Chapter 5 Ellis
CHAPTER FIVE
ELLIS
Peachtree Commons had already turned itself into a television set by the time I arrived.
A brass band played jazz, pins bloomed on collars for rival teams. The sponsor wall did what sponsor walls do: made regular people semi-famous for twelve seconds at a time. A foam finger had appeared from somewhere, already declaring support for #TeamBrew.
Someone else wrote #TeamSignal on a craft stick and held it high, showing their support.
Beau floated up the risers in a new velvet jacket that was even more fitting than the last. Mic in hand, smile calibrated to melt butter, and his cameraman tracking him like a planet with gravity.
“Riverfield,” he purred, “welcome to Pitch a tide of a dozen phones rose.
I stood at the edge of the stage, headset snug out of habit, even though tonight I wasn’t running anything but my mouth.
Miss Pearl waited just off camera with her clipboard and her “you better not” energy.
Wyatt stood at an aisle with his arms folded and the relaxed posture of a man who had the off switch for your bad idea within easy reach.
“But first,” Beau said, “a little Riverfield history. Previously, on Ember City…”
Oh no, I thought. He’s using Riverfield’s nickname, Aunt Tansy will be pissed.
“We do, of course, recall the Great Biscuit Fire,” Beau continued.
“A thoughtfully deployed br?lée torch met honey-butter, someone decorated with dried Spanish moss, and a polite breeze RSVP’d yes.
No lives lost, just a few egos singed. And thus was born Riverfield’s proud tradition of battery-operated romance. ”
Aunt Tansy materialized like good lighting. “Beau, sweetheart,” she chimed, her smile perfect, “we do not discuss folklore on a live microphone. In this town, we call it ‘the pastry incident.’ My legal team prefers euphemisms.”
She preferred we not workshop the incident while multimillion-dollar lawsuits were still in the oven.
“Count your tokens, ladies and gentlemen,” Beau added. “Not your scorch marks!”
Miss Pearl gave a single, satisfied clap that said: that’s enough.
“First up,” Beau said, “Signal House Studios—pitching a glass booth and a thirty-seat theater to turn Riverfield’s stories into radio, video, and occasional mischief.
” He made eye contact with me, then with the crowd next.
“Ellis Langford—nephew by blood, producer by choice. Currently living on a hundred-dollar incidental hold and the illusion that this isn’t nepotism. ”
I took the steps like I owned them, then like I didn’t. The crowd gave me polite noise with no distinct slant. The pins split into a tiny forest of town opinions.
I had no idea how Beau had found out about my incidental hold.
“Evening,” I said, and tried to settle myself as I stood before the mic.
“I’m a producer at Signal House. We want to build a booth on Main Street.
Soundproof, beautiful, and visible from the street.
We’ll create a thirty-seat theater beside it so you can hear your neighbors, maybe argue about barbecue.
And we’ll tell the stories that make this town this town. ”
“You’ll set it on fire?” someone in the back heckled.
Hopefully, Aunt Tansy wasn’t around to hear any fire jokes.
“Per code,” I answered, “our romance is battery-operated.”
Laughter.
I pressed on. “We’ll program weekly shows. The Town Talk stays the flagship, and we’ll add more, like local history and kids’ reading hours. We’ll host ‘Start Up, Don’t Burn Down’ small business segments. And maybe even Beau’s hair tips if he ever agrees to share intellectual property.”
Beau flipped his hair and took the bait. “All trade secrets live behind a velvet rope.”
I gestured toward the walkway. “We’ll also run live-caption displays. We’ll be quiet at night and have our microphones off by 9:59.”
Beau scooched closer, his eyes bright. “Before we continue this fantasy of civic performance: Ellis, do you believe in miracles?”
“I do,” I said, nodding and smiling. “But only ones you can audit.”
“Then audit this,” Beau said as he held out a carved wooden token he’d magicked from a pocket, squinting at the engraving. “Signal House. Familiar? Or did your aunt order this one from the secret menu?”
The extra token Tansy had tried to add when meddling.
I let my smile be all teeth. “Count the tokens, Beau.”
The crowd hooted and a lady in a peach blouse yelled, “Count the tokens!”
Miss Pearl raised her clipboard in the air.
“One minute,” Beau said, tapping his watch. “Give me a number.”
“One million,” I said with a wink.
“Specificity!” Beau exclaimed. “I love it.”
He crooked a finger, and I stepped back.
“And now,” he announced, “the gentleman who showed you what sandbags are for: Brickyard Brewery.”
The cheer for #TeamBrew sounded as if somebody had tuned it in advance. Cade took the steps like they were part of the floor. No strut, no show, just a person going to accomplish the next task.
