Chapter Twenty Opportunities
Kitty
By the time I unlocked the community center doors for rehearsal, I had convinced myself this might actually go smoothly.
I stood just inside the entryway with my clipboard pressed to my chest, scanning the empty room like it might confess its intentions if I looked hard enough.
Rows of folding chairs were stacked neatly along one wall.
The stage lights were off, the curtain closed.
The room smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old wood, which felt promising.
I exhaled and flipped to the schedule I had spent the better part of the night revising. Every act had a slot. Every slot had a buffer so that if anything went wrong we had time to adjust. Every buffer assumed people would show up on time and read instructions.
“Good morning,” Marjorie said brightly, appearing at my elbow with a paper cup of coffee. “We’re early.”
“That’s a good sign,” I said, choosing optimism.
She nodded. “I always say the early ones are the reliable ones.”
Mr. Humphreys shuffled in behind her, coat still buttoned, hat still on his head. He waved vaguely at the room and took a seat in the front row.
“Morning,” he said, then closed his eyes.
“Is he asleep?” I wondered.
“Oh, he’s listening,” Marjorie assured me. “He does that.”
I shook my head and moved toward the stage to test the microphone. The sound system hummed obligingly when I flipped it on, which felt like a personal victory. Caleb had made sure everything was good this morning before he opened the music shop. I was glad that he was reliable.
People poured in like the rehearsal had been advertised as a social event instead of a logistics check.
Someone dragged in a keyboard on wheels.
Another person appeared with a cello nearly as tall as they were.
A man in a sequined jacket asked where the dressing room was. There was no dressing room.
I took a breath and smiled.
“Welcome,” I said, raising my voice slightly. “If you could all check in with me first—”
A woman with a clipboard of her own cut in front of me. “We’re the tap dancers. We’ll need the full stage.”
I glanced down at my schedule. “You’re slotted for this afternoon.”
She frowned. “This is the afternoon.”
“It’s eight o’clock,” I said gently.
She stared at me, then at her watch. “Well, my watch quit. I thought I was going to be late. That’s inconvenient.”
Behind her, a man in a knit hat cleared his throat. “I need an outlet. And a fog machine.”
“A what?” I asked in disbelief.
“For ambiance.”
I opened my mouth, closed it, and pointed him toward the wall outlets with what I hoped looked like authority. “We have outlets for the show but we don’t have a fog machine.”
The microphone squealed and a woman dragged her child away from it.
Mr. Humphreys startled awake and clapped loudly. “That one was excellent.”
“Thank you,” said a teenager holding a kazoo.
I looked at Marjorie. Marjorie looked delighted.
“Oh, it’s nice to see the community so involved,” she said.
At that exact moment, Lydia swept in wearing a red coat and a smile that suggested she was enjoying herself. “Kitty, this looks fun. Are we ready for the big show?”
“It’s rehearsal,” I replied, already moving her toward the sign-in table. “Did you bring the extra batteries I asked for?”
“I thought you were bringing those.” She blinked at me in surprise.
“I asked you yesterday,” I reminded her.
“Oh,” she said, unbothered. “Then no.”
I closed my eyes for a second. Just one.
“Okay,” I said, opening them again. “New plan. Lydia, you’re on runner duty.”
“Runner duty?” she repeated.
“Yes,” I said. “You run errands. Batteries. Gaffer tape. Extension cords.”
She blinked. “I don’t know what half of those are.”
“You’ll learn by going to the hardware store,” I said, already writing a list. “This is growth.”
She laughed, kissed my cheek, and disappeared out the door with my list.
The room began to fill with a low mist and the unmistakable scent of artificial pine.
“What is going on?” I asked the crowd.
“I found a fog machine,” the man in the knit hat said.
“Please turn that off,” I called.
“I need it to feel magical,” the man said.
“It feels like someone is going to have an asthma attack. No fog machines,” I replied.
Someone started tuning a violin. Someone else started singing over them. A child ran across the stage chasing an escaped rabbit, which was now hopping confidently toward the chairs.
I took control because there was nothing else to do.
“Everyone,” I said loudly. “We’re going to reset.”
No one listened.
I climbed onto a chair and turned on the microphone.
“We are rehearsing in order,” I said, projecting the way Lucy did when she meant business. “If you are not scheduled, you wait. If you did not bring equipment you listed, you improvise. If you brought equipment you did not list, you will not use it today.”
A man raised his hand. “What about the fog?”
“No fog,” I said firmly.
He looked wounded.
“Please be respectful of the other acts and quiet while they perform.” I pointed to the kazoo player. “You’re first.”
The kazoo player beamed.
Mr. Humphreys applauded again and went back to sleep.
I sat down in the front row to enjoy the rehearsal. As the first notes squeaked through the microphone, I felt an unexpected pride rise beneath the stress.
