Chapter 18
eighteen
F or better or for worse, Magnolia Days had arrived.
Cade strolled the roped off festival grounds, roughly a quarter mile from Village Lane on the south side of town and narrowly dodged a stray puddle. After several days of rain, the sun had come out and almost everything had dried. It now shone brightly in a crisp blue sky, while puffs of clouds drifted lazily across the expanse, casting the occasional shadow over rows of decorated booths arranged across the grounds.
The red and white striped circus tent stood tall in the back of the field, ready to house components of the circus as they arrived during the week. A raised stage had been constructed in the middle of the lot, complete with sound system and risers for musical performances, and the Ferris wheel was partially constructed, set to be completed by Wednesday. Vendors were putting final touches on their booths, and the food trucks—judging by the various heavenly aromas wafting from the parking lot—were prepping for the coming rush once Magnolia Days opened in half an hour.
He’d pulled it off.
Cade lifted one hand to Farmer Branson, who carefully stacked an array of fresh vegetables on a stand. Two tents down, Miley scowled as she arranged logo mugs on a table next to pre-packaged coffee.
Cade checked his watch. Almost noon—odd that Rosalyn wasn’t here. She’d promised to come early and help vendors with last minute needs, plus she’d been eager to see inside the circus tent to figure out her rigging for her first performance Wednesday night. They’d worked together this past week on the final preparations for the festival, and he’d filed the contest paperwork for her as promised. He’d also gotten information from his deep dive into her accounts, and she wasn’t going to like it. Now it was a matter of when to tell her without scaring her further. She’d finally stopped looking over her shoulder this past week.
Though he’d started looking over his.
“Cade!” Sadie waved him over from her secondhand books booth, a light wind blowing the hem of her maxi skirt. “Can you give me a hand with this banner?”
He hurried over and took the end of the banner Sadie had created using book pages and twine and held it to the corner of the canopy. “About here?”
“Perfect.” She handed him the hook and he stood on tiptoe to secure it in place. “And don’t worry—no books were harmed in the making of this banner. These pages are from books that came to my shop already destroyed.”
“I would never assume otherwise.” No one loved books like Sadie—not even Mrs. Peters. “Need anything else?”
“I think that’s it.” She craned her neck to look at the banner and gave him a nod. “I appreciate it.”
“No problem.” He surveyed the tables full of novels sorted by genre, the wooden rack containing pressed-flower bookmarks, and the kitchen towels offering quotes from Austen and Bronte. “Looks like you’re ready.”
Worry lines creased her brow. “Business has been down, so I’m hoping it’s a good turnout.” Then a soft smile relit her face. “But you’ve done a great job putting everything together, so I’m sure it’ll go well.”
“Thanks, Sadie.” He followed her gaze, taking in the grounds. They were all set, weren’t they?
“Oh, there is one thing I forgot to ask.” Sadie adjusted a bookmark that had slipped out of place. “Where are the porta-potties? I usually avoid them, but my niece will be helping me with the booth this evening, and she’s only six. It’s inevitable.”
“Totally understand.” Cade turned and pointed. “They’re lined up right over by the food trucks and picnic?—”
He blinked.
Where were the porta-potties?
He lowered his arm and turned a full circle, but the twelve yellow structures he’d ordered weeks ago were nowhere to be seen.
His heart crashed to his Sperrys the same time Zoey ran toward him from her beignet booth, three spots down. “Cade!” Her eyes were wide, cheeks dusted with powdered sugar. “We’re missing the porta?—”
“I know.” His gut twisted. Of all the things to forget. How many times had he started to confirm the delivery and gotten distracted? He’d much rather have forgotten those blasted poodles than the toilets.
Farmer Branson ambled toward them, thumbs hooked in his suspenders. “What’s the ruckus?”
“Is everything okay?” Miley joined them, carrying a coffee cup.
Sadie hugged a book to her chest. “There’s no toilets.”
Miley’s frown deepened as she turned accusing eyes to Cade. “I’m not a wood frog, Cade. People need bathrooms.”
“I realize that.” Cade looked between all their worried expressions and tried to hide his own. Right now, he had to try to save face. “I’m sure they’re running late on the delivery. I bet they’ll be here any minute.”
He backed away and lifted his cell phone, as if that were proof. “I’ll make a quick call to be sure.”
Their hiked brows and pursed lips looked as wary as he felt.
“Be right back.” He left the group whispering as he turned—and planted his foot directly in the puddle he’d avoided. Biting back a word his mother would have called Pastor Dubois about when he was younger, Cade shook muddy water off his shoe and scrolled his contacts for the number. Please just be late.
The phone rang three times, four.
He winced, pacing the other direction as the sun beamed down on his head.
Five rings.
Voicemail. Cade shoved his phone back in his pocket. Did that mean they weren’t in the office because they were on their way? It could be a good sign.
But his sinking heart predicted otherwise. Cade stared across the grounds to the empty spot where the porta-potties should have been. The smell of seasoned taco meat wafted on the breeze, and his stomach growled.
