Chapter Five Voluntold
Kitty
By the time we made it back to SnowDrop Inn, my body had decided to itemize every poor choice I had made on a snowboard.
My wrists ached when I reached for the front door.
My knees protested each step up the stairs.
There was a dull soreness between my shoulders that flared whenever I lifted anything heavier than a clipboard, which unfortunately included nearly everything at the inn.
I was certain I had bruises where Lydia had banged into me.
I told myself it was fine. Sore meant I had tried. Sore meant I had not quit.
Lydia, of course, was thriving.
“That was incredible,” she announced for at least the fifth time, kicking off her boots and collapsing onto one of the lobby chairs. “I can’t believe how fast I went.”
“You fell into two people,” Lucy replied flatly.
“That’s hardly relevant,’ Lydia said with a wave of her hand.
Jane laughed, shrugging out of her coat. “I actually enjoyed it. It was rather freeing.”
Meri leaned against the wall. “I learned that snowboarding is more active than necessary.”
I smiled and laughed in the right places, even as I gingerly bent to pick up a dropped mitten and nearly winced.
My body felt like it belonged to someone else, someone less coordinated and far more optimistic.
Every time I shifted my weight, my brain replayed the memory of tipping forward, of sliding sideways, of colliding with Lydia and, worse, into Caleb.
Part of me had been embarrassed. The other part of me had been a little thrilled when he tried to pull me out of Lydia’s way. I shoved the thought out of my mind. He was an instructor and probably trying to avoid a lawsuit if we happened to get injured.
I focused on the coffee station instead, grateful for a task that did not require bending or balance.
I wiped down the counter slowly, carefully, aware of how stiff my fingers felt around the cloth.
Lydia continued narrating her experience in dramatic detail while Jane chimed in and Lucy corrected her timeline.
Eventually, when the noise lulled just enough, I took a breath.
“Lydia,” I said. “Can we talk about the talent show?”
She looked up immediately, unfazed. “Of course.”
“Now?” I asked, already bracing myself.
“Sure,” she said, standing and stretching. “What about it?”
I followed her toward the hallway, trying not to limp. “I just want to be clear about what we’re actually responsible for.”
“Oh, we’re helping,” she said easily.
“With what exactly?” I pressed.
She waved a hand vaguely. “Organizing. Coordinating. That sort of thing.”
“That sort of thing includes permits, schedules, and money," I remarked.
“Well, yes,” she agreed, unconcerned. “But it’s a talent show.”
“Who is actually in charge?” I questioned, feeling frustrated.
She laughed. “You worry too much.”
I stopped walking. “Lydia.”
She turned, finally sensing the shift in my tone. “What?”
“I need to know what you promised. I need specifics,” I told her.
“I don’t know. They said they needed help and I promised we would help out. It wasn’t a big deal,” Lydia remarked.
I tried not to growl or shake her. “That tells me nothing.”
She hesitated, just briefly. “There’s a meeting tonight.”
My stomach dropped. “What meeting?”
“The committee meeting,” she said. “At the community center.”
“You forgot to mention a meeting,” I said carefully.
“I didn’t forget,” she replied. “I just didn’t remember until now.”
I closed my eyes. Images flashed through my mind uninvited.
The wedding at the inn where seating charts had been wrong and the caterer had been delayed because I misread a schedule.
Lydia’s Christmas dance, where everything had gone beautifully until someone walked off with the cash box and no one noticed until it was too late.
I was not good at organizing events. I had learned my lesson and didn’t want to try to organize another one.
“When is this meeting?” I asked.
“Tonight,” Lydia said. “Soon.”
I inhaled slowly. “We are going.”
She blinked. “We are?”
“Yes,” I insisted.
“Oh,” she said, smiling again. “Great.”
The community center smelled faintly of coffee and waxed flooring. The lights were too bright, and the chairs scraped loudly as people shifted when Lydia and I entered late. Every head turned toward us, and I felt my shoulders draw inward instinctively.
“Oh, thank goodness,” a woman said, standing immediately. “You must be the Bennet girls.”
“Yes,” Lydia said cheerfully. “We are.”
The woman beamed. “I’m Marjorie. I’m so glad you’re here. We were just saying how relieved we are to finally have leadership.”
I froze.
Leadership.
Beside her, an older man snored softly in his chair, a stack of flyers sliding dangerously close to the floor.
“Mr. Hemsley,” Marjorie said loudly. “They’re here.”
He jolted awake, clapped once enthusiastically, and smiled at the wall. “Excellent. I told you they would come.”
Lydia beamed. “We wouldn’t miss it.”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry, I think there may have been a misunderstanding.”
Marjorie waved me off kindly. “Oh no, dear. Lydia explained everything. You’re our lead organizers.”
I turned slowly toward my sister.
“You volunteered us as leads,” I murmured with a disbelieving look.
“Well,” Lydia said, tilting her head. “Someone has to be the lead organizer. Why not us?”
I put a hand to my temple, trying to still the sudden pounding of my head.