I was doing this. Not gracefully, and not perfectly, but I was standing in the middle of it, making decisions, redirecting chaos into something resembling order. People were looking at me for answers, and I had them. Or I made them up fast enough that it didn’t matter.
By the time Lydia returned with a bag of batteries and a dramatic story about the hardware store clerk, I had reorganized the schedule twice, confiscated a tambourine, and convinced the tap dancers to share the stage.
Lydia watched me for a moment, surprised. “You’re good at this.”
I snorted. “I’m surviving.”
She tilted her head. “I thought you liked organizing events.”
I hesitated, then shook my head. “I like helping. That’s different.”
She nodded slowly, something thoughtful flickering across her face. “I didn’t realize.”
Neither had I.
The rehearsal stumbled forward, messy and loud and somehow still standing. We found the magician’s reluctant bunny, only one person fell off the stage and was thankfully unhurt, and remarkably no one had stage fright.
The day finally dissolved into exhausted goodbyes, my feet ached and my head buzzed like I had spent the afternoon inside a drum. I locked up the community center with Marjorie hovering cheerfully behind me and Mr. Humphreys offering to carry a chair he absolutely did not need to carry.
“You did wonderfully,” Marjorie said as we stepped outside. “I can’t remember the last time we had so much enthusiasm.”
I watched them head off down the sidewalk, my clipboard finally tucked under my arm instead of clutched like a life raft. I should have gone straight back to the inn. There were lists to revise and emails to send and Lydia to debrief before she rewrote the entire evening as a personal triumph.
Instead, I turned toward the town’s sports complex.
The place was already loud when I walked in.
Music played faintly over the speakers, something cheerful and tinny, and the sound of skates scraping ice echoed through the open space.
Kids darted past the boards in bright helmets and puffy coats, some confident, some clinging to the edge like it was the only solid thing left in the world.
Eva spotted me immediately and waved me over, her smile wide and welcoming. “Perfect timing, we’re rotating stations.”
“I was just coming to watch,” I said, suddenly aware of how tired I was.
“That’s fine,” she said easily. “Watching turns into helping around here.”
We walked the length of the rink together as she explained how the lessons worked. The balance between safety and fun. I listened, really listened, and felt something click into place that had nothing to do with schedules or checklists.
“I don’t want to overcommit,” I said carefully when she finished. “The inn still needs me. And the talent show isn’t done yet.”
“I’m not asking you to,” Eva said. “This can be part-time and flexible. You could do a trial period after the talent show. You try it. If it fits, it fits.”
I looked out at the ice again. The kids laughed as they wobbled and fell and got back up. The instructors encouraged while gently correcting. At the simple satisfaction of watching someone gain confidence right in front of you.
“I want to do this,” I said, surprised by how certain I felt. “But only if it doesn’t pull me away from everything else.”
Eva smiled. “That’s exactly how it should be. Plus, it’s a paid position.”
We shook on it, informal and warm, and I left the rink feeling lighter than I had in weeks. Like I had found a door I hadn’t known how to open before.
The cold hit my face as soon as I stepped outside, sharp and bracing. I zipped my coat and headed toward the parking lot, already mentally rearranging my week to make room for something that felt like mine.
“Kitty Bennet?”
I stopped.
A man stood near the edge of the lot, his expression carefully pleasant. His slickbacked hair and leather coat creaked as he came forward, holding out a hand to shake.
“Hi,” I said cautiously, ignoring the hand.
“I was hoping to run into you. Do you have a minute?” he said.
“I really don’t,” I replied.
He smiled anyway. “This won’t take long. My name is Dave. I’m Caleb’s agent.”
I crossed my arms, bracing myself for whatever he was about to ask me to do.
He gestured toward the rink. “You’re good with people. They listen to you. Caleb listens to you.”
I felt my spine straighten. “Where are you going with this?”
“I think you could help him see that a small tour doesn’t have to be the end of everything he wants. It could stabilize things. Give him breathing room,” Dave pitched.
“He doesn’t want to tour,” I said.
“He doesn’t want to struggle either,” Dave countered smoothly. “Sometimes people need help making the practical choice.”
I shook my head. “It’s his decision.”
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You care about him. That’s clear. If you soften him up, if you help him reframe it—”
“No,” I said, cutting him off. “I’m not here to manage him for you.”
Dave’s smile tightened. “You’re being idealistic.”
“I’m being honest,” I replied. “I won’t manipulate someone I care about so you can get what you want.”
He studied me for a moment, reassessing. “You’re leaving money on the table.”
“Then it was never mine,” I said.
Dave sighed, like I had disappointed him personally.
“Please don’t talk to me again,” I said, stepping past him. I didn’t look back as I walked to my car. The cold air filled my lungs, steady and clean, removing the oiliness of Dave.
Shaking my head and pushing the encounter with Dave out of my mind, I drove back to the SnowDrop Inn.