Chapter 4
The Bayview General Store smelled like old wood and coffee. Cassidy stood just inside the entrance on Thursday morning, ten minutes early, scanning the space for a back room that wasn’t immediately obvious.
The store itself was a cluttered maze of practical goods: canned food, fishing tackle, sunscreen, and beach towels with dolphins on them. A refrigerator case hummed near the counter, and postcards spun on a wire rack by the window.
Sally Morris looked up from behind the register. “You came.”
“I told the mayor I’d think about it.”
“And you thought about it.” Sally’s grin was knowing. “Back room’s through there.” She pointed toward a doorway half-hidden behind a display of pool noodles. “Coffee’s already on. Mayor got here twenty minutes ago. She’s been pacing.”
She nodded and made her way through the store, weaving between shelves that seemed designed to maximize confusion.
The back room, when she found it, was surprisingly spacious.
A long table was surrounded by mismatched chairs.
A whiteboard hung on one wall, covered in faded marker, and a window looked out onto a small parking lot.
Mayor West sat at the head of the table, a legal pad in front of her covered in notes.
Marty Fuller was there too, nursing a cup of coffee and looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Two other people Cassidy didn’t recognize occupied chairs near the middle, a younger woman and an older man with weathered hands and a skeptical expression.
And at the far end of the table, arms crossed, sat a man who looked at her like she’d just tracked mud across his floor.
“Cassidy.” The mayor stood, gesturing to an empty chair. “Glad you could make it. Everyone, this is Cassidy Wren. She’s staying at the lighthouse and has some experience in marketing. She’s agreed to sit in and offer a fresh perspective.”
“I haven’t agreed to anything. I’m just here to listen.” But she sat anyway.
The man at the end of the table made a sound that might have been a laugh. “Fresh perspective. That’s what we need. Someone from out of town to tell us how to run our own festival.”
“Bryan.” The mayor’s voice carried a warning.
“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking.” He unfolded his arms and leaned forward. “No offense, but we’ve had consultants before. They come in, throw around buzzwords, charge a fortune, and leave us with a plan that doesn’t fit who we are.”
She met his gaze. “I’m not a consultant. And I’m not charging anything.”
“Then what are you?”
“Someone who overheard a conversation and made the mistake of opening her mouth.”
The young woman snorted. The older man’s expression didn’t change.
“Bryan is the festival committee head,” the mayor explained.
Great, just great.
Bryan studied her for a moment. He was maybe her age, early forties, with dark hair going gray at the temples and the kind of tan that came from years of outdoor work rather than beach vacations. His eyes were sharp and assessing.
“Fair enough,” he said finally. “But if you’re just here to listen, then listen. Don’t tell us what we’re doing wrong until you understand what we’re trying to do.”
“That seems reasonable.”
The mayor cleared her throat. “Good. Now that we’ve established ground rules, can we actually start the meeting?”
For the next forty minutes, Cassidy listened.
She learned that the Starlight Harbor Festival had been running for seventy-four years.
That it used to draw crowds from all over the Gulf Coast—families, day-trippers, people who came for the lighthouse tours and stayed for the food and music.
That attendance had peaked about fifteen years ago and had been declining steadily ever since.
She learned that the budget was tight. They relied on local sponsors who were increasingly reluctant to commit. The committee was made up of volunteers who had other jobs and other lives and couldn’t devote the hours needed to do real outreach.
She learned that Bryan cared deeply about authenticity, and he’d grown up coming to this festival with his parents. His family’s restaurant had been a vendor since the beginning, and he saw the event as more than just a tourism draw. It was a piece of the town’s identity.
And she suspected he was terrified of losing it.
Not that he said so. But she could hear it in the way he talked about preserving what made the town special. His resistance wasn’t stubbornness. It was fear dressed up as principle.
She recognized the strategy. She’d used it herself, once or twice.
When the discussion turned to marketing—or specifically, the lack of it—she couldn’t help herself.
“You mentioned social media earlier,” she said, interrupting Marty mid-sentence. “What platforms are you using?”
Marty blinked. “We have a Facebook page.”
“When was the last time you posted?”
A pause. “March, maybe?”
“It’s May.”
“We’ve been busy.”
She pulled out her phone and typed quickly. “Your page has four hundred followers. Your last post got twelve likes. Your cover photo is from 2019.” She looked up. “You’re invisible.”
Bryan’s jaw tightened. “We’re not invisible. People know about the festival.”
“People who already live here, maybe. But you said yourself that attendance is down. That means you’re not reaching new audiences. And you can’t reach new audiences if you’re not showing up where they are.”
“So what, we need to go viral? Get some influencer to come take pictures and pretend they care about our little town?” He rolled his eyes.
“No. You need to tell a story that makes people want to be part of something.” She set her phone down. “Right now, you’re not telling any story at all. You’re just existing and hoping people will remember you exist too.”
The room went quiet.
The young woman was watching her with interest. The older man was frowning. The mayor looked like she was trying not to smile.
Bryan looked like he was trying not to throw something.
“You’ve been here five minutes,” he said. “And you think you know what we need.”
“I’ve been here five minutes, and I can see what’s not working. That’s not the same thing. I’m not saying I have all the answers. I’m saying you’re not asking the right questions.”
“And what questions should we be asking?”
“Who are you trying to reach? What do you want them to feel? Why should they choose this festival over everything else competing for their attention?” She paused. “Until you answer them, no amount of posters or Facebook posts is going to make a difference.”
Bryan stared at her.
Then he pushed back his chair and stood. “I need some air.”
He walked out of the room without looking back.
The mayor sighed. “Well. That went well.”
The meeting limped along for another twenty minutes after Bryan left. Marty took notes. The older man—Frank, the harbormaster, she finally found out—offered a few logistical updates about permits and parking.
She said very little. She’d already said too much.
When the meeting finally ended, she slipped out before anyone could corner her for follow-up conversation. She needed coffee. She needed to walk. She needed to figure out why she’d let herself get pulled into someone else’s problem when she’d specifically come here to avoid exactly that.