Chapter 8
Eight
HOLLY
Town Hall Politics
The Everdale Falls Community Center had never felt smaller than it did Tuesday evening when I walked in for our first official festival planning meeting with what appeared to be half the town in attendance.
Mrs. Peterson had called it a brief informational gathering but judging by the number of folding chairs that had been set up and the suspicious abundance of homemade cookies, this was clearly going to be a full-scale community event.
“Holly, dear!” Mrs. Brooks waved me over to where she was sitting with Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Patterson—the holy trinity of Everdale Falls gossip and social coordination. “Come sit with us. We saved you a seat.”
The saved seat was, naturally, right next to where Declan was already sitting, looking politely attentive while Mrs. Patterson explained something that involved a lot of hand gestures and apparent enthusiasm about Christmas wreaths.
“Thanks,” I said, sliding into the chair and trying to ignore the way the three women immediately leaned forward with expressions of barely contained delight.
“You two look so professional together,” Mrs. Brooks announced in the kind of stage whisper that was clearly intended to be overheard. “Like you were meant to be working as a team.”
“It’s just festival planning,” I said quickly.
“Of course it is, dear,” Mrs. Hall agreed with the sort of smile that suggested she thought it was anything but. “Though I have to say, it’s wonderful to see young people taking on leadership roles in the community. Sets such a good example.”
Before I could figure out how to respond to that loaded comment, Mrs. Peterson called the meeting to order by tapping a small bell that looked like it had been liberated from someone’s Christmas decoration collection.
“Friends and neighbors,” she began, beaming at the assembled crowd with the kind of theatrical enthusiasm that suggested she’d been practicing this speech, “we’re here tonight to discuss our annual Christmas festival and to introduce this year’s planning committee chairs.”
A small round of applause rippled through the room, and I felt my cheeks warm as dozens of familiar faces turned in our direction.
“As you know, Matthew Winters has been graciously managing our festival coordination for the past few years, but work commitments will prevent him from joining us this year.”
“Such a shame,” someone called from the back. “Matt always did such a nice job.”
“Indeed, he did,” Mrs. Peterson agreed. “But I’m delighted to announce that his very capable sister Holly will be stepping in, along with Declan Hayes, who’s generously volunteered his time and expertise.”
This time, the applause was more enthusiastic, accompanied by murmurs of approval that sounded suspiciously like people congratulating themselves on a plan well executed.
“Holly’s always been so organized,” Mrs. Johnson said loudly enough for half the room to hear. “Remember how beautifully she managed the high school graduation ceremony?”
“And Declan brings such a valuable outside perspective,” Mrs. Brooks added. “It’s wonderful when young people with different experiences can collaborate.”
I glanced sideways at Declan, who was listening to the commentary with an expression of polite interest that didn’t quite hide his amusement.
Either he was better at managing small-town enthusiasm than I was, or he hadn’t yet realized the extent to which we’d apparently become the town’s favorite matchmaking project.
“Now,” Mrs. Peterson continued, “Holly and Declan have already begun the planning process, and I’m sure they’d be happy to share some of their initial thoughts.”
This was news to me. We’d discussed vendor lists and logistics, but we definitely hadn’t prepared any kind of presentation.
I looked at Declan in mild panic, but he was already standing with the sort of easy confidence that made public speaking look effortless.
I guessed that being a hotshot lawyer, you needed to have that ability.
“Thank you, Mrs. Peterson,” he said, addressing the room with the same professional competence he’d probably used in New York courtrooms. “Holly and I are excited to be working on this year’s festival, and we’re committed to honoring the traditions that make it special while ensuring everything runs smoothly. ”
It was diplomatic, appropriate, and gave away absolutely nothing about our actual plans. I was impressed despite myself.
“We’re still in the early planning stages,” I added, standing up beside him, “but we’ll be reaching out to individual vendors and volunteers over the next few days to confirm participation and discuss any logistics.”
“Will there be mistletoe?” Mrs. Hall called out, and the question was delivered with such pointed innocence that several people laughed outright.
“There’s always mistletoe at the Christmas festival,” Mrs. Peterson replied before either Declan, or I could respond. “It’s tradition.”
“Good,” Mrs. Brooks said with satisfaction. “Christmas isn’t Christmas without mistletoe.”
