Chapter Sixteen
Before I could answer, the diner door creaked open in the distance. Rhett stepped into the glow of the lamppost, scanning until his gaze landed on me. His shoulders dropped a fraction with an exhale, like I was a relief to see.
But that was only in my mind.
“Would you look at that,” Margot muttered. “I’ll give you two some privacy before I finally make up my mind to throw him into the ocean.” She crouched, patted Easton’s head and brushed past Rhett as he approached.
My heart was in my throat again. Why’d she have to leave?
He stopped a few feet away. Hands jammed into his pant pockets, the breeze ruffled his hair. “You okay?”
I barked out a dry laugh. “What do you think?”
He winced. “Fair.”
For a beat, neither of us spoke. The muffled roar of waves in the distance kept me from fixating on my hammering pulse.
Rhett shifted his weight. “Claire didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset by Claire. I barely even know Claire,” I returned. “In fact, I barely even know you,” The bitterness in my voice was as plain as the freckles on my face.
“That’s not true.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I snapped. “What matters is this town and everyone in it. The people who count on our festivals. On me.” My voice cracked. “But not anymore.” I pressed my lips together before I could humiliate myself further.
Rhett dragged a hand through his hair. “They’re still counting on you, Georgie. You can’t control the weather.” He moved to sit by me, but I stood abruptly, Easton jumping awake at the motion. “Claire’s just… she’s just here to—”
“To what? Because I heard she’s your fiancée,” I interrupted, the indignation I’d been hiding driving me forward. “Do you do this a lot when you travel? Hang around townie girls and then disappear when you’re done?”
The accusation tumbled out like a slap and floated between us.
My night of honesty with Margot had shifted something within me.
A good chance remained that I’d been imagining it all, and was about to receive the most humiliating set-down of my life.
But now that it was out, I needed to hear it.
I needed him to reject me. To tell me that whatever I felt was only one-sided, and he was intent on living happily ever after with Claire.
That would make his return to California a lot less painful.
Rhett began slowly, as if he was responding to my allegation step by step: “Claire and I dated a few years ago, until I decided we were better off as friends. So that’s all we are now.
” He stepped closer, voice lowering. “Georgie, I don’t want you thinking that anything else is going on. Because I care what you think.”
My breath caught. He stared down at me with an intensity I’d never seen before, dark eyes begging me to put it together. I waited for him to actually say it—to verbalize what he was feeling; to tell me I wasn’t assuming all of it on my own.
Watching his jaw flex, he seemed to struggle to keep that practiced mask of indifference in place. A thousand unsaid words hung overhead like icicles, ready to impale us if we made a misstep.
I already knew Rhett was going to break my heart when he left. It was my decision just how much.
I looked away. “Goodnight, Rhett.”
And before he could reply, I tugged Easton toward home.
???
All night, I tossed and turned, sick about my conversation with Rhett, and the state of Marigold’s, and the festival being ripped from my hands.
Just over a week ago, I would have been relieved by someone more qualified taking the reins.
Maybe it was just something about Claire, but suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to be in charge again.
Town Hall buzzed with anticipation the next morning.
Folding chairs scraped against the floor as people packed in for the “official” emergency Summer’s End Festival planning session.
I wasn’t sure what made this one more official than mine, but I supposed having an international event planner dripping in designer clothes probably did the trick.
I couldn’t remember the last time I stepped foot in Town Hall—most gatherings like this were held at Captain’s. Apparently, Claire had specifically requested to hold the meeting here.
It was a small, unassuming building at the end of Bluebell Lane; the exterior wrapped in red brick, framing tall, white-paned windows and columns guarding the wide stone steps.
Two flags flanked the doorway, their fabric catching in the breeze, tidy shrubs lining the path leading up to thick double doors.
Inside, vaulted ceilings held a system of original beams, hanging over well-polished walnut floors and a stage with a podium. Particularly unfussy for a historical property.
Claire stood on the platform, radiant in a cream blazer that looked like it was made for her. She clicked through a slideshow on her laptop, each polished graphic splashing above her on the projection screen.
“Instead of bake-sale pies, we’ll have catered hors d’oeuvres,” she said, beaming. “And I’ve already contacted a quartet from Boston willing to volunteer their time. No need for a free band from the high school.”
Murmurs rippled. Mrs. Henderson frowned. Frank loudly muttered something about “fancy city-folk nonsense.”
Dot, of course, clapped. “Brilliant! Exactly the touch this festival needs.”
I sat in the second row, struggling to keep the scowl from my mouth. Every word felt as if she was pushing decades of Bluebell Cove traditions off a cliff.
Claire clicked to the next slide: a glossy mock-up of ticket booths and velvet ropes. “And to cover costs, we’ll shift to a modest admission fee. One-hundred dollars should suffice.”
That did it. The room erupted. Farmers, business owners, teenagers—they all started talking at once, united by a single problem: the festival had always been free, no matter what.
My pulse thundered.
I stood, the squeal of my chair against the floor turning a room full of heads. “With all due respect, Claire, this doesn’t sound like the Summer’s End Festival.”
The words rushed out before I knew what I was doing. I quickly clasped my hands together to keep them from shaking.
Claire scratched her eyebrow with the tip of her nail, nodding as if truly contemplating my words. Her heels made tiny divots in the stage’s carpeting as she circled around the podium and faced us all.
“I understand your concerns. I really do. But to my understanding, you all needed my help because the Summer’s End Festival was—” She paused and pursed her vermillion lips. “Going to… miss the mark this year. Am I correct?”
People began to sit. My face burned as I stayed standing.
“It’s no one’s fault that a storm has cancelled your outdoor event.
” Claire cast an easy smile over the audience.
