Chapter Twenty
As August melts into September, I throw myself into the world of party planning.
I design a fall-themed menu, from a butternut squash soup starter all the way to apple galette for dessert.
For inspiration, I research events that have offered VIP packages or different sponsorship levels.
And I sign up for Luau Hut’s gold-tier loyalty program. They’re clearly masters of marketing.
To put together a guest list, I go over our spreadsheet of vendors and pull out the biggest names.
I put a question mark next to Solar Summit.
They’ve been supportive so far, but inviting them to a dinner party could be a recipe for disaster considering how polarizing Solar Summit is for Greenstead folks.
But they do have deeper pockets than any of the Greenstead vendors.
I delete Solar Summit, add them back in, stare at the list in uncertainty. Then I decide to put a pin in that and invite the folks I am sure about. I start with Meg, the pretzel queen herself. But when I explain why I’m calling, she’s skeptical.
“Who else is coming?”
“Um.” I glance down the list of people I haven’t invited yet. “Other prominent business owners in the area. It’s a chance to network and hear about an exclusive new opportunity for vendors.”
“If I want to network, I can join a hiking group.”
“Right,” I say weakly. Apparently Greensteaders use hiking for dating and networking alike. I shuffle through my pages of scribbled-down dinner party notes, searching for something to entice her. I’m about to ask how she feels about butternut squash soup when she speaks again.
“You know what would really interest me? If Mayor Bradley was coming. That man has not returned any of my calls about the ridiculous meals tax bill I got this year. He needs to change his tax policy if he wants to keep my vote.”
I chew on the end of my pen. “So if Mayor Bradley comes, you’ll come?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
When we hang up, I call a few more vendors on my list to float the idea of the dinner party, and their response is similarly lukewarm—until I mention the possibility of Mayor Bradley’s attendance.
Suddenly, they’re all ears, talking about a pothole they need fixed outside their shop, a broken streetlight, an issue with a sign permit.
I study my invite list again, an idea taking shape. I sit with it, consider it. Then I pick up my phone and look up the number for the mayor’s office.
***
The R on the lettering above the mayor’s office is still missing when I reach the second floor of Town Hall the next morning.
I wonder how long it’s been gone, or if Mayor Bradley has just come to terms with his new mayonnaise-related title.
Given our town’s history with condiments, it is rather fitting.
Jess greets me with a wave when I enter the office. The smile I give in return feels tight and unnatural, tainted by desperation, but Jess doesn’t seem to notice.
“You said you had a proposal?” Jess says as I take a seat at their desk in the back.
I take in a steeling breath. “I’m unveiling a VIP package for our most prominent vendors and collaborators. I’m inviting them to a dinner party to get them interested in being VIPs.”
“And?” Jess prompts.
Out tumbles the flash of an idea I’d gotten this morning.
“I’d like Mayor Bradley to attend.” I can practically see Jess’s eyes glaze over the second I say it.
Half their job must be turning down requests on the mayor’s behalf.
To our right, the mayor’s office door is once again closed, keeping him shut in frosted-glass isolation.
Before Jess can respond, I rush to explain, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk between us.
“People only want to come if Mayor Bradley comes,” I confess.
“They want to talk to him about potholes and meal taxes and other stuff they need his help with.”
Jess steeples their fingers, looking doubtful. “He is the most introverted man I have ever met. He hates parties.”
“I mean, don’t we all?” I say, making Jess smile. I try another tactic. “Doesn’t he have an election coming up? He could consider this a sort of campaign event. Meg did say he’ll have to change his tax plan if he wants to keep her vote.”
Jess’s eyes narrow slightly. “Mayor Bradley’s running unopposed.”
“Right,” I say slowly, trying to think. “I think Meg said she might run for mayor herself if Mayor Bradley doesn’t make some changes.”
Jess tilts their head. “I’m pretty sure you’re bullshitting me, but Meg probably could get the votes if she ran against him.”
“This town does run on pretzels,” I reply. While they’re pondering, I raise the idea I’ve been mulling over in my mind. “What do you think about inviting someone from Solar Summit?”
“Bold,” Jess says, lifting a brow.
“They said they want to partner more with Greenstead. And, if you come, maybe you could advance your proposal.”
“I don’t hate it.” Jess looks me over, and I try not to fidget, even though I know what they’re about to ask. “Does Marina know?”
“About the dinner party?” I say. “Yes, it’ll be at her house.”
“Really? You got her to agree to that?”
I shrug. “All she’d have to do was admit that her house was in bad shape, and she didn’t. So…”
Jess laughs, in a way that suggests it hits close to home. “Sounds kind of like why we broke up,” they say, a hint of bitterness in their voice.
“Over the house?” I ask.
“Over…” Jess sighs. “Knowing when to cut your losses,” they say carefully.
I nod, reading between the lines. “And she cut the wrong losses,” I conclude.
Jess gives me a grim smile. “She doesn’t seem to think so.”
“I’m not so sure,” I say. Which makes Jess perk up a little, their lips curling slightly upward. “So, are you coming to the party?” I ask. “I’m sure Marina would love to see you.”
