Trouble Under the Pavilion Lights #2
"I have survived three committee meetings this week. I can survive hardware."
He reached for the washer, and she passed it before he asked. Efficient. Unshowy. She knew where everything was because she had placed it or planned for it or adapted around it. Nathan had built hotels with teams twice the size and half the field intelligence.
"You do this every year?" he asked.
"Patch things together?"
"Know which person has the right washer and which volunteer will pretend a ladder is a philosophy."
She kept her eyes on the plate. "That isn't a festival skill. That is a Harbor Cove survival skill."
"I missed that course."
"You left before the advanced unit."
The words weren't thrown hard. That made them land worse.
Nathan tightened the final bolt. "Fair."
Emily glanced at him. Whatever she expected, it hadn't been that.
He checked the bracket tension with one hand, then stepped back. "This holds for the walkthrough. Replace the full bracket tomorrow. No ribbon weight on the south arch until then. Move the opening ribbon to the center rail or freestanding posts."
Emily lifted her clipboard. "Tyler?"
Tyler tested the arch with a careful push. "I agree. Center rail. I can build freestanding posts with the leftover base pieces from Founders Day."
"Budget?"
"Under thirty if Owen stops charging me for looking at screws."
Owen, who had remained because suspicion apparently came with free delivery, pointed at him. "Looking is complimentary. Touching is billable."
Emily wrote it down. "Good. Center rail. Tyler signs maintenance. Owen receipt. Nathan advisory note."
Nathan didn't correct the order.
Mabel didn't miss that.
Tyler switched the power back on for the remaining strands. Half the pavilion lit. The dead section stayed dark across the south arch, making the repaired side look like it had been punished.
"I have replacement strands at the Inn," Emily said. "Storage closet off the laundry room. Blue bin. Left side. Unless someone moved them after the spring gala, in which case I will become someone the town writes ballads about."
"I can get them," Tyler said.
"You have the marina office. Go. I can swap two strands."
Nathan looked at the height of the center beam. "You'll need someone tall enough to reach the hook without standing on the top step."
Mabel raised one finger.
"Someone not under bench probation," Emily added.
Mabel lowered the finger.
Nathan looked at Emily, not the ladder. "I can hold it while you attach the strand. Or I can attach it while you direct. Your call."
The words were small. The lawn wasn't.
Owen heard them. Tyler heard them. Mabel heard them and pretended to check the weather. Mrs. Keane, who had wandered closer with a volunteer badge and zero plausible reason, heard enough to stop walking.
Emily looked at the dark section of lights, the ladder, the watching town, and then Nathan.
"I attach," she said. "You hold the ladder. Tyler, stay until the first hook. Owen, stop looking like you are evaluating whether I can reach."
"I was evaluating the ladder," Owen said.
"Your face disagreed."
Nathan held the ladder.
It should have been mundane. His hands on the side rails, one boot on the lower brace, eyes on the ladder feet.
Emily climbed two steps, no higher than needed, replacement strand looped over one shoulder.
She was close enough that the hem of her blouse brushed his knuckles once when the wind moved.
He didn't move his hand. He didn't look up beyond the safe line of her shoulder.
She secured the first hook. Then the second. Tyler clipped the far end near the power box. Owen muttered something about cheap connectors and better inventory. Mabel gave instructions nobody asked for. The harbor wind tried to turn the ladder into a negotiation. Nathan held it steady.
When Emily stepped down, she missed the last rung by half an inch.
Nathan moved only his hand to the rail nearest her hip, blocking the fall without catching her body.
She found the rung, came down, and looked at his hand on the rail.
"Good save," she said.
"Good recovery."
"That was almost a compliment."
"I can make it less so."
"You keep offering."
The repaired lights clicked on.
Warm bulbs ran from the center beam to the west rail, then over the south arch, drawing a soft line over the patch plate. The bracket didn't vanish. The fix was visible if someone knew where to look. But the pavilion no longer looked wounded. It looked used. Mended. Ready enough.
Emily stood under the new strand with the work light in one hand and Tyler's screwdriver in the other. The glow caught the loose hair at her cheek and turned the powdered sugar on her cuff into something that looked intentional, which was unfair to everyone involved.
Nathan looked at the bracket.
That was safer.
"This will pass the walkthrough," he said.
Emily exhaled. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just one measured release, like she had been holding a piece of the pavilion upright with her ribs.
"Friday survives another hour," she said.
Owen lifted the empty hardware bag. "I need a signature."
Emily reached for the receipt, but Nathan stepped back before anyone could assume he intended to take it.
"Festival maintenance," he said.
Owen gave the receipt to Emily.
Mabel watched that transfer with unsettling satisfaction.
From the path, a flash popped.
Nathan turned.
Becca Lane stood near the flower barrels with her camera half-lowered. Beside her, Mrs. Keane had one hand over her mouth and the other hand around her phone. Mabel, to her credit or discredit, didn't look surprised.
Emily saw Becca at the same time. "Please tell me that was for the pavilion."
Becca smiled the smile of a local journalist who had just found a municipal improvement wrapped in romance. "It was for the festival page. The lights look beautiful."
Nathan looked back at the pavilion.
Under the repaired strand, Emily still held the screwdriver. He stood close enough to the ladder to explain proximity and close enough to Emily for the photograph to ignore context. Above them, the lights did what lights were built to do. They made everything look warmer than it was.
Becca tapped her camera screen.
"I might send one to the Gazette," she said. "People could use a little good news before Friday."
Emily closed her eyes for one second.
Nathan didn't look at her mouth. He didn't reach for her hand. He looked at the camera in Becca's hand and the glow over the cracked arch and understood, with developer-grade certainty, that by breakfast tomorrow, Harbor Cove wouldn't be discussing a bracket.
His phone chimed. He pulled it out.
Unknown Number: Lovely photo. Councilman Whitaker will want context before the bank does.
Nathan looked across the lawn.
Grant wasn't there.
That made it worse.