He had to figure out a new plan. If there were no bathrooms, people wouldn’t stay. Which meant less money spent at the food trucks, fewer people attending the musical performances, fewer wares sold at all the booths…
Less income for the town in general and less spreading of the word to friends and family.
Technically, the fault lay with the company he’d ordered from, right? They’d charged his credit card but didn’t deliver. Unless, of course, they hadn’t actually charged his card. Then it was on him for not confirming.
He pulled up the banking account linked to the card he and his father used for the town and typed in his credentials. The page spun briefly, refusing to load. “Come on.” He held his phone up for better connection.
“We have a problem.”
He thought about not looking toward the stricken female voice. Thought about yelling “One disaster at a time!” Thought about sprinting toward the food trucks and not stopping until he had a breakfast burrito safely in hand.
But that’s not what a future mayor would do, was it? Or a Landry.
He slapped on the smile and turned to see Mrs. Peters bustling toward him as fast as she could over the uneven ground. She expertly dodged the puddle he’d stepped in, giving it a look down her nose.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Peters?” He glanced at the phone in his hand. The loading icon still spun.
The librarian patted the top of her white hair. “As I’m sure you know, I’m part of Magnolia Grace’s choir that’s performing at the festival this week.”
He didn’t know. “Yes ma’am?”
“I came to check out the stage situation, report back to the music minister.” She curled her arms around her navy pantsuit, the shoulder pads of which stretched wider than her hips. “And thank heavens I did.”
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Peters?” He snuck another glance at his phone. The app had loaded, and he subtly clicked the account button to scan the transactions. Another spinning wheel filled the screen.
“A senior choir can’t stand on risers like that.” Her lips pursed as if Cade shown have already known. “We’ll break our arthritic knees.”
“I’m sure we can adjust the risers for your performance. But you’ll need varying heights somehow, or no one will be able to see you.”
“Are you calling me short, young Landry?” She lifted her chin—and her five-foot frame—as high as she could while holding her glare.
“I…” He looked down again. “I’m, uh—” The website had loaded. “Yes!”
“Excuse me!” Mrs. Peter’s eyes flashed.
“No! Not you.” Cade held up his phone. “I was waiting on something.”
She scowled. “Back in my day, young professionals had manners.”
“I know. And they returned their library books on time too.” Cade gestured with his cell again. “I’m sorry, this is an emergency.” But now he couldn’t look at the data in his hand without proving her point.
She bristled. “So is the stage situation.”
“I’ll make sure the risers—” Cade sniffed. Why did the air suddenly smell like essential oils?
“Cade, darling.” Madame Paulette swept up behind him, brandishing a pink feather boa. Loose feathers fluttered behind her, trailing the ground like a molting flamingo.
Cade reached and checked his own forehead. Cool and dry, despite the sweat forming on his back. So he didn’t have fever.
He kept his smile steady. “Hey, Madame Paulette. Let me guess—you have a problem?” He looked behind her, searching for context. But all he could see was Zoey, talking frantically into her phone. Miley stood beside her, also on her cell, one finger plugging her free ear as she paced in front of the book booth. He frowned. Everyone was on their phones. Sadie. Farmer Branson…He had a phone?
“Honey, you’re much too handsome to be so negative.” Madame draped the boa around his neck. “I was going to let you know the stage looks perfect for my little dancers to perform this week.”
That was a relief. He nodded, fingers itching to check the bank account. “I’m glad to hear it.”
She tugged the boa back. “After you make it bigger, of course.”
His smile faltered. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t apologize honey, I’m sure it’s not your fault.” She patted his arm.
“I wasn’t?—”
“Oh!” She pointed to the food trucks. “I’m glad I came a little early. I swear I could smell those breakfast burritos from Village Lane.” She rushed away before Cade could figure out what happened.
At least someone would be getting a burrito this morning.
He looked back at Mrs. Peters, who watched him with a hawkish expression, as if he was supposed to say something else.
But he couldn’t wait any longer. “If you’ll give me a moment…” Cade held up one finger, then ducked his head as he scrolled the contents of the bank page. He held his breath, ignoring Mrs. Peter’s pointed tapping of her orthopedic shoe and willed a charge to appear from the porta-potty company.
Unfortunately, no matter how many times he scrolled, it didn’t appear.
This was his fault. He’d gotten too swept up in festival planning, in dreading the upcoming campaign, in Rosalyn, that he’d let the confirmation slide—despite multiple sticky-note reminders scattered across his desk.
Which begged the question—what else had he forgotten?
He pocketed his phone, ready to try to appease Mrs. Peters. But she’d already headed toward the stage as if she might remove the risers herself, arthritic knees and all. Meanwhile, Madame Paulette flirted through the service window of the nearby taco truck.
At least they were both entertaining themselves. Cade just needed to think.
Dad would know what to do.
The thought landed like a chigger, irritating and itchy. Cade walked back toward the vendor booths where he’d left Zoey and the others. Dad would have a connection with someone that could get this resolved—or at least, get a rush order prioritized. He always came up with solutions.
Not that he’d have messed up in the first place—Dad was a true Landry.
Would Cade ever have what it took?