Chapter Ten #2
PS. My dad still owns the Gazette, and I’m temporarily moderating the online forum while the regular mod is on maternity leave. I just saw the thing about you and Everett McKean on The Landing Pad. How unbelievable is it that he’s the mayor now???
The thing about me and Everett on The Landing Pad?
I shoot Yasmine a quick note saying that I’m pretty busy with my mom this weekend since her surgery is Monday, but I’ll come into the bar as soon as I can. I give her my phone number and tell her to reach out any time.
With a weird sense of impending doom, I create an account on the Hart’s Landing Gazette site. Scared to reveal my actual name, I use Beatrix_Potter323 as my profile.
After I opt-in to receive updates via email—so at least I’ll have some warning next time I’m a blind item—the page loads. A deceptively friendly banner welcomes me to The Landing Pad. Below that, the first item is decidedly less friendly.
Community question (submitted by TeaLover55): Spotted the mayor with Mila Ferguson last night at The Axe & Barrel. Weird that he’d cozy up to the person who burned down his family’s bakery, isn’t it?
Community question (submitted by ANONYMOUS AXE GOD): Nothing weird about two people enjoying a drink at the best pub in town.
GazetteMod: Please ensure Community questions represent legitimate inquiries. Thank you!
Community question (submitted by ANONYMOUS AXE GOD): Nothing weird about two people enjoying a drink at the best pub in town, amirite? Take that, @GazetteMod.
GazetteMod: Violations of our community guidelines may result in restricted access to The Landing Pad. To review our guidelines, click here.
In the photo accompanying the question at the top of the thread, Everett is relaxed and grinning, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head.
I’m pitched slightly forward, smiling at something he said, my hair gathered over one shoulder.
It’s amazing to me that we didn’t notice someone taking it, but then again, we were pretty consumed by each other, as the picture shows.
It has dozens of likes.
I groan softly, then spend a few minutes poking around The Landing Pad, marveling at all the gossipmongering, rumor-spreading, finger-wagging, and general nosiness disguised as legitimate community concern.
Mayoral matchmaking seems to be the town’s favorite sport, while there’s apparently a thriving interest in true crime courtesy of the Diner Detectives, who want to look into the fire at Tart and Soul.
That’s the last thing I need.
Too restless to go back to sleep, I get dressed, throw a sketchbook and pencil case into my backpack, and slip out of the house without waking my mother.
The morning air has a chill that hints at the coming autumn, but the sun is out, and the sky is a glorious shade of blue.
By the time I walk the half mile between my mother’s house and the White Pine River, I’m sweating.
I stop for a moment to tie my hoodie around my waist and then turn right, following the path along the water’s edge toward the wrought-iron bridge.
The wishing bridge.
Lore aside, the structure is beautiful and iconic and enduring, a historic symbol of the town. I want to incorporate it into the poster I’m designing for the Founder’s Day celebration.
Leaving the paved path, I carefully make my way down the grassy embankment and choose a spot with a good view.
After spreading my hoodie on the damp ground, I drop onto my butt, pull my sketchbook and pencil case from my backpack, and get to work.
As the sun climbs higher, I do my best to capture the bridge’s elaborate Victorian scrollwork, the graceful arch of its main truss, the aged-green patina of the metal, the sand-colored stone blocks anchoring each end of the bridge to the riverbank.
The minutes fly by—there’s nothing I like more than drawing outside. All my senses come alive.
When I’m done, I tuck my pad and pencils back into my bag and sit cross-legged for a moment, watching the water flow west toward the lake.
I imagine all the stones that have been tossed over the side of the bridge and now lie at the river bottom, the names written so hopefully washed away by time.
Somewhere down there is a stone with Everett’s name in my careful printing.
Despite the warmth, the thought gives me a shiver.
Squinting into the sun, I can practically see the girl I was standing up there in the afternoon light, the stone tucked tightly into her fist. Hope tucked tightly into her heart.
My cell phone buzzes from inside my bag, pulling me from the memory.
“Hello?”
“Where are you? I was calling and calling up the stairs for you.”
“Mom!” I jump to my feet. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, but what if I wasn’t?”
I close my eyes and take a breath. “Sorry. I walked down to the river at seven this morning to get a little exercise.”
“It doesn’t take two hours to walk to the river.”
“I’ve been drawing. I’ll head home now.”
“Good. I need you to take me into town. I made a last-minute appointment at the salon. I could drive myself, but I’m worried I won’t find a close enough parking spot.”
“That’s no problem. I’ll drop you off.”
After hanging up, I retie my sweatshirt around my waist, sling my backpack over my shoulders, and climb up the embankment.
When I reach the path, I decide to send Everett a text telling him not to come early tonight.
Something about the way my mother is acting—last night’s excitement, this morning’s salon appointment—has me on edge.
But I can’t find his number in my phone.
“That’s weird,” I mutter. He said last night he added himself, but he isn’t under Everett or McKean. Maybe it didn’t save?
I scroll through all my contacts from A to Z, and when I get to H, I find him.
Chuckling, I tap out a message.
Mila: Hot Mayor?
To my surprise, he answers right away.
Hot Mayor: Did it make you laugh?
Mila: At most a sensible chuckle, but yes.
Hot Mayor: Good.
Hot Mayor: Sorry about the thing on The Landing Pad.
Mila: I TOLD you people still think I caused that fire.
Hot Mayor: Now they all think it was our insane chemistry.
I can’t help smiling a little.
Mila: Just wanted to let you know you don’t have to come early tonight. Seven is good.
Hot Mayor: Okay. See you tonight, Freckles.
I change his name to Everett McKean in my phone before hurrying home.
My pulse races the whole way.