Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
ELLIS
Saturday on Main Street had its own warm-up: brooms on brick, and a band playing somewhere out of sight. Beau’s laugh ricocheting off windows.
I headed for Cast Iron Café and noticed the parking officer half a block away with his scanner up. Brickyard Brewery’s van—the one Cade drives when he’s not riding the engine—sat with its nose out by the peach fountain. Magnet on the sliding door, cooler in the back, no stub under the wiper.
The kiosk blinked, indicating only twenty seconds remaining.
I fed it my card, tapped +45 minutes, and the printer spat out a ticket. I slid the slip beneath the wiper, centered and impossible to miss.
Not flowers, but forty-five minutes of grace.
“Officer,” Miss Pearl called from the Cast Iron stoop, sugar over steel. Clipboard in one hand, coffee in the other, surveying her stretch of sidewalk. “He’s all paid up, sugar.”
The officer checked the windshield, tipped his cap at Miss Pearl, and moved on.
Her eyes found mine, and she gave me a micro-nod.
“Consider this my noticing,” she said, “not my praising. My favorite kind of help doesn’t need a hashtag.”
“Understood,” I said.
She’d retired from radio years ago, but you could still hear dispatch cadence in the way she ran a sidewalk.
Calm at first, orders wrapped in honey. When she spoke, everyone moved before they realized they’d been directed. She was the town’s living incident log: who called at three AM, which cousin needed a quiet ride home.
Where the Biscuit Fire had licked and where it hadn’t.
People said she knew everyone’s secrets; I’d learned she mostly knew everyone’s tells, which is worse if you’re trying to bluff.
A nod from her read like clearance. A lifted brow was a citation. She didn’t trade gossip so much as quality-check it. And when she chose to say “sugar,” a whole street straightened its shirt.
I pulled out my phone and opened the contact I’d been pretending not to think about.
Me: Your van’s covered until :45.
Three dots appeared on my screen then disappeared before returning.
Cade: Didn’t ask.
Me: Didn’t tell.
Cade: …thanks.
Heat did a private lap under my shirt. I pocketed the phone before I could type something foolish like no problem, neighbor.
Inside Cast Iron, the air smelled of butter and salvation. It wasn’t a café so much as a command post with an overwhelming aroma of roasted coffee. The bell over the door clinked like a tiny gavel; the chalkboard sermon changed daily.
Today, it read: “Ember City” Swear Jar $1 a slip. (Hi, Beau.)
Technically, Aunt Tansy still owned the building she’d nearly burned down in the Biscuit Fire. Miss Pearl and the Cast Iron Café had moved back in anyway—the address was too good to give up—and she mailed rent checks to my aunt the way some people mailed hate letters.
Mismatched mugs hung like a family tree, and an iron skillet big enough to spook a health inspector anchored the counter as if it had seniority.
Customers queued between jars of peach jam, and a vase of magnolia leaves that somehow never browned.
And Miss Pearl’s clipboard lived on the edge, her own personal badge.
Crews staged here without admitting they were staging. Gossip cooled on the windowsill beside biscuits.
I watched Miss Pearl as she worked. Her silver curls wouldn’t stay put; she nudged one back with a knuckle while the other hand kept a clipboard steady.
She was wearing a striped oxford with the sleeves rolled up and a flour-dusted apron loaded with a Sharpie and a couple of tiny LED candles; her white sneakers squeaked once on the tile.
She clipped my ticket to the spring as if she’d been running this block since sunrise.
“Crew order for Signal House,” I said.
Miss Pearl slid a sack across, heavy with biscuits, a carrier of coffee balanced on top. She tucked a slip beneath the spring.
Peach doodle, tidy print: COUNT THE TOKENS, NOT THE FAVORS. –P
“Two extra meals,” she said. “For people who forget breakfast when they remember ambition.”
I smiled. “Which two people are you referring to?”
Miss Pearl only grinned and nodded in the direction of Cade’s Brickyard van.
Back on the sidewalk, Riverfield was switching itself on: #TeamBrew and #TeamSignal tally boxes chalked outside the coffee shop. A kid in a bow tie hauled a tripod. Wick three cones standing like monks.
Cade bent over a crate, sleeves rolled up, with his attention focused.
A man you could hand a problem to and expect it back smaller.
My thumb betrayed me.
Me: For the record, you didn’t have to last night with the sprinkler math.
The dots appeared, stalled, then returned.
Cade: Copy.
Boring word. Perfect word.
What was I doing?
Texting a straight guy I’d only just met. He was probably wondering why the hell I reached out again. And why the hell I’d covered his meter.
