Chapter 13
Thirteen
Swayze
El Paisaje sat two blocks from the diner on a street that was probably normally pretty quiet.
But tonight, mariachi music and laughter spilled into the chill air.
Best I could tell, they’d ret-conned an L-shaped house and added on an open-air patio between the two wings.
Cafe lights with Edison bulbs criss-crossed the painted concrete, and a series of outdoor heaters lined the perimeter around brightly painted picnic tables currently loaded with people.
The house itself had been painted an eye-popping turquoise, with a mural depicting a gorgeous pastoral scene with cattle, horses, and vaqueros in hats that had opinions.
The scents that greeted me before I even got in the door had my mouth watering.
The music was louder inside, as was the decibel level of conversation. A family of five and a couple who looked to be on a date were standing in line waiting on the hostess. I edged around them and scanned the room. People were everywhere, but Bristol had texted that the committee was already here.
Swayze:
Out front. Where are y’all?
Bristol:
Come to the back. Near the doors to the patio.
I caught the eye of the hostess and pointed toward the back, hoping she understood I was going to meet the rest of my party.
Painted booths lined both sides of the room, with more four-top tables between.
I wove my way through them and around the corner to the back section of the restaurant, hyperaware of all the eyes potentially turned in my direction.
But other than a few curious gazes, no one seemed to pay me any undue attention.
The building was deeper than it appeared from the street, with even more tables packed in here, along with a bar at the far end where some guy was using a cocktail shaker as a maraca while he flashed a flirty grin at the women in front of him.
Catching movement out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Bristol waving from a trio of tables that had been shoved together to make one long one.
I ducked behind a waitress who was unloading a heavily laden tray of sizzling fajitas and enchiladas that looked incredible and wove my way through the crowded space to join the group.
I dropped into the remaining seat, beside Emmaline Gibson and a redhead I didn’t recognize.
Bristol sat on their other side. Beyond her, Monique offered a cheerful finger-wave—a familiar face in a table full of strangers.
Monique caught my eye and, with the air of someone who’d done this before, went around the table rattling off names and what they did.
I paid attention like there was going to be a test.
I flashed a smile at the group and hoped it didn’t show my nerves. “Hi. I’m Swayze.”
The redhead—Adalyn—shoved an empty bowl and a carafe of salsa in my direction. “The fresh meat deserves salsa and chips.”
I poured some of the chunky red mixture into one of the little plastic bowls and dipped in a chip from one of the baskets already gracing the center of the table.
The bright pop of fresh tomatoes and peppers bloomed on my tongue, underscored by the perfect salty crunch of the still-warm chip.
I closed my eyes in appreciation. “That is damned good salsa,” I managed around my mouthful.
“Right? They make it fresh every day. I’m Adalyn.”
I nodded because I was still chewing. The rest of them introduced themselves.
The guy in the flannel shirt with a face like leather was Gabe Cooley, who owned the hardware store.
Beside him was Addie Mason. Addie and Adalyn?
That might’ve been a challenge but for the fact that Addie was as dark as Adalyn was fair, and had probably an extra fifty or sixty years besides.
I appreciated her take no shit attitude.
The twenty-something in tortoise shell was Steve Lange, the IT guy for the city.
The woman beside me with a death grip on her margarita and lines around her mouth that said she’d had A Day was Tana Shepherd.
I glanced around the chaotic restaurant. “Is it always this jumping?”
“They just re-opened last month,” Emmaline explained.
It seemed a loud venue for a meeting. As if she knew exactly what I was thinking, Adalyn leaned over. “We find margaritas help ease the sting of committee-based decisions.” She held up a pitcher. “Want one?”
“I won’t say no.”
As she poured, Addie called the group to order. “Okay, let’s keep this part short and sweet. Numbers are in for the high school bake sale at the start of the month. At this point, we officially have enough to cover the actual renovation of the building.”
A smattering of quiet applause rounded the table.