Yes, Marina would probably kill me for inviting her ex to a dinner party she doesn’t want to host, but I know there’s still something between them.
Inviting Jess could either make everything worse, or it could be the start of something wonderful.
And, frankly, I’m not sure things could get much worse anyway.
Jess’s cheeks flush. “I’ll think about it,” they say quietly.
Then, with a too-casual clear of their throat, Jess says, “What I was going to ask is does Marina know you want to invite people from Solar Summit to her house?” From the meaningful look Jess gives me, I can tell they already know the answer.
“No,” I admit. “Not yet.”
“And she doesn’t know you’re inviting me, either,” Jess gathers.
“Nope. But I’m gonna tell her.”
Jess exhales. “Make sure you tell her,” they say. “Before I get there.”
“I will,” I promise.
“Okay. And I will…work on getting Mayor Bradley to come to my ex’s house. Slash my old house.”
“Good luck to us all,” I say. The uncertainty on Jess’s face mirrors exactly how I feel inside.
I know Marina wouldn’t be comfortable with Solar Summit’s attendance. But it’s this or risk not having a festival at all. If she understood what was at stake, she’d know I’m only doing this because it’s our best bet at securing this festival.
Except for the whole inviting-Jess-to-the-dinner-party-to-force-a-reunion thing. That’s on me. But she’ll be okay with it, probably.
When I return to the office and take my seat, I notice Randy staring at me from his desk.
I offer him a friendly smile, but he just squints like he’s trying to read me.
Guilt immediately floods me. How could he possibly know I was just meeting with Marina’s ex to discuss inviting the company that’s been trying to buy her home to the dinner party she doesn’t even want me to throw?
Randy stands and gestures with a tilt of his head for me to follow him. I trail after him, past Arun, past Tessa, past Jen, all obliviously working, to the kitchen in the back.
“What is it?” I ask.
After turning to peek at the others in the main office, Randy ducks back into the kitchen, then glances at the kettle on the counter.
He flicks it on, and the kettle slowly starts rumbling to life.
He takes a tea bag from the box in the cabinet and leans against the counter, playing with the square packet as a troubled expression clouds his face.
“I tried to buy some balloons,” he says. He looks at me like balloons is code for something.
“Okay,” I say. “How did that go?”
“Not good.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Unable to decipher the meaningful look he’s giving me, I ask, “What…kind of balloons?”
His brow pinches, as if I’m being strange when he’s the one with the sudden balloon fixation. “Latex.”
“Maybe…try Mylar?”
Looking pained, he whispers, “The corporate card was declined. I’m…wondering what you know.”
His meaning washes over me. “ Oh .”
I try to get a read on him. Does he know something? Or is he just curious? If he knows, I could have a confidant, a way to feel less alone. But if he doesn’t, I’d be pulling him into the same cold, unforgiving reality I’ve been living in for the past couple of weeks.
“What did you do when you found out it was declined?” I ask, my voice guarded.
“I called corporate.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Did they tell you something?”
Randy leans in, trying to read me right back. “Did they tell you something?”
“What do you think?” I ask.
“I think it’s interesting that you suddenly wanted to throw a dinner party to ask for more money.”
Coming out and saying it is a risk, but the words claw at me, eager for confirmation that I’m not alone in this. “They told you about pulling the funding?” I ask.
Randy nods. “And that’s why you’re doing the dinner party?” he fills in.
“Yes. It was the only way I could think of to get the money we need.”
“I get it now,” he says.
I glance from the kettle bubbling away on the counter to the tea bag. He’s rubbing the wrapper like it’s a worry stone. “I’m guessing you haven’t told the others?” I ask.
Randy shakes his head. “And you haven’t, either,” he confirms.
“No. Should we?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t want them to feel like this has all been for nothing.”
“It’s not,” I say. “I can make this work.”
“Then…maybe we don’t tell them,” Randy decides.
“Okay.” I lean against the counter, too, and we stand there listening to the kettle throw a fit.
I want to ask Randy if he knows about the Ryser Cares office possibly closing at the end of the year—but he hasn’t brought it up.
And as much of a relief it is to have someone to talk to about this funding issue, I don’t want to spring a new revelation on him when he’s worried enough about this one.
As if in agreement, the kettle finishes its cycle, slowing its rapid boiling until it falls into silence.
“Let me know how I can help with the dinner party,” Randy says. He tears open the tea bag wrapper and drops the bag into his mug.
“Okay.” I give him a grateful smile. “Thank you. And sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says gently. It’s a touching thing to say, even if he’s wrong.
“You should buy the balloons,” I say, reaching into my purse, “or whatever we need for the festival. Just put it on this.” I hand him my credit card.
Randy turns it over with a frown. “Is this your personal card? You shouldn’t have to pay for this.”
“Just to hold us over until we get the money,” I say. “I’ll pay myself back after the dinner party.”
“We’re really putting all our eggs in this dinner-party basket,” Randy says uneasily, pocketing the card.
“Because it’s gonna work,” I reply.
And I choose to believe it.