“Are you Ellis? From Signal House?”
A volunteer in a #NoFlamePatrol sash appeared with a plastic bin labeled CONFISCATION STATION—Lighters / Sparklers / Regrets, and a clipboard.
“I am,” I said.
“Two things,” she chirped. “One, do you have any open flames on your person?”
“Only internal,” I said.
“Relatable.” She peeled a sticker and slapped it on my table: ROMANCE IS SIMULATED PER CODE. “And two, if anyone tries to light something ‘for the vibe,’ point at me and I’ll confiscate the vibe.”
“Because of the aftermath of the Biscuit Fi—”
Her smile snapped off, and she gave me the quietest shh known to man.
She flicked her eyes toward The Langford Hotel’s lobby doors, where Tansy’s polished glide was already entering the frame.
“We don’t talk about the Biscuit Fire on Main,” she whispered, smile firmly back in place.
Then she sailed off to rescue a centerpiece from a tea light.
I couldn’t help but look over at Cade and watch as he worked.
Miss Pearl arrived a moment later. New cardigan, same jurisdiction.
She set my napkin holder straight with a surgical nudge. Her eyes skimmed my table like a scanner, paused on a stray cable, then settled on me.
“If you’re here to stand with operations, do it loud enough for the room to hear,” she said. Then, with a faint tilt of her chin toward the square: “And if you’re going to look in that direction, at least pretend you’re counting cones, not catching feelings.”
I gulped, hard. “Yes, ma’am.”
She moved on, clipboard tucked to show her authority, and—of course—angled straight toward Brickyard.
I couldn’t hear a word, just the polite geometry of her hands and Cade’s steady nod.
I tried to swallow the ridiculous worry that she’d inform him I was conducting an unsanctioned visual inspection of his everything.
My phone lit up.
Cade: Your table, left side. Cable tail is auditioning for “Trip Hazard.”
I glanced down and coiled the black snake back where it belonged, taped it clean, and quickly typed a reply.
Me: Corrected. Thanks.
Cade: You just made my job easier. I like that.
Me: Happy to be of service.
Cade: Careful. I might get used to it.
I laughed—treason-soft—and slid the phone away.
Across the Commons, Cade checked his cones, then his watch. I checked mine too.
Ten o’clock.
Riverfield was ready to watch itself be charming. I could work with that.
Then I noticed a sprinter van gliding up to the curb. The door slid open and a dozen people in coordinated neutrals poured out. Good hair, matching totes that read THE LANGFORD.
Two ring lights deployed with military efficiency. A woman with a clipboard clapped twice and steered the whole school of fish directly toward our setup.
Aunt Tansy arrived with them like a reveal. She’d gone full old-money chic: blonde hair in a sleek low bun, ivory skirt suit, and a single strand of pearls that knew where the cameras were.
“Darlings,” she sang, “friends of the house. We’re just stopping by to welcome our favorite content artists.”
What coincidental timing, too, just as the major crowds were starting to appear along Main Street. I could see people pointing their phones at us to record.
The head-turn was immediate; people began gravitating toward the Signal House stand as Tansy’s crowd made us look more popular.
She’d do anything for appearances.
Miss Pearl detached from the sponsor wall and met the convoy with a smile that had swords behind it.
She glared at Tansy.
“We welcome visitors, sugar,” she said to Tansy, warm as butter but final as granite. “We don’t import applause.”
Tansy’s smile didn’t fade. She casually air-kissed an inch from Pearl’s cheek.
“Enthusiasm is scarce,” Tansy said. “I’m merely redistributing.”
She’d paid people to create a fake crowd. I was shocked.
Miss Pearl’s eyes flicked to me as if to say: your turn, producer.
I stepped in front of a woman holding a clipboard who appeared to be the leader of the paid group. “Hi,” I said, pleasant but firm. “If you’re touring, wonderful, but it’s all three finalists, not just Signal House. Public space means no staged foot traffic.”
The woman with the clipboard seemed confused. “But Mrs. Langford told us to station here by Signal House.”
“Friends of the house still have house rules,” I said. “Which means we all get a boost; Brickyard, Wick & Wax, then Signal House. And then repeat.”
“Not a problem, honey,” Tansy said, which meant the opposite.
Behind her, I noticed my cousin Beck approaching.
“Good morning,” Beck said, carrying a tray of coffees labeled in tidy block print. “Beck Langford, Director of Operations and Programming at The Langford Hotel.”
I noticed the coffees. Three oat, two almond, and one regular. He set it down, then took in the van, the interns, Tansy, and me in a single glance.
