Chapter Twelve
By morning, the storm had passed. Birds sang outside my window, sunlight pouring in like yesterday never happened. I wandered downstairs, a sleep-addled smile on my face, Easton blissfully unaware as he nudged my knees on the way down.
Then I spotted the empty pie dish on the counter, and it all came rushing back.
Janice, the carnival company, and the impending storm that I had absolutely no control over — it rushed to my mind with cruel alacrity. My already-empty stomach twisted a little further.
Easton shoved his slobbery ball against my leg, my constant source of distraction whenever I needed it.
He wasn’t happy about the speed with which I got dressed for his walk.
By the time I ventured back downstairs, dressed in shorts and a linen shirt for the inevitably humid day, he was nearly jumping out of his skin.
I pulled on a loose cardigan by the door, heart jumping into my throat as my eyes fell on the napkins in my rain jacket’s pocket. Another reminder of the unfixable problem. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t shake the growing dread pressing onto my shoulders.
Bluebell Cove hummed back to life overnight.
My neighbors puttered outside their homes, watering their plants, trimming their grass, and walking their dogs. A gentle breeze swayed through the trees overhead, shifting the warm light on my skin every so often. I returned waves with a practiced smile and hurried Easton along.
As we reached the end of Maple Street and turned back, I spotted a familiar mop of wild blonde curls coming toward us.
“Hi, Emma,” I said, watching her tiny face brighten as she looked up. “What are you up to?”
“I’m taking Shelby for a walk,” she replied matter-of-factly. “But she’s going too slow.” Easton whined and pushed her hand with his snout, earning him a giggle and a round of head pats.
My eyes fell on Shelby, waddling in the grass, a string looped around her shell like a misplaced kite or an extremely misunderstood balloon. I raised an eyebrow. “Shelby… your turtle?”
“Tortoise,” Emma corrected with a raised finger. “I wanted a pet to walk, like Easton.”
“Well, yes, but…” I pressed my lips together as she scratched his ear and frowned at Shelby. “Never mind,” I finished miserably.
Seemingly giving up for now, Emma scooped her tortoise from the ground, cradling Shelby in her arms. “Hey, Georgie?” she mumbled, face fixed on her scaly friend.
I told Easton to sit and sucked in a long breath. “Yes?”
What were the chances that I’d regret this?
Emma’s eyes sparkled. “My mom said you’re in charge of the carnival this year.” She paused, rocking on her heels and gently petting her tortoise’s shell. “Well… do you think I could help with the Ferris wheel? I think I’m old enough this year.” A pink tinge spread across her face.
I swallowed thickly and wracked my brain for a response.
Without the carnival company, the best we would have was the market booths — and, depending on the storm, maybe not even any food trucks.
This wasn’t fair to anyone. Not the businesses that relied on it, or the kids like Emma who counted down the days every year.
“Y’know, Emma—” I exhaled, mind made up. “I’m going to reserve a really special job just for you, okay?”
A wide, toothy grin spread across her mouth. “Thanks, Georgie!” She patted Shelby on her head. “I’m gonna go tell my mom, okay?” Emma didn’t wait for my reply, bursting through the gate beside us and jumping up the porch steps.
I rubbed my hands over my face and returned home.
No pressure, Georgie.
???
The ladies of the Button Jar called an emergency business owners meeting at Captain’s that afternoon. I sat at the bar, notebook in hand—I refused to forget again—and listened in latent horror as the situation slowly devolved.
Lorenzo—introverted or not—commanded the room’s attention like a general, his Spanish flair undiminished. The vintage brass monocle he wore with pride dangled from the lapel of his houndstooth blazer, black, slicked back hair unmoving while he gesticulated from his booth.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I scribbled the highlights of his impassioned speech.
It wasn’t anything that I didn’t already know; Bluebell Cove was looking at over a month before another tourism boom, and without the Summer’s End Festival to bridge the gap, many businesses would struggle to survive.
“We can’t all get a small business grant,” Dot—one half of the Button Jar—chimed in, narrowed gaze trained on me.
My grandmother never liked her.
I fought to keep my retaliation at bay and turned. “I’m sorry. I’m as upset as all of you.”
Dot huffed and crossed her arms, leaning across the table to her co-owner with hushed whispers.
Every head in the diner turned as Joe stood, conversations ending in a ripple as he set his glasses in his shirt pocket and wrung his hand together.
