17. Invitations and Interference
Invitations and Interference
Cassie
Ishould have known something was up when Janet knocked on my door at seven o’clock on Friday morning with a garment bag.
“What’s that?” I asked, squinting at her through the haze of pre-coffee consciousness.
“Your dress for tonight,” she said, sweeping past me into the apartment like she owned the place. Which, technically, she sort of did through her long acquaintance with Mrs. Walton.
“What’s tonight?”
Janet hung the garment bag on my bedroom door with care, usually reserved for museum pieces. “The Winter Social, of course. Mom and I have been planning it for weeks.”
I blinked at her, my brain struggling to process this information without the aid of caffeine. “I don’t remember hearing about a Winter Social.”
“Didn’t we mention it?” Janet’s expression was the picture of innocent surprise, but there was something distinctly mischievous in her eyes. “Oh my, how silly of us. Well, it’s tonight at the town hall. Dinner, dancing, the whole works. Community building, you know.”
“Janet,” I said slowly, “I don’t dance.”
“Nonsense. Everyone dances. You just haven’t had the right partner yet.”
She left before I could argue further, but not before unzipping the garment bag just enough to reveal a flash of deep blue fabric that looked suspiciously like it might actually fit me.
The rest of my day was punctuated by similar “casual” visits.
Before I left for school, the crochet cult descended.
Dot from the bakery stopped by to mention that she’d heard the music would be lovely— “Perfect for slow dancing,” she added with a meaningful look.
Mrs. Henderson handed me a small bottle of perfume that she claimed was “extra”, but still had the price tag attached, when I picked up my usual morning coffee from the diner.
By the time Kathy appeared at my classroom after school with a makeup bag and an expression of determined helpfulness, I’d figured out what was happening.
“This is an ambush,” I said, watching her set what appeared to be a professional cosmetic kit on my desk.
“This is community spirit,” she corrected, waving a tube of mascara like a baton. “Leave the papers behind. We’re going back to your place so I can work my magic. You have beautiful eyes, but they could use a little help.”
Obedient to the commands of my principal, I drove straight home, leaving my satchel beneath my desk for the night. I was showered and dressed less than an hour later, and Kathy was ready to go to work.
“Kathy, I appreciate whatever this is, but I’m perfectly capable of—”
“Of what? Hiding in your little house reading labs while the rest of us have fun?” She fixed me with the kind of look that had probably terrified generations of high school students.
“Cassie, honey, you’ve been through a lot these past few months.
You deserve an evening of music and dancing and forgetting about everything except enjoying yourself. ”
It was hard to argue with that logic, especially when she was wielding an eyeliner pencil with the confidence of someone who’d clearly done this before.
“Besides,” she added, her voice taking on that particular tone mothers used when they were about to reveal their real agenda, “Levi will be there.”
“So?”
“So, nothing,” she said innocently. “I just thought you might like to know.”
An hour later, I was standing in front of my bedroom mirror, wondering who the woman looking back at me was.
The dress Janet had brought was perfect—a deep royal blue that brought out my eyes and fit like it had been made for me, which it probably had been by someone in town who’d somehow acquired my measurements through mysterious small-town channels.
My hair, which usually lived in a practical ponytail, had been coaxed into soft waves that actually stayed where they were supposed to.
Kathy’s makeup artistry had transformed my face into something that looked like me, but more polished, more confident.
More like someone who belonged at a Winter Social instead of grading papers in sweatpants.
I almost didn’t recognize myself. And surprisingly, I liked what I saw.
The Everwood Community Center had been transformed into something from a fairy tale.
White lights were strung everywhere, casting a warm, magical glow over tables covered in crisp linens.
The stage at one end of the room hosted a small band whose members I recognized from around town—Mac from the diner on guitar, Sarah the librarian on fiddle, and surprisingly, Tim the tow truck driver behind a drum kit.
The whole thing was so perfectly, charmingly Everwood that I felt my last bit of resistance melt away. This wasn’t an ambush. It was a gift.
“Cassie!” Emma Martin appeared at my elbow, looking adorable in a red dress and shiny shoes. “You look so pretty! Are you going to dance with Mr. Marshall?”
“I—what? How do you even know about—”
“Everyone knows,” she said matter-of-factly. “Mom says you two are courting, like in the old movies.”
