Chapter Eighteen
It felt good to be Georgie Wheeler again.
Nothing—and I meant nothing—could keep me down for too long.
I rushed through my notebook sketch before finding an unlined piece of paper and recreating it with a marker. My drawing skills started and ended at pottery and sign making—but that was all I needed.
“Okay, Easton,” I muttered, tapping my marker against my chin. “What says: this isn’t over, Claire?”
He rolled to his back with a grunt, paws in the air, and grinned at me.
“Not helpful,” I said, but I smiled anyway.
The sign read:
SAVE THE SUMMER’S END FESTIVAL!
COME TO MARIGOLD’S TONIGHT AT 7PM.
No one could mistake that.
Easton whined beside me on the couch, desperate for some attention but too sleepy from our walk to do much about it. By the time I finished, my right hand ached and my eyes burned. I only allowed myself a brief break before launching from the couch to scavenge for some old colored markers.
They were leftover from high school—fuchsia, tangerine, lilac and teal—but I was sure that the vibrant, somewhat clashing shades would attract attention. My cheeks hurt from smiling when I held it up to the window’s light.
“Genius,” I whispered. “Why didn’t I go into marketing?”
I glanced at my phone to check the time, then squeaked out a sound of mild panic and raced across the house to my grandmother’s old office. A plume of dust shot into the air as I shoved a tower of cardboard boxes aside. Momentarily choking, I bent over and tried not to crumple my hard-earned sign.
The office sat untouched for years. A small window looked out to the street and my wilting window boxes, pouring mote-filled sunlight across a modest desk and computer.
My grandmother spent an entire month painting a mural of lavender fields on all four walls, which were now mostly hidden by a skyline of boxes.
Besides the packed funeral and the weeks-long parade of lasagna and casserole, I dealt with her passing alone. The girl who struggled to pay a credit card bill on time was forced to make decisions that she had never even thought of before.
It took me a year to begin moving her things into the office. Boxes upon boxes of clothes, knickknacks, and costume jewelry filled the room. I supposed that someone more mature would’ve given it all away—but I couldn’t take that step just yet.
So, the office became a waiting room for everything I wasn’t ready to confront. This quasi-mausoleum was better than being reminded of her absence every time I turned a corner.
Grief was a funny thing. Denial to acceptance wasn’t a straight line.
Over the years, I’d find myself right back at the start—tossed out to sea, struggling to surface again.
I never wanted to dredge up all that sorrow just to bury it.
No matter how sharply the aches persisted, it was proof that I loved her.
I traced my palm over a nearby container and smiled. Deep in my heart, I thought she might be proud of me for this.
The printer on her desk was left dormant for ages.
Thankfully, a stack of paper remained unused in the tray.
After setting my sign inside to scan, I perched on the edge of the desk and let my eyes drift across the mountain range of cardboard.
Perhaps one day soon, now that I felt a bit more like myself, I’d sort through everything and finally decide what to part with.
Heaving a sigh, I plopped into her leather chair and kicked up my feet. I doubted the printer had enough paper or ink for what I’d queued up, but either way, I’d be here a while.
It didn’t take long before I grew bored with staring at my shoes and the little printer that could. My notebook was still in the living room—and, feeling about as lazy as Easton—I drummed my fingers on the desk and tugged the drawer open.
And my heart immediately jumped to my throat.
Nestled among pens, rubber bands, and neon sticky notes lay a cream-colored envelope with my name scrawled across it. I stood at attention and picked it up with shaky hands. When her executor read the will, no personal note accompanied it. No final wishes from beyond the grave.
I was to be given the house and Marigold’s Flower Shop. No frills, and nothing to misinterpret. To me, the message was clear: take care of this for me, Georgette.
Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, unsure if I was able to breathe. I didn’t want to blink for fear that it would disappear and all of this would’ve been a cruel trick of my imagination.
The printer beeped. That envelope was still in my hand.
I gathered a shaking breath and shook my head. Of course, Marigold was not Marigold without that ceaseless penchant for the dramatic. A quiet laugh of disbelief slipped from my lips as I dragged my thumb over the impression left by the big swoops of her purple-penned cursive.
The printer beeped again. I was right; it ran out of ink.
A stack of copies under one arm, I shuffled out to the kitchen.
The pot of water I’d started had been long abandoned, and I kept forgetting there was nowhere to sit anymore.
Sighing, I placed the envelope on my counter and vowed to read it later that night.
Who knew what kind of wreck I’d be afterward.
Beside it, I fanned out my papers, unable to keep the giddy smile from my mouth.
???
By mid-afternoon, I shrugged on a sweater over my shirt and headed out again. I stuffed a roll of painter’s tape and a stapler into my backpack and set off on foot with Easton trotting contentedly at my side.
Main Street buzzed more than it had all week. The smell of fried dough from Captain’s mingled with the salty sea breeze, gulls screamed overhead as they soared out to the beach, and I spotted a few new faces snapping pictures on the sidewalk.
I began at the Cove Market. Mrs. Henderson stood behind the counter inside, arms folded, her eyebrows steadily climbing into her hairline as she watched me tape a multihued sign to the bulletin board by the door.
“What’s all this, Georgie?” she asked.
“We’re saving the Summer’s End Festival—together.” I smoothed the bright yellow tape down, a rush of excitement sparking as I said it out loud. “Seven o’clock at Marigold’s tonight. Pass it on,” I added.
Her eyes softened. “Well, it’s about time somebody did something. My family comes into town every year for this. There’s no way they can afford that admission price!”
That was all the encouragement I needed.
Next stop: Callahan’s Garage tucked behind the Market.
It had been in the Callahan family for decades, and although it wasn’t technically on Main Street, it was still a pillar of the community.
