Chapter 11
Community Ties
"And that's when they decided to convert the old mining museum into the cultural center," Martha Washington explains, her silver curls bobbing enthusiastically as she points to a faded photograph. "George was on the committee. Tell her about the controversy with the foundation, dear."
I scribble notes furiously as George launches into a detailed explanation of structural engineering concerns that threatened the historic building's renovation. My recorder captures every word, though I'm already mentally editing for the parts most relevant to my article.
After last night with Noah—his cooking skills proving as impressive as his other recently demonstrated talents—I've thrown myself into work with renewed focus.
Professional distance.
Journalistic integrity.
Gather the material, write the story, go home. That's the plan that I repeat to myself, even as memories of his hands on my skin threaten my concentration. Even as I know it as the lie it is.
"Riley, dear? Are you still with us?" Martha's voice breaks through my inappropriate daydream.
"Yes, absolutely." I smile apologetically. "Just making sure I have the timeline correct. The cultural center opened in 2018, after the economic downturn?"
"That's right. Just when we needed it most." George adjusts his glasses, a gesture reminiscent of a professor preparing to make an important point. "That's the thing about Angel's Peak—we pull together in crisis. Always have."
"That sense of community solidarity seems to be a recurring theme," I observe, flipping through my notes from other interviews. "Everyone I've spoken with mentions it."
"Because it's true." Martha pats my hand affectionately. "When the resort corporation threatened to pull out, we didn't wait for outside rescue. We looked to ourselves, to our own strengths."
"And to Noah Morgan," George adds, with a pointed look at his wife. "Let's give credit where it's due. That young man rallied this town when spirits were lowest."
My traitor heart skips at the mention of his name. "Noah was involved with the economic revitalization?"
"Involved?" Martha laughs. "He orchestrated half of it. The safety training center that brings in departments from three states? His proposal. The mountain rescue certification program? His initiative. The fellow sees opportunity where others see obstacles."
I make more notes, professional interest mingling with personal curiosity. "You seem to hold him in high regard."
"Everyone does," George confirms. "The Morgan family has been the backbone of Angel's Peak for generations. Eleanor on historical preservation, Noah on emergency services. Hunter brings culinary recognition to The Haven. Salt of the earth, that family."
Their admiration is so earnest it makes my chest ache. Noah isn't just the town's Fire Chief—he's woven into its very fabric, essential to its survival and identity. I think of his words in the cabin: I know what I want, and I'm not afraid to fight for it this time.
But what happens when what he wants conflicts with what the town needs? With what I need?
I redirect the conversation to safer topics—tourism trends, infrastructure development, and the balance between growth and preservation. By the time I leave the Washingtons' charming Victorian an hour later, my notebook is filled with valuable material, but my mind is more tangled than ever.
Main Street bustles with mid-morning activity as I make my way back toward Mabel's Guest House.
The sun shines brightly, and the mountain air is crisp and invigorating despite my emotional turmoil.
Angel's Peak truly is picturesque—the kind of place featured in travel magazines and Instagram hashtags, authentic yet polished enough to attract discerning tourists.
As I approach Mabel's, I notice unusual activity on the sprawling front lawn.
Tables and chairs are being arranged in neat rows, strings of lights hung between trees, and a small stage assembled near the wraparound porch.
In the center of the controlled chaos stands Eleanor Morgan, clipboard in hand, issuing directions with the authority of a five-star general.
I try to slip past unnoticed, but Eleanor's radar for avoidance tactics is apparently finely tuned.
"Riley!" she calls, beckoning imperiously. "Just the person I was hoping to see."
Reluctantly, I change course to join her. "Good morning, Eleanor. Looks like preparations are coming along nicely."
"For the most part." She consults her clipboard with a frown. "Though we're short three volunteers for setup, and Margie just called to say she can't manage the dessert table because Frank's physical therapy was rescheduled."
"That's unfortunate." I offer a sympathetic smile, already sensing the direction this conversation is heading.
"Indeed." Eleanor fixes me with a penetrating gaze. "I don't suppose you have plans for the rest of the day? Your journalistic skills would be invaluable for organizing the silent auction items."
