39. Chapter 39
Chapter 39
Chloe
Every limb in my body aches. My head pounds like a million little gnomes are digging around in there. I’ve never been so tired in my entire life. The festival starts in five hours and I don’t think I’m going to have everything ready on time. As if my plans haven’t been bumpy enough, it’s raining.
My weather app says the storm will pass by the time the festival starts, but I can’t set anything up outside until it does.
Dawson’s late. He was supposed to be here two hours ago with the decorations from his house. I’ve texted him but haven’t heard a response yet.
Putting another book in a wicker basket for the reading corner, my cell rings. I yank it out of my pocket. Kate’s name and photo from her birthday dinner two years ago display on my screen. “Hey!” I accept the video call. “Did you get the bakery order picked up?” I ask.
“Well… I’m at the bakery, but there’s a slight problem. ”
Noooo, no, no, no. No more problems. I blink rapidly, forcing the tears forming in my eyes to stay put. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. “What’s going on?”
“When you called yesterday to add the five dozen baked goods, whoever took your order apparently wrote down fifty dozen. The bakery says we have to pay for them. I explained it’s not our fault they misheard you, but they already ran Carter’s credit card and refuse to give us a refund, even though it’s their fault! ” She yells the last part, projecting her remark away from the speaker.
What?! That means we’ll have more than seven hundred cinnamon rolls, apple cider donuts, and slices of pumpkin pie. This can’t be happening. Nausea swirls around my stomach. “What’s the total?”
“One thousand one hundred and fifty dollars.”
I slap a hand over my mouth, praying the bile shooting up from my stomach doesn’t spill out. “That’s way too much. Carter’s going to kill me.”
“What do you want me to do?”
I want to say let me call Carter and find out, but he’s working this morning and I don’t want to bother him, especially with a project he trusted me to complete. We could donate the leftovers to a shelter, not do the caramel apple station and only have these as dessert, or take the leftovers into the office next week. Instead, I settle on, “Tell the bakery the least they can do is provide extra boxes. We’ll send a dozen treats home with each family attending tonight. It can be part of their thank-you gift.”
“All right. I’m on it. See you in an hour.”
“Thanks, babe.” I’m going to need all the help I can get .
I head outside, seeing if Dawson’s come yet with the decorations from his garage, but my car is the only one in the parking lot. Great. Just great. Is he not coming because of what I did? Yeah, I made a mistake, but holding items hostage is petty. Which isn’t like Dawson. Did something else happen? Grrr. I just want him to respond.
I want to know that Finn is okay. Dawson too. I want Dawson’s help, like we originally planned. His muscles would make setting up way easier. Instead, I got all the tables and chairs up on my own. But the barn is plain.
The tables are waiting for the white tablecloths and burlap runners with the vases for the flowers I have in the industrial-sized fridge in the kitchen. All the white chairs need the red, burnt orange, and golden-yellow bows on the back. The wooden posts are missing the hay bales, pumpkins, and scarecrows around them. The ceiling needs the lights and leaf garland strung up. And I can’t hang the signs on the front of the wood pallets stating what each station is without Dawson’s staple gun.
I try to phrase my message in a polite and professional manner, but my anxiety over this festival bombing takes over.
Me: I hope you and Finn are okay, but I’m desperate. Can I pick up the stuff in your garage? If I don’t get it soon, this festival won’t happen. Response asap, please.
Tapping my phone against my palm, I look around, seeing if there’s anything else I can do right now. But between the rain and Dawson’s late delivery, I’ve done everything I can inside the event center. Pulling out a chair at a table in the back corner, I drop my head in my hands. As much as I hate to admit this, the truth is undeniable.
I can’t do this alone.