My grandmother and I never owned a car—we had no use for one, really—but I saw them at every Bluebell Cove event growing up.
“Afternoon, Neal!” I called, brandishing a fluorescent sign. Easton barked.
He grunted, metal clinking as he tinkered beneath the hood of a truck. “What’s that?”
“Festival meeting. Marigold’s. Seven.”
Neal squinted at the poster over his shoulder. “Thought they had that figured already.”
“That depends if you want to dress in black tie and spend a hundred dollars on a ticket,” I retorted.
He wiped his hands with a bandana and rubbed his graying scruff. “Heard something ‘bout that. Suppose I didn’t want to believe it.”
“Well, I think we can stop it,” I replied, showing him my sign again. “Will you tell Ben to come?”
Neal sucked his teeth. “I can try. Why don’t you put it up on the glass there?” He turned back to the truck without another word and picked up his tool.
I taped it to his window and gave Easton a victorious pat. “See? This is going to work.”
We made our way down the street, plastering signs on every surface that would hold tape.
Tourists stopped to read them. Teenagers walking home from school whispered and giggled until my face turned bright red.
A couple of Main Street business owners shot me skeptical looks, but no one moved to tear them down.
I ducked into the Morning Bell next, Easton tugging happily at his leash as though he knew what was coming.
The sweet smell of pastries and the sound of coffee beans grinding was enough to make my stomach growl.
Rachel was at the espresso machine, hovering over a comedically taller Cameron as he steamed some milk.
“Georgie Wheeler,” she said, narrowing her eyes when she spotted the roll of painter’s tape in my hand. “What are you scheming?”
“Not scheming,” I said, holding up a sign and wiggling my eyebrows. “Saving. Seven o’clock tonight. Marigold’s.”
Her brows knit together as she left Cameron’s side and leaned over the counter to read.
Then, with surprising quickness, she snatched the sign right out of my hands.
“Finally,” she muttered, marching from behind the bar to the front window.
“I’m glad you’re back. I love you, but sulking is not your color. ”
I bit back a grin. “So… you’ll come?”
Rachel gave me a what-are-you-talking-about look. “That’s not even a question. Now, hand me that tape.”
By the time we left, Easton had the crumbs of several treats stuck to his snout, and I was nearly bouncing on my toes. This was working.
The next stop was Gulliver’s Books. The bell jingled, and Joe emerged from a velvet curtain behind the register, his glasses fogged up from the steam of his teacup.
“Should I be worried?” he said with a single brow raise.
“Not exactly,” I started, sliding the sign across the counter toward him.
“Saving the festival,” Joe muttered dubiously, “I don’t know about this. I could really use those triple profits.” He pushed it back to me and took a long sip of his tea.
My gaze drifted around the shop for a second before I turned back to him and sucked in a sharp breath. “Marigold’s is struggling too, Joe.”
I couldn’t believe that, after all that time of bottling it up, I said it out loud. But when he spoke up the other day, it stuck in my mind; maybe, just like my conversation with Margot, more people would let their guards down if I did first.
“Then you’ll understand why I’m in favor of the gala,” he replied, though his eyes softened.
I nodded. “I do. Trust me, I do. Those profits are tempting. But you know that’s not what Bluebell Cove is about.”
Joe sighed, long and haggard. Suddenly, as he watched me from behind his teacup, I saw just how tired he was. “That’s a beautiful sentiment. But sentiment doesn’t pay my bills.”
“Will you give me a chance?” I swallowed, hating how it felt to press him any further. “Just show up tonight. You don’t have to make any commitments, okay?”
He pursed his lips and read the sign again. “Alright, Miss Wheeler. You can try your best to convince me.”
When I opened my mouth with a grateful speech, he had already turned back to his velvet curtain.
Later, I reached the diner, a thin layer of sweat plastering curls to my temples. Easton appeared ready for a break.
That’s when Claire materialized.
Her heels clicked against the cobblestone as the door to Captain’s swung open, her black trench coat looking as though it had never known a raindrop or a fleck of dust. She carried an unbelievably thin laptop under her arm, hair swept into a sleek ponytail and clear-framed glasses perched on her nose.
“Georgie,” she greeted, her tone cool. “What exactly are you up to?”
I froze. Easton sat. The sign in my hands floated in the breeze like a flag.
“Community outreach,” I said brightly.
Her gaze flicked to the sign, and her brows knitted together. “You’re advertising… another meeting?”
“Yes—tonight. At Marigold’s.”
Claire’s laugh was soft and veered dangerously close to pitying. “Oh, Georgie. That’s not how these things work. We already had the official planning session. Things have been set in motion. You’ll only confuse people.”
“We’re not simple,” I shot back before I could stop myself. “I just think we deserve to have a voice about our own festival.”
Something sharp flickered in her eyes as she peered down her nose at me. “You’re passionate, I’ll give you that.” A glossy-lipped smile. “But you need more than passion. The logistics, finances, reputation—that’s what I’m trained to handle. That’s why I’m here, remember?”
I met her gaze, heart pounding. “I never agreed to having it all taken away.”
For a split second, I thought she might snap.
But Claire simply tilted her head and studied me like a curious nuisance.
“I thought you said that the town deserves a voice in the festival? Well, they had their chance. If you don’t like it…
” She tapered off with a demure grin. “Good luck tonight, Georgie. I hope people show up.”
With that, she swept past me, leaving a trail of lingering perfume in her wake. Well, I went toe-to-toe with Claire and survived. It was only a matter of convincing the rest of the town that my harebrained plan would actually save us.
I watched until she slipped into her car and drove away. Then I let out a long, shaking breath, and taped one of my last few signs to the window at Captain’s.
Slowly, and with more dread than I cared to admit, I glanced across the street. Before I knew it, my feet were already moving.