Chapter Seven
Admiring a devil-may-care grin was not the same as getting lost in one.
And Kelley was not confused about where they stood. She touched Asher’s arm before he moved through the swinging door and around the counter, drawing his gaze back to her. She said, “A word of caution?”
“What’s that?” he whispered.
I know how this ends. But I like to plan ahead. If I took your hand, how long would you hold on? Kelley drew her arm back and said, “Don’t make eye contact with anyone seated in the middle up front unless you want to get involved.”
Asher tilted his head and considered her. “Are you involved?” His words were mild, but curiosity flickered in his blue eyes.
“I’m on the committee.” As far as us, it’s best if we call it here. Skip right to the end. “I’m in charge of the floats and parade route.”
“Impressive,” Asher conceded.
“Not so very much,” Kelley admitted. “I had an ulterior motive.”
“What was that?” he asked, keeping his voice low to match hers and his gaze fixed on her face.
“If I’m organizing, I can’t be expected to participate in the parade, too.” Kelley shrugged as if it was all completely settled. After all, she was more than happy to organize the saddled horses in the parade line. It was the sitting in the saddle that she was seeking to avoid.
“Is it parades or participating in general that you don’t like?” he asked mildly.
She searched his gaze then asked, “You don’t remember, do you?”
He forgot. She supposed that was to be expected, if not the tiniest bit disappointing.
Yet, it was one fleeting afternoon years ago during another Fourth of July parade.
Back when preteen Kelley took a chance and took part.
Only she ended up with a sprained wrist, a severely bruised elbow and more embarrassed than she had ever been after her horse spooked and tossed her to the pavement front and center for the entire town to see.
But a cowboy—a mere teenager still discovering the depths of his maverick nature back then—came to her rescue.
Kelley caught the mayor motioning for her near the front of the dining area and shook her head slightly to clear the memory. “It’s not important. Remember, no eye contact.”
Asher smoothed a hand over his chin and nodded. “Got it.” He studied her a beat longer, then made his way over to Big E and the only empty stool left at the counter.
By the third item on the committee’s meeting agenda during the in-depth review of the firework display budget, Kelley determined she was the problem.
She failed to follow her own advice. Oh, she avoided making eye contact with the committee members well enough.
Try as she might, it was Asher whom her gaze tracked to over and over. Again and again.
Her city cowboy was seated on the very last stool; his legs were stretched out and his ankles stacked.
Arms crossed over his chest, the brim of his cowboy hat was tipped forward to cover his gaze.
He might have been asleep. Except Kelley had seen him nod ever so slightly the few times Big E leaned over to whisper something to him.
Fortunately, Asher didn’t appear to be keeping tabs on Kelley and didn’t catch Kelley watching him. Or so she hoped.
The next agenda item was Kelley’s float update.
She ran through the approved parade route along Derby Hollow Road and ending on Hitch Post Avenue.
Then she finished up with details about the staging area and took her seat.
Soon, she noticed her focus was right back to where it had started. On her cowboy.
“Very informative, Kelley.” Mayor Corbin drew Kelley’s attention to him. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop next to his empty lunch plate and said, “However, I still need to know the exact participation numbers for the parade.”
“Right.” Kelley flipped through the papers attached to her clipboard and said, “We’ve got fourteen floats and eight other entries.”
“That won’t do.” Mayor Corbin frowned.
“It’s almost double the entries from last year.” Not to mention Kelley had officially signed up all the townsfolk available to volunteer to be in the parade. She asked hesitantly, “If the whole town participates, who will be left to watch the parade?”
“The tourists will watch,” the mayor announced, certainty in his words.
“Where do you intend to find these tourists, Mr. Mayor?” That question came from one of the window booths where Sully Connelly and his family were smashed together on the bench seats.
“It’s not like we can boast about our Triple Laurel winner being in the parade.” That grumble came from the tables in the center, curiously close to where Patsy Richmond and her daughter Caroline sat.
Someone from upfront added, “Worse, without our Triple Laurel winner, there is no meet and greet with the colt, and that would have definitely enticed the out-of-towners to come to Gold Finch.”
A hush fell over the diner. Kelley searched for the grouser.
No one looked at her. There was a sudden shifting in chairs and squeaking of vinyl in the booths.
A dry cough followed another. Gazes were suddenly fixed on the tabletops.
