
Natalie
F estival day dawns bright but not too hot—perfect summer weather. All the Rush Creek–based Hotts and their spouses, fiancées, and friends show up to help us with setup, and it’s done in a flash. Soon Preston and I are seated in our booth, waiting for the festival to officially start.
“Did I dream it, or did you go for a walk in the middle of the night last night?” I ask Preston.
“You didn’t dream it.”
“What?” I ask because there’s a weird expression on his face.
“Nothing much,” he says. “I surprised what might have been an intruder, messing around near the stables. Tuck came and kept an eye, so there’s no way they could have gotten into our stuff, but—it’s weird. It’s not the first time something strange like that has happened.”
He tells me two wild stories—one about Quinn and a flood, and one about Shane and a wedding…and I have to admit, it doesn’t sound like coincidence. Three brothers, three wacky will assignments, and three incidents where they almost couldn’t fulfill their obligations because something happened at the last minute.
Well, in our case, nothing happened, but only because Preston was in the right place at the right time.
“So you think it could be…sabotage?”
“I think it’s possible,” he says. “When the wedding disaster happened with Shane, we thought it might be Arthur Weggers, our grandfather’s attorney. He’s been a thorn in all of our sides. But I don’t see what he’d have to gain from undermining us.”
“Who does have something to gain?”
“Blue Iron Mining,” Preston says grimly. “The company that gets the land if we don’t comply with the will.”
“Jesus. That’s effed up.”
“I’m going to have Tucker do a little…investigating. Oh,” he says, shoulders squaring. “And speak of the devil. Not that devil. The other devil. Hi, Arthur.”
“Hello, Preston,” says a small bald elderly man. “Excellent job you’ve done with all this.”
“I had a lot of help,” Preston says. “Arthur, this is Natalie Archer. She’ll be running the programming after I go back to New York, and she’s helped me develop it.”
Weggers considers that for a moment, frowning. Then he gives a slight nod. “That wasn’t against the rules,” he says. “Hello, Natalie.”
“Nat, this is Arthur Weggers. Esquire.”
Preston says this last with a mock gravitas that makes me want to giggle.
Our other staffers are arriving, so I leave Preston and Weggers to their conversation, showing all our helpers what I need them to do. We’re essentially running a mini festival inside the big festival. By the time I get everyone set up, people have started arriving. Our booth is mobbed, and I give an internal fist pump of delight.
Weggers has appointed himself master of ceremonies in the meantime, a kind of circus ringleader. He calls out to people as they arrive, corralling them into lines and directing them to our various activities.
He’s also put himself in charge of ethics. Everyone who participates in any activity scans a QR code and leaves a star rating. Weggers makes sure we don’t hover over people as they review us. “It would be unfair for you to exert undue influence over their selection,” he says sternly.
I swallow that giggle, too.
We can barely keep up with demand, and most people want to try all the activities we’re offering. When I check out our ratings so far, we’re operating at a solid 4.8. (There’s a one-star review from someone who didn’t like the hot pretzel bites because there were only four mustard options and none of them was stone ground.)
Our best customer, it turns out, is Nan of Rush Creek Bakery, who has left her shop in the care of her grandson and is participating in every last activity.
“I’m giving you five stars on everything,” she tells me.
Weggers, lurking nearby, straightens and steps our way. “There’s no need to disclose that,” he tells her primly. “It creates the suggestion that you might have been bribed?—”
“Oh, shut your flappy trap,” Nan says. “Mansplainer.”
This time, my giggle escapes. Weggers gives me an outraged look.
“I’m going to play Nerf tag,” Nan says.
“That doesn’t seem age appropriate,” Weggers says primly.
“Listen, you old bag,” she says. “I’m at least five years younger than you.”
“But you don’t see me playing Nerf tag. I’m keeping my dignity and my knees intact?—”
“Because you’re a dried-up coot,” Nan says. “Watch me.” And with a challenging look over her shoulder, she trots off in the direction of the Nerf tag stand.
“Wretched misery,” Weggers mutters. Then, to my utter shock, he heads off after her. I must make a startled sound because he turns around.
“Someone has to make sure she doesn’t kill herself,” he says and shrugs.
“Did that happen?” Sonya asks, appearing at my side. “I didn’t hallucinate it, right?”
“It definitely happened,” I say.
A moment later, Nan runs past me, blasting Nerf darts over her shoulder. She’s followed close behind by Arthur Weggers, cursing creatively.
Sonya and I can’t stop laughing for several minutes.