Marjorie pulled out a binder thick enough to double as a weapon. “We’ve already distributed the flyers. The town is very excited about the festival. We just need some direction on the order of events, who is doing what, and where to source any supplies.”
Mr. Hemsley nodded solemnly. “Yes. Direction.”
My heart hammered in my chest as I looked around the room. There was no quiet way out of this. There were about thirty people looking expectantly at us.
“Just who is all here? Are they all on the committee?” I wondered.
“No dear. It’s the four of us who are the committee. They are all volunteers waiting to sign up for whatever jobs we need done. It’s up to us to figure out what needs doing,” Marjorie told us.
“Why don’t we follow whatever happened last year?” I managed to ask. “Surely you have a basic plan since the talent show is an annual event.”
“Our previous head of the committee took the notebook with her when she moved. She tried to ship it back to us, but according to the tracking information, it’s currently in a post office in Alaska,” Mr. Humphries told us.
“Alaska? That’s cool,” Lydia commented.
It was not cool.
I sat down because I wasn’t sure my legs would keep me up any more.
Marjorie opened her binder with a decisive snap and began sliding papers across the folding table toward Lydia and me.
“We managed to find an online form for signing up for the talent show and the legal waiver. So, we’ll need you to confirm the sound setup, finalize the performer list, coordinate volunteers, and approve the timeline. ”
I stared at the papers as if they might rearrange themselves into something simpler if I waited long enough.
“Of course,” Lydia said, nodding confidently. “We can do that.”
I turned to her. “We can?”
“Yes,” she said. “Collectively.”
Marjorie leaned closer to me. “You’ll be handling logistics, correct?”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Mr. Hemsley cleared his throat loudly and said, “I agree.”
“With what?” I asked automatically.
He smiled at me. “Everything.”
Lydia reached for a pen. “I think we should start by deciding the order of performances.”
“We don’t know who is performing yet or what their performance will be about,” I pointed out.
Marjorie waved a hand. “Oh, people will sign up. They always do.”
“That’s not a plan,” I said, and then immediately winced at my own tone.
Marjorie blinked, then smiled indulgently. “You must be the practical one.”
Lydia laughed. “She is.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I took a breath and forced myself to look back down at the papers instead of inward, where panic was beginning to curl and stretch. This was not theoretical. Flyers were already out. The town was expecting something. I could not quietly opt out without making it worse.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “Let’s back up.”
Marjorie paused, pen hovering. Mr. Hemsley leaned forward slightly, alert for the first time since we arrived.
“We need to know what’s already been decided,” I continued. “And what hasn’t.”
Marjorie looked relieved. “Of course.”
She flipped through her binder, listing things off quickly. The stage was reserved and permits pending for the show. We had volunteers but they needed direction on what to do. The budget was unclear.
“Unclear how?” I massaged my temple.
“Well,” she said delicately, “we don’t yet know how much money we have.”
My stomach dipped. “Where is the money?”
Mr. Hemsley raised a finger. “I had it.”
Lydia leaned forward. “Had it?”
He frowned thoughtfully. “Or perhaps I moved it.”
I closed my eyes for half a second and then reopened them.
“All right,” I said. “We’re not approving anything until we know what resources we actually have.”
Marjorie nodded quickly. “That makes sense.”
Lydia blinked. “It does?”
“Yes,” I said. “It does.”
Something shifted then. Not dramatically. Just enough that the room felt a little quieter, a little more focused.
I pulled a notepad toward me and began writing headings of the things we needed to know. I wrote carefully, deliberately, even though my hand shook slightly.
“We need deadlines,” I said. “And responsibilities.”
Marjorie leaned in eagerly. “I can coordinate volunteers.”
Mr. Hemsley nodded. “I will continue to be present.”
“That is appreciated,” I said sincerely.
Lydia watched me with an expression I could not quite read. Surprise, maybe, or curiosity.
By the time the meeting wrapped up, my head was pounding and my notes filled three pages. Nothing felt resolved, but everything felt contained, which was a small miracle. As people gathered their coats and chairs scraped again, Marjorie clasped my hands warmly.
“You’re doing wonderfully,” she said. “I knew we were in good hands.”
I smiled because it seemed expected.
Outside, the air was sharp and cold. Lydia linked her arm through mine as we walked toward the car.
“You were great in there ,” she said.
I laughed weakly. “I was terrified.”
“I didn’t notice,” she admitted.
“That’s because I’m good at looking calm,” I said. “I am not good at actually being calm.”
She squeezed my arm. “I didn’t realize you were that worried.”
“I tried to tell you,” I said gently.
She was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry. I really thought you would like being in charge.”
“I might,” I said. “Eventually. But I need to know what I’m agreeing to.”
She nodded. “No more surprises.”
“Please,” I said.
Back at the inn, I collapsed onto a chair and stared at my notes again. I felt overwhelmed, exposed, and deeply tired.
However, I had an idea of who might be able to help me run a talent show.