Kelly eyed her cowboy. Asher did not so much as flinch.
The brim of his cowboy hat remained angled over his forehead, concealing most of his face.
“What’s the use of a parade with no one to watch it?” Finally, Patrick Connelly asked, then added, “We should cancel the whole thing and wait until we have something to celebrate.”
“The founding of our nation is something to celebrate,” the mayor countered and smacked his gavel on the tabletop. “We are not canceling the annual parade or any of the other planned festivities.”
Murmurs picked up like a ripple at low tide.
The mayor added another whack of his gavel and his words gained steam. “And this will be the best Red, White and Bluegrass Parade that Gold Finch has seen in an age. Maybe even ever. I can promise you that.”
“Hear hear, Mr. Mayor,” Beatrice Arbor called out and lifted her teacup in a toast.
“Now, we will have tourists coming to town.” The mayor smoothed a hand over his bolo tie and adopted a calmer voice. “They will be here because we will be featured on Morning Gallop for having one of the largest parades in the tristate area.”
Oohs and Ahhs flowed as if that tide swelled back to supportive.
“What’s the catch?” Lynette Arbor asked before Kelley could.
“There isn’t one,” the mayor said, his expression and words overly pleasant.
“There’s always one,” Patrick Connelly challenged.
Kelley nodded, despite not wanting to agree with a Connelly. A feature on the very popular and widely watched morning show for the Bluegrass Regional News was no small feat. And Gold Finch was not one of the largest towns in the tristate coverage area.
“It’s simple,” the mayor stated. “We just need to have at least sixteen floats to be a featured parade on their website.”
The mood dimmed.
“However, if we have twenty floats, then we will be in the top three and considered top billing for the Morning Gallop’s TV feature on Fourth of July celebrations not to be missed,” Mayor Corbin explained.
His eyebrows winged up his forehead and his eyes peeled wide.
“And let me be clear. We must have top billing.” His eyebrows slammed back down and bunched before he continued, “Especially given the unfortunate events at the Laurel Legacy. Not that we are blaming anyone, mind you.”
Kelley winced. Asher looked statue-stiff.
She wanted to jump up and head straight to her cowboy and stand behind him or beside him.
Whatever he needed in order to know he wasn’t alone and at least one person in the diner did not blame him for losing a history-making race and failing to put Gold Finch on the national map.
The grumbles began again. The naysayers gained momentum and more objections spilled out. Impossible. That’s an ask too far. Call a vote to cancel. It’ll be easier and faster.
A booming call for silence followed. The mayor stood and swung his gavel. “We can do this.” He motioned toward Kelley. Resolve filled his words. “Kelley, let me see your float list. There has to be someone we’ve missed.”
Kelley passed her clipboard over to Rosalind Sterling, the assistant Fourth of July committee chair. Heads together, the mayor and Rosalind reviewed the list.
“We can split up the high school dance and cheer teams.” Amy Peterson, the head coach, raised her hand and offered, “We could put the dance team on a float to add to our float count.”
“That’s one down.” Rosalind grinned and wrote on the paper.
The mayor rubbed his hands together. “We just need five more now.”
Davis Groves adjusted his baseball cap and said, “I can ask my grandpa about driving his nineteen-fifties Studebaker in the parade.”
“If Myles is driving his classic car, my grandma will be wanting to drive her nineteen forty-eight Ford pickup, too,” Sheryl Demian called out from somewhere near the back.
Lenny Culver lifted his arm and said, “My brother’s got a nineteen sixty-five Ford Mustang in his garage that needs to come out. Count him in.”
Mayor Corbin glanced at Kelley and said, “You’ll need to ensure classic cars meet the requirements for a proper parade float.”
“Of course,” Kelley assured him and typed a note into her phone. “I will get right on that this afternoon.”
The mayor eyed Kelley, then dropped his gaze to the clipboard.
Kelley stilled, already aware of what was coming. She scanned the audience for another classic car aficionado to add to the parade float tally. Or anyone else willing to offer up a vintage tractor or another hay wagon.
“I don’t see the Munroe sisters on this list,” the mayor mused.
Kelley swallowed.
Rosalind drew her finger down the list and then watched Kelley over the tops of her eyeglass frames and said, “The Munroe sisters are definitely not on this list. And if I recall they are a talented trio.”