“Let’s make this simple,” he said, looking at the clipboard lady. “We’ll do a Finalists Tour. Twenty minutes per stop. Brickyard at the top of the hour, Wick & Wax at twenty past, Signal House at twenty till. Then loop.”
“Mrs. Langford said—” the woman started.
“I’m also a Langford,” Beck said, politely but decisively.
He didn’t raise his voice. He just turned to Tansy.
“Mom,” he said, gentle and immovable, “we host, but we don’t vote. And we don’t stack the deck.”
He pulled a Sharpie from his pocket, flipped over three hotel notecards, and wrote the schedule in clear block letters. He handed one to the escort, one to the driver, and one to an intern already vibrating.
Beau drifted by with his cameraman, grin already half on.
“Nothing to see here,” Beau murmured for the mic, “just a completely spontaneous crowd arriving by van.”
Tansy didn’t miss a beat. “It’s called hospitality, Beau.”
“Of course it is,” he said, delighted.
Tansy’s polished facade didn’t crack, but her hand found her hip. Beck only smiled back at her.
He walked the first ten steps with the interns—exactly enough to make the plan real—then peeled off and, in the same motion, shook Cade’s hand at Brickyard. I couldn’t hear what he said, but Cade’s mouth twitched like a laugh.
Air returned to the square, and the people who’d been waiting to see where the wind would blow started choosing their own destinations again.
The only kind of engagement worth filming.
“Thank you,” I told Beck as he returned.
He grinned. “I’m having concierge chalk it too,” he said, already tapping his phone. “If I post a rule twice, people act as if it’s always been there.” He studied me for a moment. “For what it’s worth, I saw you try to stop it.”
“I don’t need that kind of help,” I said, probably a little too sharp.
“I know,” he said simply. “I’ll try to keep Mom helpful inside the lines.”
Across the Commons, the intern pod clustered at Brickyard while Cade traced flow in the air with steady hands. He looked up and our eyes met for half a second. No smile, just the shared acknowledgment of a mess rerouted.
My phone buzzed.
Cade: That was a fix.
I looked up again. He was already nudging a table because that’s what it needed.
Me: Beck’s a machine.
Cade: He’s a thermostat. Keeps rooms honest.
Beck set one more note on my table—Lantern Room lighting test Sunday after nine.
“If you need a quiet angle,” he said, tapping the card that mentioned the Lantern Room, “no one will fight you for it.”
“Appreciated,” I said.
I knew the Lantern Room well. Tucked away in a quiet corner of the hotel, it was a hideaway with a small private bar, low sconces, and sounds that would muffle before disappearing into the walls.
Miss Pearl reappeared with the contentment of a cat.
“The thing about applause,” she said to the air, “is it sounds better when it chooses you.”
“Tansy will try again,” I muttered.
“She will,” Miss Pearl said. “Her hobby is touching things. Beck’s is putting them back where they belong.”
At twenty past the hour, the interns pivoted toward Wick & Wax, right on time. Wick & Wax straightened, waved, and launched a wholesome battery-candle demo.
Beau’s cameraman lifted the camera for a wide shot. The Commons looked like itself again.
I pocketed the tour slip and took the “REG” coffee off Beck’s tray, feeling perversely seen by the label. A producer learns to accept what the day gives you, drink it while it’s hot, and pass the rest along.
My phone buzzed again, Beau’s group thread, Tokens & Hairspray.
Beau: Finalists Tour: we love a schedule.
Wyatt: Battery-operated enthusiasm only.
Cade: Copy.
I stared at the word longer than I should have then slid it away. Across the Commons, Cade adjusted a table, checked his cones, and glanced up.
One clean look that landed like a hand to the sternum.
Sun on his jaw, tie behaving. His sleeves threatening not to.
My phone dinged again—Beau, all glitter and deadlines.
Beau: Hot Seat at :40 – Cade & Ellis – neighbors edition. Two minutes. Keep it cute.
I looked back at Cade. He didn’t wave, and I didn’t either. The distance between us felt like miles.
My eyes darted around as I surveyed the block. People with opposition shirts on, lapels reading #TeamBrew or #TeamSignal. I realized that the town—and social media, for that matter—wanted a proper rivalry.
My producer brain told me: prep beats, keep optics clean.
Every other part of me said: remember how to breathe when a gorgeous firefighter stands too close to your mic.
The fountain threw light across the Commons. At twenty till, he’d be three feet away.
I started counting cones, breaths, reasons—knowing I’d run out of one of them first.