“That’s all well and good,” Gabe argued, “but there’s still the matter of the shelving and the collection to replace. That’s gonna cost a pretty penny. So, what new ideas do we have on that front?”
I lifted a hand.
Addie pointed at me.
“This doesn’t help with the shelving and actual fundraising, but can the library accept donations of books? I know they sometimes have very specific restrictions about what can be put in their collections.”
Bristol spoke up. “We will absolutely accept donations. The Friends of the Library have been doing collection drives off and on, but that’s been slow. Since we don’t have a good place to store anything beyond the bus just now, we haven’t pushed it.”
That made sense. Still, I filed the detail away to talk to Paisley about. She’d be happy to donate copies of her own books, and I suspected if she spoke to her romance writing compatriots, she could drum up some more book donations to help rebuild the library’s collections.
Brainstorming got interrupted by the arrival of a server to take our orders. I went for the carne asada and dug into some more chips as more debate broke out about prospective fundraising activities.
Steve pushed his glasses up and leaned forward. “What about another raffle? Those always do well.”
“We need something bigger than that,” Gabe countered, dragging a chip through salsa. “Raffles are fine for padding the coffers, but we’re talking about replacing an entire collection here.”
Monique tapped long, manicured nails against the table. “Charity auction. Get people to donate services, art, or whatever. I can put together a whole romantic dinner package situation.”
“I can offer graphic design services. Logos, websites—that kind of thing,” I added.
“That might work.” Bristol made a note on her phone.
“We could do a polar plunge,” Adalyn suggested with entirely too much enthusiasm. “January in the lake. Charge people to jump in.”
Tana stared at her. “You want to freeze our donors to death?”
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Hypothermia is never for a good cause.”
I bit back a laugh and took a long sip of my margarita. The tequila was smooth, the lime fresh. Whoever made these knew what they were doing.
Gabe stroked his weathered jaw. “What about a battle of the bands type thing? Get local musicians to perform. Charge admission.”
“Do we have enough local musicians?” Steve asked.
“Sure we do. There’s that bluegrass group that plays at the farmer’s market, and I know at least three kids who graduated in the last few years who have bands.”
Addie nodded in approval. “That’s not bad. Make a note of that one, Bristol.”
“Already on it.”
“Calendar sales are always popular,” Monique offered, eyes glinting with mischief. “Get the firefighters to pose. Shirtless. Call it Hot Heroes or something equally ridiculous. Those things always make bank.”
Bristol’s face flushed bright pink. Emmaline covered her mouth, but her shoulders shook with suppressed laughter.
“I am not asking my great nephew to take his shirt off for charity,” Addie said flatly.
“Oh, take one for the team, Addie. That man could fund the entire library renovation with his abs alone,” Monique argued.
I almost choked on my margarita and idly wondered how Colter would feel about posing for a calendar. I had no trouble imagining him dressed in turnout pants and… nothing else.
Yeah, I’d buy a firefighter calendar. For the cause, of course.
“Moving on,” Addie said firmly, though her lips twitched.
Steve cleared his throat. “What about a cookbook? Local recipes, family favorites. We could sell it at The Commissary and online.”
“That’s actually really solid,” Adalyn said. “Everybody’s got a recipe they think is God’s gift to humanity. We could probably fill a whole book just with different versions of banana pudding.”
“Or green bean casserole,” Gabe added with a grimace.
“Don’t you dare disrespect green bean casserole at this table,” Addie warned.
The conversation devolved into a heated debate about which Thanksgiving side dish reigned supreme, which somehow pivoted into whether a hot dog was a sandwich, which led to Monique insisting they should do a food truck festival as a fundraiser.
I sat back and watched them ping-pong between ideas, some brilliant, some totally unhinged. But what struck me most was how much they cared. Every single person at this table was here voluntarily, giving up their Friday night to figure out how to save their library.
It had been a long time since I’d been part of something like this. Something real and rooted in community rather than clicks and engagement metrics.
Tana leaned over. “So you’re in graphic design?”
“I am. Do you need something designed?”
“Maybe. I run Mind Your Beeswax.”
