Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Swayze
I positioned the vintage dress on the mannequin by the window, adjusting the fabric to catch the afternoon light just right. The deep indigo silk practically glowed against the brick interior of the shop.
“Can you turn her about fifteen degrees to the left?” I asked Debbie, who obliged with the patience of someone who’d spent decades dressing display figures.
The angle shifted. Perfect. The light now highlighted the delicate beading along the neckline.
I snapped a series of photos on my phone, adjusting the exposure between shots. Three different angles: close-up of the beadwork, full length, one with the storefront visible in the background to establish location.
“How’s this one look?” I showed Debbie the shot with the best composition.
“Beautiful. You have such an eye for this.”
“It’s all about the light.” I swiped to the editing app, made minor adjustments to warmth and contrast. “And this dress doesn’t hurt. Where did you find it?”
“Estate sale in Asheville. 1950s, I think. The beading is all original.”
“That’s going in the caption.” I typed quickly, crafting something that balanced vintage charm with modern appeal. Added hashtags. Scheduled the post for optimal engagement time.
My phone buzzed again—a notification about the bakery’s post performing well. I’d helped Emmaline set up a better content calendar last week, showed her the difference between product shots and storytelling images. Her engagement had jumped thirty percent.
“I love what you’ve done for our account,” Debbie said, scrolling through her own phone. “The reach has tripled in just three weeks.”
“The content was always good. We just gave it better visibility.” I tucked my phone into my back pocket. “Consistency matters more than people think.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing, it’s working. I had two people come in yesterday asking about pieces they saw online.”
That spark of satisfaction never got old—watching small businesses grow because of work I’d done.
Not featuring them on my channels where my followers might glance and scroll past, but building their platforms so they could sustain themselves.
Teaching them how to fish instead of just handing them a salmon.
“When’s your next scavenging trip?” I asked.
“Two or three weeks. There’s an auction up near Knoxville I want to hit.”
“Text me when you’re back. We’ll do another session.”
“I’m already looking forward to it.” Debbie walked me to the door. “And I can’t wait for opening night. The whole town’s buzzing about this show.”
I grinned. “I’m looking forward to doing it.” We were one week out from opening night, and everyone was jazzed.
What I didn’t say: I was equally looking forward to it being over. Next month couldn’t come fast enough. Between rehearsals running four nights a week, relaunching my own social accounts, and taking on three new local clients, I’d been running on fumes and determination.
But it was the good kind of exhaustion. The kind that came from building something meaningful instead of just chasing the next viral moment.
I bid farewell to Debbie and stepped out of Indigo Lane into the early April sunshine.
We were still having some cool nights, but signs of spring were everywhere, in the budding of the trees and the freshened planters out front of all the local businesses downtown.
Green shoots of tulips and lilies were popping up all over the story garden.
I checked my watch, wondering if I had time to wander the meandering path there and still snag a bite to eat before rehearsal.
I could use a little downtime.
Deciding to risk it, I shouldered my purse and walked toward the park.
My phone continued to vibrate in my pocket, but I left it where it was.
Whatever was happening could wait a few minutes while I took some time to breathe.
In the end, I parked myself on a bench under a redbud tree that was on the verge of blooming and tipped my face up to the sky.
The expanse of blue was the shade of Colter’s eyes, dotted with puffy clouds and a lazily circling bird.
A light breeze lifted the ends of my hair.
This was good. This was what I needed.
I’d gotten used to being largely unplugged since I moved to Gibson Hollow.
Jumping back on the influencer train had been a weird combination of addictive and overwhelming.
I knew I’d been pulled too far down that rabbit hole the past couple of weeks, but it was hard not to fall back into old patterns, not to worry about my remaining followers disappearing if I didn’t consistently feed the beast.
I didn’t remember feeling this kind of drain before.
Then again, at the height of my influencer career, I hadn’t been doing graphic design work for anyone but myself.
And I certainly hadn’t been spending half my time on a theater production.
I kept telling myself it would slow down.
Or at least, that I could after the show.
But right now, it was too tempting to stay plugged in, to follow the rise of ticket sales and see each stretch goal coming into reach.
Why would I stop when we were this close to making the library’s dreams a reality?
Five minutes passed. Maybe ten. The bird overhead called out to another, their songs weaving through the branches. I was almost relaxed when my phone rang, shattering the peace.
With a sigh, I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. Unknown number. I almost declined, but something made me answer.
“This is Swayze.”
“Ms. Parish, I’m so glad I caught you. This is Gerald Peyton from Peyton Consolidated.”