Before I could process this revelation, a gentle hand touched my shoulder. I turned to find Levi standing behind me, and the sight of him in a navy-blue button-down shirt and turquoise bolo tie made my mouth go dry.
“Hi,” he said, his voice carrying that slightly rough edge that made my knees weak.
“Hi yourself.”
He looked good. Really good. The dark blue shirt brought out his eyes, and his hair was styled just enough to suggest he’d made an effort without looking overdone.
But it was the way he was looking at me—like I was something wonderful he hadn’t expected to find—that made my heart do complicated acrobatics in my chest.
“You look...” he started, then stopped, seeming to search for words.
“Different?” I suggested, suddenly self-conscious about the dress and the makeup and the hair that had taken Kathy twenty minutes to perfect.
“Beautiful,” he said simply. “You look beautiful.”
Before I could fumble through a thank you, Janet appeared beside us with the efficiency of a social coordinator who’d been planning this moment for weeks.
“Wonderful, you’re both here,” she said, as if there had been any doubt. “Cassie, you’re at table three. Levi, what a coincidence, you’re also at table three.”
She guided us toward a round table near the dance floor, where I immediately spotted the rest of our “coincidental” dinner companions: Mac and his wife, Doc Miller and his wife, and an elderly couple I recognized from church but whose names I couldn’t remember.
The conversation flowed easily over dinner—small-town gossip, gentle teasing about the band’s ambitious song choices, and compliments on the decorations that had everyone looking pointedly at Janet and Kathy, who pretended to be modest about their obvious skills.
But I was acutely aware of Levi beside me throughout the meal. The way he passed me the salt before I asked for it. The quiet way he listened when I told a story about my students’ latest symbiosis interpretation disaster. The brush of his shoulder against mine when he reached for his water glass.
It felt like we were on a date. Our first real, official, public date, even if it had been orchestrated by half the town.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mac called from the stage as the dinner plates were being cleared, “it’s time to work off some of those calories. Hope y’all remember your two-step.”
The band launched into a lively country tune, and couples began making their way to the dance floor. I watched them with envy and fascination.
“I really don’t dance,” I said to Levi, who was watching me watch the dancers with an amused expression.
“I remember you mentioning that.”
“I mean it. I’m the kind of person who trips over her own feet just walking down the street.”
“Noted.”
“Seriously Levi. I have no coordination. That’s why I’m a science teacher.”
“Again, noted,” he smirked.
The song ended, and Mac announced a slow dance. The lights dimmed slightly, and couples drew closer together, swaying gently to the music. It looked easy and natural and entirely beyond my capabilities.
That’s when the crocheted cult struck again.
“Cassie, dear,” said Mrs. Patterson from the antique store, appearing at my elbow with the stealth of a trained operative, “you’re not dancing.”
“I don’t really—”
“Oh, nonsense,” interrupted Dot from the bakery, who had somehow materialized on my other side. “Dancing is just like baking. Do you want the muffin, or are you going to watch it get cold.”
“And,” added Mrs. Patterson, completing what was apparently a coordinated assault, “it’s like owning fine China. What’s the point if it just sits in the cupboard?”
They exchanged meaningful looks that would have been subtle if they hadn’t been accompanied by not-so-subtle glances toward Levi.
“Sometimes,” Mrs. Patterson continued, “the best things happen when you stop overthinking and just...move.”
“Life’s short, honey,” Dot said gently. “And some chances don’t come around twice.”
“Unless you make them,” Mrs. Patterson added with a smile. “Which sometimes means being brave enough to ask. Do you want the man or not, honey?”
They drifted away as mysteriously as they’d appeared, leaving me sitting there with their not-so-cryptic advice echoing in my head and Levi looking like he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“Subtle as a brick through a window, aren’t they?”
“Just a little,” I agreed. “But they’re not wrong.”
He raised an eyebrow. “About what?”
I took a deep breath. “About this.”
Before I could lose my nerve, I stood up and held out my hand to him.
“Would you like to dance? And before you answer, I should warn you that I meant it about not knowing how. There’s a very real possibility I’ll step on your feet.”
His smile was like sunrise—slow, warm, and absolutely transformative. “I’ll risk it,” he said, taking my hand. “The Doc’s here if there’s a casualty.”