He shifted on his feet, dark eyes landing on me.
“I’ll be honest. Books are already a hard sell nowadays, and—even with the projected business from Fallfest, I won’t survive a dry spell.
” Joe paused as gasps spread across the restaurant.
“I’d have to move in with my cousin down south,” he added quietly and slipped back into his booth.
Joe’s chin dipped away from all the attention. Guilt began to dig its familiar claws into my chest as hot tears pricked the corner of my eyes. How had I always thought that I was the only one struggling? Had I really been that selfish?
As fast as silence fell on Captain’s Table, the noise resumed tenfold. I flinched as conversations rapidly unraveled into arguments, accusations being flung as the desperation seeped into everyone’s voices.
“Please,” I started. No one noticed. I jumped off my barstool and tried again, but I was pretty sure the fighting only intensified.
My hands flew to my ears as a raucous clatter sounded behind me.
“Hey!” Ruth hollered, wooden spoon banging against the pot over her head until the diner quieted.
“My, my. Y’all ain’t better than a classroom of toddlers.
What’s all that yellin’ going to accomplish?
” She set her instrument on the counter and smoothed her hair.
“Now. Georgie’s in charge, not y’all. She’s the one to listen to. ”
I was sure my attempt at a smile looked a lot like a grimace. Why did Janice think I’d be good at this?
“Alright.” I cleared my throat and glanced down at the notebook, but the words seemed to swim.
“We can’t hear you!” Someone shouted from the back.
My throat went dry.
Years of Spirit Club had taught me all about confidence—chin up, shoulders back, project from the diaphragm and force a blinding smile.
But this wasn’t that—I was leading a room full of business owners who actually knew what they were doing.
And I couldn’t shake the feeling that I didn’t belong here at all.
“I know the carnival fell through, but we’re not out of options,” I began, smoothing my notebook paper. “The Summer’s End Festival deserves more than fluorescent lighting in an empty gymnasium. So I’ve made a list.”
A dozen eyes blinked back at me.
“First idea: releasing lanterns on the shore. Families could—”
“Not safe,” Dot interrupted. “And what are we supposed to do if the storm still lands?”
Heat crept up my neck. “Okay. Um, second idea: we pool resources and host an auction.”
“That excludes all of the kids,” Mrs. Holloway said. “And those of us who can’t afford to just give our things away.”
“But it could raise money—”
A low chorus of head-shaking.
I swallowed hard and pressed on. “Talent show? A retro arcade night? A chili cook-off?”
One by one, each idea landed with the grace of Easton greeting someone new at the door. The silence after my last suggestion stretched until it was unbearable.
Then the bell on the door chimed.
Janice strolled in, followed leisurely by Rhett.
His hair was speckled with sawdust, boots squeaking against the floor as he leaned against the doorframe behind Janice.
Sweat glistened on his forehead like he’d come straight from the workshop.
He wore that old, bored expression, unfazed by his interruption or the diner full of spectators.
“What’s this?” Janice asked, eyes flicking from my crumpled notes on the counter to the booths of unimpressed faces.
“Brainstorming?” I squeaked.
She ambled further into the diner, hands clasped before her as she swept a smile across the restaurant. “Bluebell Cove hasn’t seen a summer storm this late in the year in decades. We’re dealing with an impossible situation.”
Murmurs rippled around the table as people nod. I strained to keep the frown from descending on my lips. What was she up to now?
“Well, it turns out my chauffeur here has the solution.” Janice turned and beamed at Rhett, who appeared more interested in one of the pink tiles beneath his boots.
She hesitated just long enough to make me suspicious, then beamed.
“Thanks to his connections in San Francisco, he knows someone who will be able to help us save the festival!”
Steadily, as if waking from a daze, they began to nod. The stifling tension was broken, relief washing over the features of everyone in the diner.
Meanwhile, my heart rapidly sank to my toes.
???
Later, I decided to walk past Marigold’s and check on the progress when I saw him. Rhett was pacing near his truck, phone pressed to his ear. His voice was low and urgent as he rubbed his neck and intermittently glanced at the sky.
“I’ll explain everything when I see you, okay?” A pause. Then, with a tenderness that I’d never heard before: “Claire.”
I froze and instinctively ducked behind a parked car a few spaces down.
Something hot coiled in my chest, sharp enough to sting. Not my business. Not my business. I turned, nearly tripping over the curb as I bolted the other way, face burning all the way home.