I sat up straighter, my heart rate kicking up. Gerald Peyton. The Gerald Peyton. Tech mogul turned philanthropist, who’d famously relocated to some tiny town in Mississippi and poured his fortune into revitalizing small communities across the South.
“Mr. Peyton. This is... unexpected.” An understatement. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m glad you asked.” His voice carried the warm drawl of someone born and raised in the Deep South. “Your accounts and platform have been brought to my attention by some of my staff. They all really approved of how you handled the situation with Vitalife.”
My stomach tightened at the mention of the company that had essentially ended my career. Or what I’d thought was the end. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“And we’re very excited by the things you’ve been doing in Gibson Hollow. The library fundraiser and the work with local businesses. It’s exactly the kind of grassroots community engagement we’re looking for.”
I gripped the phone tighter, my mind racing to catch up. “Looking for?”
“That’s why I’m calling. I’d like to offer you an opportunity. A job, actually.”
“A job?” The word came out sharper than I intended. “Doing what, exactly?”
“The nonprofit arm of my company focuses on revitalizing small towns. We’ve done a great deal of it here in Wishful, and we’re expanding the work to communities around the country that are being brought back to life.
” He paused, letting that sink in. “What we need is someone who can help bring attention to those causes. Someone with your skills, your following, your authenticity.”
My pulse thundered in my ears. “You want me to be... what? A spokesperson?”
“More than that. We’re talking about real partnership.
Boots on the ground, working with communities the way you’ve been doing in Gibson Hollow.
Telling their stories, building their platforms, and creating sustainable visibility.
You’d have a team, resources, access to funding for projects that make a difference. ”
I stared at the redbud tree without really seeing it. This was... this was huge. The kind of opportunity that could redefine everything. Take what I’d been doing here and scale it nationally. Actually make a difference on a level I’d never imagined possible.
“It would require a fair amount of travel,” he continued. “But given your previous experience, I don’t expect that will be a problem.”
Travel. The word echoed in my head as I stared at the phone screen. A siren song.
I’d lived out of a suitcase for years. Chased the next experience, the next adventure, the next backdrop for content that would keep my followers engaged. I’d loved it—the airports, the hotels, the constant forward motion. Never staying anywhere long enough to feel trapped or bored or ordinary.
“Thank you, Mr. Peyton,” I managed. “This is... It’s an incredible opportunity. I’m very flattered.”
“You’ve earned it. Your work speaks for itself.”
I swallowed hard. “Obviously, there’s a lot to think about here.”
“Of course. I’ll email you the full offer package so you can review everything in detail.”
“Well, if you’ve been following what I’ve been doing in Gibson Hollow, then you know we have this community theater performance coming up.
” I heard myself talking but wasn’t entirely sure what words were coming out.
“Is it okay if I take until after we get through all that to give you an answer? Or is this something you need decided quickly?”
“This piece is just getting rolling, so we’re willing to wait for your answer. Take whatever time you need.”
“I appreciate that. I’ll be in touch.”
I ended the call with hands that weren’t quite steady.
The redbud tree still stood in front of me. The clouds still drifted overhead. The world hadn’t actually shifted on its axis.
So why did everything feel different?
My email notification chimed. I opened it without thinking.
The offer package loaded on my screen. I scrolled through, my eyes catching on numbers and phrases that should have thrilled me. Generous salary—more than I’d ever made as an influencer, even at my peak. Comprehensive travel expenses. Team support. Creative autonomy.
I kept reading. Destinations listed like a travel blogger’s dream—small towns across the US, rural communities in Ireland and Scotland, villages in New Zealand and Australia.
Exactly the kind of places I loved to explore.
The kind of work I’d dreamed about doing when I first started building my platform, before it became about engagement metrics and sponsorship deals.
This was it. The answer I’d been searching for when I fled to Gibson Hollow with my life in ashes.
A chance to rebuild bigger and better. To take everything I’d learned and use it for genuine good. To make a real difference instead of just selling products and experiences.
If I could’ve tailor made a job for myself, this would have been it.
But that was before.
Before Gibson Hollow. Before Sunday dinners with the Gibsons. Before Oakleigh asking me to help her with a school project.
Before Colter.
I wasn’t quite the same woman who’d arrived here months ago. And this version of me didn’t know what to do with this incredible good fortune.
My phone buzzed again. A text from Colter: Dropping Oakleigh off at Lisa’s and heading to rehearsal. Want me to grab you?
I stared at the message for a long moment before typing back: Already in town. I’ll meet you there.
I couldn’t think about this now. Not with a show to put on and a library to save and a whole town counting on me to follow through.
The decision could wait.