"I—" I begin to formulate an excuse, but Eleanor continues as if my agreement is a foregone conclusion.
"Excellent. The auction items are in that box on the porch. Each needs a description card and a bid sheet." She makes a notation on her clipboard. "And I've put you down for the dinner service shift as well. Five to seven."
Before I can protest, Eleanor is whisked away by a frantic volunteer with questions about table arrangements, leaving me standing beside a large box of donated items with an unexpected day of community service ahead of me.
I sigh, resigning myself to the situation.
Perhaps this is an opportunity rather than an imposition—direct participation in community initiatives will add authenticity to my article.
I'm justifying this to myself as I begin sorting through auction donations when a familiar voice sends a shiver down my spine.
"She got you, too, huh?" Noah stands at the bottom of the porch steps, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Gram's recruitment tactics are legendary. Resistance is futile."
He looks unfairly handsome in casual clothes—faded jeans and a simple gray t-shirt that does nothing to disguise the strength in his shoulders and arms. Arms that were wrapped around me just last night, hands that explored every inch of my body...that left prints on my ass.
"I volunteered," I lie, forcing my thoughts into more appropriate channels. "For the article. Community involvement angle."
"Right." His smile tells me he doesn't believe me for a second. "Well, fellow volunteer, I'm on stage setup. Need help with those auction items first?"
Working together suddenly seems dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with heavy lifting. "I can manage. But thanks."
"As you wish." He holds my gaze a beat too long before turning away, the cinematic reference—a favorite movie we once watched repeatedly—not lost on me.
For the next several hours, I lose myself in fundraiser preparations.
The silent auction takes shape in my hands—artwork by local artists, gift certificates to businesses, and handcrafted items, each representing a facet of Angel’s Peak’s character.
I craft description cards that highlight each item's connection to the community, finding unexpected satisfaction in the creative task.
Throughout the day, I can't help tracking Noah's movements around the property.
He seems to be everywhere at once—assembling the stage with James Donovan, stringing lights in the trees, helping Mabel arrange furniture.
Every task is approached with the same focused attention and the same easy competence.
And whenever our paths cross, that same electric awareness crackles between us, a current neither of us acknowledges aloud.
By mid-afternoon, the fundraiser setup is nearly complete.
The once-empty lawn has transformed into an enchanted venue, with white tablecloths bright against the green grass, twinkling lights ready for evening illumination, and a stage prepared for local musicians.
I've just finished arranging the auction tables when Eleanor materializes at my elbow.
"Well done," she approves, surveying my work. "You have quite an eye for presentation."
"Thanks." I straighten a bid sheet, oddly pleased by her praise. "It's coming together beautifully."
"Indeed." She consults her clipboard. "Now, about the dinner service shift. You'll be partnered with Noah at the main buffet table."
Of course, I will.
"Is that really necessary? I'm sure there are more experienced volunteers—"
"Nonsense. You two make an excellent team." Her innocent expression wouldn't fool a child. "Besides, it's the perfect opportunity to observe community dynamics for your article."
Before I can formulate a response that won't reveal too much, Eleanor continues, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to check on the sound system. Paul from The Haven is having some trouble with the wiring."
She bustles away, leaving me with the distinct impression of having been outmaneuvered by a master tactician. I'm still contemplating Eleanor's matchmaking efforts when a tall man in coveralls approaches, toolbox in hand.
"You're Riley, right? The journalist?" He sets down his toolbox, extending a hand. "Paul Davis, maintenance manager at The Haven. Eleanor said you might have an extension cord I could borrow."
"I don't think—" I begin, but Paul continues as if I hadn't spoken.
"Noah mentioned you're writing about our community revitalization. Great angle." He rummages through a nearby supply box. "This town's come a long way in five years."
"So I've heard." I lean against the auction table, recognizing an informative source when I see one. "You've been at The Haven throughout the transition?"
"Six years now." Paul locates an extension cord with a triumphant "Aha!" before continuing. "Came here after blowing out my knee. End of my pro baseball career, but beginning of something better, turns out."