I flashed a smile. “That name is delightful. What sort of business is it?”
“We’re an old-fashioned apothecary, so we carry all sorts of herbal remedies and teas, as well as natural products like soaps, hand creams, and beeswax candles.”
My attention sharpened. This was exactly the sort of business I loved to work with. “What are you looking for?”
“Not sure. If you have time, feel free to stop by and check us out. Perhaps make some recommendations.”
“Of course. I’d be happy to do that.”
“We’re over on Hemlock Street.”
“I’ll be sure to check it out.” I lifted my glass and realized I’d finished the margarita.
“Another?” Adalyn asked.
I shook my head. “No. One’s enough for me. Especially without food yet.”
With a faux pout, she propped her chin on one fist, her expression turning sly and calculating as she focused on me. “This seriously limits my ability to ply you with tequila and get you to spill all your secrets and deep dark past.”
Only the fact that I’d spent the past six years constantly, hyper-vigilantly aware that someone could be watching or recording or judging kept me from visibly reacting to her off-hand remark.
Did she know something? Suspect something about my past?
I’d set up Google alerts to tell me if my name came up in association with the Vitalife scandal, but I wasn’t actually checking that email, so what did I know about what might be out there?
It seemed a remote chance, but small towns had ways of finding things out, and…
“We’ll just have to make sure she’s got a full and happy belly before we quiz her about the fact that she had dinner with Colter the other night,” Emmaline teased, completely oblivious to the minor panic attack she’d just saved me from.
My stomach began to unknot itself. They weren’t thinking about my life before Gibson Hollow, about influencer drama or reputation-destroying scandals.
Of course, they’d be focused on how I might intersect with their lives here and now.
Emmaline was, after all, married to one of Colter’s brothers.
Local relationships would naturally be more interesting to them than whatever a newcomer might be running from.
I fixed what I hoped was an easy, natural smile on my face. “And where did you hear that juicy piece of information?”
“From a very reliable little birdie,” Emmaline said with exaggerated solemnity, her expression carefully neutral.
“Uh-huh. And would that little birdie’s name happen to be Oakleigh?”
Emmaline pointed at me with a tortilla chip in acknowledgment, grinning. “She had plenty to say about you when I saw her yesterday. Very detailed report.”
“Oh?” I never knew quite how to take that kind of statement. Kids could be brutally honest in ways that were either endearing or devastating.
“All flattering, I promise. She genuinely likes you,” Emmaline assured me. “I have been informed in no uncertain terms that your taste in music is excellent and that you have great hair. Which, I gotta say, looking at you right now? She’s not wrong.”
I laughed, pleased and a little relieved. “She’s a really sweet kid. And Colter was just being kind, indulging her when she invited me over for their spaghetti dinner.”
“But was he, though?” Adalyn’s eyebrows did an impressive suggestive dance. “Just being kind?”
Their well-intentioned interrogation got interrupted by a harried server appearing with our food. By the time the plates had been distributed, I was braced for the questions to start back up again, but conversation naturally shifted again as Steve suggested a paid karaoke night.
“Where would we even have such a thing?” Bristol asked. “We don’t even have a bar right now.”
“The community center,” Steve argued. “We’ve had everything else there.”
“You’re not asking the right questions,” Gabe insisted. “Who the hell would want to pay people to sing karaoke?”
“I mean not just anybody. But the Sasspatch Society.”
As they continued to debate, I was simultaneously relieved and disappointed.
I was happy to be out of the hot seat, but also curious about what Colter’s story was.
We saw each other pretty often, being neighbors, and his kid was smart as a whip and adorable, but we weren’t the kind of close where I felt I could bust out with, “So… how did you end up with a kid you must have had right out of high school?” I didn’t think I could bring him up again without flashing a neon sign above my head saying Interested! in bright, unmistakable letters.
For now, I’d have to be satisfied with the fact that Oakleigh apparently liked me, and accept the wink wink nudge nudge Adalyn had offered that maybe Colter did too.