It was… intriguing to say the least.
Cade wore a suit, all business.
He took the mic carefully, like he’d rather wrangle a hose than sound equipment.
“We’re building a taproom,” he said, his voice even. “We’ll brew clean, hire local, and close no later than ten. Family-first, quiet neighbors, strict on ID.”
“That’s it?” Beau asked, placing his hand on his chest. “Give us a little prose, Cade.”
“We’ll keep an eye on all the exits,” Cade said. “And the beer will taste how it says it tastes.”
More laughter than he’d probably expected. It landed because it was plain and because it was true.
Beau shifted into mischief. “Is your lager as smooth as your paperwork, Cade?”
Cade didn’t blink. “We at the fire station don’t sign off on our own paperwork.”
Wyatt’s blink as he sat in the crowd was the button that sold it as a joke.
“Look at that,” Beau said. “A man who won’t even rubber-stamp himself. Riverfield, those are the kind of trust issues we like."
The audience laughed again, but this time warmer.
“And in a historic first,” Beau said, “Wyatt Kerr finds contentment on a public street.”
“Stand by,” Wyatt said, without moving his mouth.
The audience chuckled.
Beau made a sweeping gesture. “All right, Wick & Wax, this is your moment. Charm me with fragrance and fiscal prudence.”
They rolled their glossed display into the light. An apothecary jar, matte-black labels, and a delicate podium. The lead presenter—all cheer and smiles—lifted the lid on a chrome box.
A tiny hiss erupted, followed by a glittering fountain of metal sparks reaching up like a party trick.
Wyatt was there in a flash.
He didn’t raise his voice. “Not in the Commons.”
Four words, one beat. He pointed to the CONFISCATION STATION tote Miss Pearl held. The lead swallowed, flipped a switch, and the sparks died. Miss Pearl plucked an LED taper from her apron and snapped it on with a tidy little click.
“Battery romance,” she said, buttery smooth. “Show us your fragrance.”
Their lead presenter recovered like a professional. “It has a top note of lemon.”
#TeamSignal and #TeamBrew exchanged a glance that looked suspiciously like common ground.
Beau turned it into a runner. “Wyatt Kerr versus science fiction, tonight at nine. Sponsored by Wick & Wax, bravely attempting to reboot the Biscuit Fire as ‘The Sparkle Incident.’”
Beau did a quick pivot. “Let’s take the town’s temperature.” He gestured toward his cameraman, who spun a QR code toward the audience. “Vote with your phones. Tell us now: Team Brew, Team Signal, or Team Scented Candle. No Russian bots, please. We’re Southern.”
Pins lifted and people cheer-voted, the sound vibrating through the Commons.
Adrenaline rushed through me, imaginary static.
“Lightning question,” Beau said, peering at his paper card. “From the patron saint of Not Today.” He turned to Miss Pearl. “Madam Arbiter?”
“After 9:59,” she called, not bothering with the mic because her voice didn’t need it, “what’s your rule?”
“Mic down by 9:59,” I said.
“Last call by 9:59,” Cade said at the exact same time.
The overlap made the Commons laugh in that open-mouthed, delighted way. Beau clutched his chest and his imaginary pearls.
“Did they just… sync?” he said to the camera, absolutely scandalized. “Riverfield, avert your eyes.”
I pretended not to look over at Cade but failed. He didn’t smile. Instead, he did the micro-acknowledgment he’d been doing since the ballroom: all clear.
If there was heat in that moment, it behaved.
Beau fanned himself with his card. “Round two! Each finalist returns for the hard sell. Thirty seconds, maximum charm. Ellis, darling—back up.”
Beau gave me the mic again as if he were passing a baton we both wanted to win with.
“Signal House will pay artists and guests,” I said, quick and clean. “We’ll run ASL interpreters for open-mic nights. We’ll build a high-school mentorship pipeline. And we’ll license clips back to local businesses for free so their grandmas can watch them be clever.”
“But…” Beau started, “will you ban TikTok dances in the Commons?”
“Only the dangerous ones,” I said with a wink. “If you can’t safely execute a grapevine, you’re on probation for a month.”
“Riverfield on probation!” Beau repeated, delighted. “I smell a merch drop.”
He pivoted. “Cade?”
Cade adjusted the mic stand.
“We’ll have stroller parking inside,” he said. “Bike rack outside. Water bowls for dogs. We’ll host CPR refreshers once a month and blood drives twice a year. And we promise to be boring by ten.”
“Boring is the new sexy,” someone in the crowd yelled.