I realized, with a wave of nausea, that she had successfully recaptured their interest. “Things like this happen all the time—and fixing it is my specialty. But you have to let me try. Do you think you can do that?”
To me, her tone was bordering on patronizing. But as I glanced behind me, no one seemed to care. They hung on each of her words, apparently enraptured by her shiny hair and lofty promises that traveled further than anything I could’ve devised.
Then her eyes, sharp as a hawk, fell on me.
“Do you have any other concerns, Georgie?”
I did. But something told me it wasn’t the right time. Flopping back down in my chair, I crossed my arms and waited for her to resume.
“Well. I understand that charging for tickets concerns all of you. But, as I have surmised, this festival is important because it supports the small businesses here—correct?”
Mutters of assent rolled through the crowd.
She beamed. “I can assure you that the profits you all normally see from the festival will almost triple from the switch to a fundraising gala.” A few people leaned forward as she moved to her laptop and the slide changed.
“As you can see here, this would be the estimated earnings for each Main Street business.”
My jaw hinged open. Gasps filled Town Hall, broken by scattered applause and hoots of laughter. It was easily more profit than any business had seen from a Summer’s End Festival… ever. And as a fundraising event instead of a carnival and a market, we’d be making more money than we spent on it.
Claire knew it was an undefeatable idea. Her victorious grin made that clear.
When the meeting ended, she fielded a procession of grateful business owners who looked as if they wanted to kneel and kiss her feet. I remained seated, stomach churning, until the final Bluebell Cove resident left.
“Can I speak with you, Claire?”
I caught her on the steps of Town Hall, shielded beneath the portico as a mist of drizzle blanketed everything outside.
She offered me a tight-lipped smile and paused as she tied her trench coat closed.
“The fundraiser is a great idea, I just…”
The silence buzzed with tension as I grappled for the right words to say.
“Georgie, I don’t have all day,” Claire said, twirling her umbrella at her feet by the crook handle. “I have about a million things to do for this gala, which is now in ten days.”
I cleared my throat and forced it out. “The festivals aren’t just about the Main Street businesses—I mean, sure, we rely on it. But so do all the other vendors that we’ve used for decades. And now I have to call and tell them not to come.”
She swept her gaze down Bluebell Lane, seemed to be bored with what she saw, and turned to me.
“Dire circumstances call for uncomfortable choices, I’m afraid.
And the kind of people paying fifty dollars for a ticket aren’t going to want balloon animals or greasy carnival food.
” Claire paused and shuddered at the thought.
“I understand that you’re unhappy, but… what other choice do you all have? ”
That was it. We had been backed into a corner by an unprecedented weather pattern, and now a Bluebell Cove tradition was getting stomped to smithereens by a red-bottomed stiletto.
What was next?
???
The couch sagged beneath me later that night, surrounded by a trail of crumbs and a fortress of pillows.
Easton had claimed the opposite cushion, belly up, chainsaw snoring rattling through the air.
The glow from the TV painted the room in a shade of orange as Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan, after two hours of will-they-won’t-they, finally proclaimed their love in the middle of Central Park.
I sighed, stale tears wavering at my lash line as I stuffed my final cookie in my mouth.
A firm knock rattled the door.
I froze, mouth agape as morsels of cookie tumbled to my chest. No one had ever knocked on my door that late. In fact, most people on this street were asleep by now.
Swallowing, I padded over and cracked the door.
Rhett stood there, damp hair curling at his temples, a dusting of tiny raindrops gracing his flannel-clad shoulders. He held out a paper bag as if it was a peace offering. It would’ve been adorable if I hadn’t resigned to ignoring him completely until he left town.
“I brought donuts,” he deadpanned.
I narrowed my eyes. “At ten at night?”
No store in Bluebell Cove was open at this hour.
“They were half-off.”
Against my better judgment, I stepped aside. He toed off his muddied boots and followed me into the living room, setting the bag on the coffee table. Easton jumped awake and sprung from the couch, tongue already lolling to the side as he cried and pushed his face into Rhett’s palm.
We stood on opposite ends of the living room, my eyes fixed on the rolling credits just so I wouldn’t have to look at him. I was about to say I was going to bed when he finally spoke.
“I hate being paraded around like some prize steer.”
I blinked. “What?”
“With Claire. With my parents. With anyone who thinks standing next to me says something about them.” He gave a hollow laugh. “Guess that’s what I was raised for—looking good on paper.”
Rhett let out a long breath and pressed a hand to the back of his neck.
“I spent years chasing everything they told me to—schools, degrees, even people. And when I finally had all of it, I—” He hesitated, his gaze flicking to me, startlingly raw.
“The only reason I came here was for my uncle. He’s the only one who ever cared about who I actually am. ”
He paused, flexing his hands like he wanted to catch the words before they fell out. “But that’s not true anymore,” he said hoarsely. “Not just him.”
Something in my chest gave way. “Then why not say that? Out loud? Why let me keep believing—”
“Because I froze.” His voice cracked. “Claire’s a force of nature, and I… I defaulted to what I was taught: stay polite, make it easy, don’t make a scene. I didn’t know how to stop her without disappointing everyone.”
I rubbed my eyes, whatever fight I had left slipping away somewhere between cookie two and five. “Rhett, this festival… it’s not just an event. It’s supposed to mean something. And a gala doesn’t feel like it.”
“I know.” He took a step toward me, then stopped, as if realizing how close he’d gotten. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to make things harder. I just—” His voice softened. “I just wanted to help you, Georgie. Even if I didn’t always know how.”
Our eyes met, and for a split second, I saw something there—something that felt dangerously close to a confession. But that’s all it was: almost.
“I should go,” Rhett murmured, when it was clear I had nothing left to say.
I nodded, but he was already halfway to the door.