“And romantic music,” Mrs. Patterson added. “The festival needs romantic music for the tree lighting ceremony.”
“Romantic music?” I repeated, feeling like I was missing some crucial subtext.
“I mean Christmas music,” Mrs. Brooks corrected herself while looking directly at Declan and me, making it clear that she knew what she said all along. Had Mum been gossiping? What was going on here?
“We’ll make sure the music is appropriate for the event,” Declan said diplomatically.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Hall said. “And you’ll both be there for the entire festival, of course? All three days?”
“That’s the plan,” I said, wondering why this felt like a trap.
“Together,” Mrs. Patterson clarified unnecessarily. “Working together the whole time.”
“Well, yes, that’s generally how co-chairing works,” I said, and immediately regretted the slight edge in my voice when several women exchanged knowing looks.
“Of course it is, sweetheart,” Mrs. Brooks said soothingly. “We’re just so pleased to see you two collaborating. You complement each other so well.”
Complement each other. Like we were paint colors or furniture pieces rather than two people trying to organize a community event. I shot a look at Declan, whose gaze was boring into me, and my cheeks flushed unexpectedly.
“Are there any specific questions about the festival itself?” Declan asked, dragging his gaze away from me, clearly recognizing that we were veering dangerously far from actual event planning.
“Will there be dancing?” someone called from the middle of the room.
“Dancing?” I repeated.
“At the tree lighting ceremony,” Mrs. Johnson clarified. “There should definitely be dancing. Very romantic, dancing under the Christmas lights.”
“I don’t think—” I began.
“Oh, that’s a lovely idea,” Mrs. Peterson interrupted. “Holly, you and Declan should definitely plan some dancing. For the community, of course.”
“For the community,” Mrs. Brooks agreed with a straight face that fooled absolutely no one.
At this point, I was beginning to feel like I was trapped in some kind of small-town romantic comedy where the entire population had collectively decided to meddle in my love life.
Which would have been embarrassing enough under normal circumstances but was particularly mortifying when the object of their matchmaking efforts was sitting right next to me, witnessing every painful moment of this spectacle.
Mom had a lot to explain at this point. I was fuming!
“We’ll take all suggestions under consideration,” I said firmly, hoping to redirect the conversation back to actual logistics.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Peterson said. “Now, are there any questions about vendor applications or volunteer scheduling?”
Mr. Bennett raised his hand. “What about setup and teardown? Do you need help with the heavy lifting?”
Finally, a practical question. “Yes, definitely,” I said gratefully. “We’ll need volunteers for both, especially for the stage and vendor booth construction.”
“Count me in,” Mr. Bennett said. “And I’ll bring a few guys from the hardware store.”
“I can coordinate food vendor setup,” Mrs. Johnson offered. “Done it before, know where everything goes.”
We managed then to discuss legitimate festival business. Volunteer coordination, permit requirements, setup schedules, vendor fees. It was productive and professional and exactly the kind of meeting I’d hoped we’d have.
Until Mrs. Hall raised her hand during the question period.
“Holly, dear,” she said with the sort of sweet smile that immediately put me on alert, “have you and Declan had a chance to walk through the venue together yet? To get a feel for the space as a team?”
“We’ve both been to the community center plenty of times,” I said carefully.
“Oh, but that’s different,” Mrs. Brooks chimed in. “You need to see it through planning eyes. Together. To make sure you’re both envisioning the same layout.”
“She’s absolutely right,” Mrs. Patterson agreed. “You should definitely do a walkthrough together. Maybe tomorrow evening when it’s all lit up and romantic—I mean, when you can see how the Christmas lights will look.”
“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Declan said, and I glared at him in surprise. “Not the romantic part,” he added quickly, which made several women giggle like schoolgirls, “but surveying the space together would be helpful for planning purposes.”
“Exactly,” Mrs. Peterson said with obvious satisfaction. “Holly, would tomorrow evening work for you?”
Tomorrow evening. Alone with Declan at the community center, without the buffer of committee meetings or family members or vendor lists to keep our interaction safely professional. The idea made my stomach do something complicated that I didn’t want to examine too closely.
“I suppose that would be practical,” I said finally.
“Wonderful,” Mrs. Brooks said, clapping her hands together. “You two will get so much accomplished together.”