Chapter Thirty-Two
At midday, the scent of pies overwhelmed Main Street all the way from the plaza.
A few stores saw a trickle of tourists as they arrived for the contest, mostly young families with excited children perched on their shoulders.
One couple passed me and mentioned how excited they were to be back in Bluebell Cove, their eyes sparkling as they took in the wave of people preparing the street for that night.
It took an entire hour to help unload a truck bed bursting with jars of honey, boxes of beeswax candles and honeycomb-themed soap bars. My sweater clung to my skin and I could tell my face was bright red. Curls on my neck stuck to the pool of sweat formed on my back.
Agatha, our resident bee farmer, thanked me with a powerful handshake and a lip balm for my pocket. I promptly retreated to the shade and began fanning myself.
Margot had spent a good chunk of the morning helping me track down vendors and ensuring they knew where to go.
Now that the festival would begin in only a few hours, their trucks puttered down the road, a parade of colors in all shapes and sizes lining Harbor Street.
Typically used for rides, now we had much of it corded off for carnival-themed games and food.
Just beyond, in the sand of Seaglass Beach, Rhett and Frank had set up a veritable sea of wooden tables and plastic folding chairs.
Now, the pair worked down Main painstakingly piecing booths together. Rhett said it was faster to transport them disassembled, but every time I glanced over, a fresh chill of panic twisted my stomach.
I heard Margot’s heels before I saw her. “What are you doing?” she asked, sipping what must’ve been Cameron’s final coffee before closing the Morning Bell.
“Trying not to die of heat exhaustion in this,” I responded, airing out my sweater.
Margot’s eyes shifted suspiciously before landing back on me. “How about we get you home?”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. “Do you see this?” Wiping some sweat from my forehead, I took the opportunity to quietly motion to Mr. Henderson, who only had half of Main Street draped in lights despite the team I’d formed for him. “I can’t leave now. Not when nothing is done.”
“Really?” She raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “Are you going to balance on top of that twelve-foot ladder? Or maybe you’ll help Rhett with the power tools and sharp objects?” Margot snorted and braced her hand against the wall beside me.
I frowned, even though it rang true. “I just helped Agatha unload her truck. There will be more.”
Margot waved a hand at me. “Oh, please. Ten other people are here just milling about with nothing better to do.”
“I’m the community events leader, Margot. I can’t—”
“Oh yes you can!” Janice chimed in, appearing from the opposite end of the road. She clucked her tongue at me and shook her head, a laminated Pie Contest Judge badge winking in the sun. “Good leaders know when to rest, Georgette. You’ll be of no use to us tonight if you’re roadkill.”
My lips parted with a protest, but Janice held a single warning finger in the air at me.
“C’mon.” Margot bumped my hip with hers. “Time to make you look presentable.”
I groaned and mumbled unintelligible arguments at them, even as I followed Margot toward my house. Janice winked at me when I passed, then quickly began shuffling toward Frank. At the top of Main Street, I threw one last miserable, pathetic glance to Rhett.
He didn’t look back.
“Oh, you’re like a lovesick puppy,” Margot said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me along the sidewalk.
Back at home, she practically shoved me in the shower.
I considered saying I’d rather eat, but if I put up any more defense, she might’ve held me under the faucet herself.
The shower did make me feel slightly more alive.
I even took the time to scrunch my favorite balm into my hair—a thick, creamy stuff that smelled of honeysuckle.
Margot sat crisscross on the floor of my bedroom when I came back.
“What are you doing?” I asked, tying my robe tighter.
“You—” She paused to rub her temples. “Have no clothes.”
I padded over to the pile of clothes from that morning. “These jeans are still fine.”
She groaned and wrinkled her nose, throwing her hands in the air as if I’d just said the most ridiculous thing she’d ever heard. “You’re not wearing smelly, ripped up jeans, Georgie!”
“Why not?”
Margot squinted at me, looking three seconds from exploding before she drew a breath in and out. “People like you are the reason I’m in therapy,” she muttered.
“Aw, it’s sweet of you to think of me so much,” I teased with a smile.
Then she snapped her fingers and pointed, eyes blown wide. “Your grandmother! Didn’t she have an entire collection of dresses?”
Margot all but sprinted down the stairs, forcing me to trail after her like a sleepy dog.
I found her crouched in the office, the little room off the kitchen that still smelled faintly of dried lavender and printer ink.
Dusty sunlight pooled across the stacked banker’s boxes shoved against the far wall.
My grandmother labeled them with her swoopy handwriting: Summer Inventory, Holiday Sale Flyers, Miscellaneous, and, in the corner, one that simply read Personal.
“That’s it,” Margot declared, pointing like an explorer who’d just discovered buried treasure.
I knelt beside her, tugging the box free. “You know, this is probably full of tax records or unpaid bills.”
“Georgie,” Margot said with theatrical patience, “Your grandmother was far too much of a romantic to waste a box on receipts. This has dresses written all over it.”
Tracing a palm over the cardboard, I waited for that familiar rush of grief to take hold. That overwhelming, drowning sensation that knocked me off my feet and laid me out once again. But it didn’t come.
Instead, something hopeful bloomed in my chest. I couldn’t believe I’d let all these pieces of her collect dust.
Dragging in a long, thick breath, I popped the lid. Inside waited a tangle of fabric that smelled faintly of cedar and rosewater, the kind of scent that made my throat catch.
Margot gasped and dug in both arms, up to her elbows. “Oh, these are incredible.” She pulled out a cocktail dress in shimmering silver, sequins winking even through the dust. “Tell me this woman didn’t know how to live.”
I smiled despite the lump in my throat. “She wore that to the New Year’s party one year. Danced with every person in the room and said she felt like a disco ball.”
Margot pressed it against herself, cocking a hip. “Shame it’s too small for me. You, though—” She thrust it at me. “Try it.”
We worked through the box together, giggling as she held each dress up for inspection: a cherry-red sheath with dramatic cap sleeves, a polka-dotted sundress that smelled faintly of gardenia, a midnight-blue gown with a daring slit.
Between each, I caught flashes of my grandmother—her laugh, her perfume, the way she’d rest her chin in her hand at the shop counter.
Finally, nestled at the bottom, I found it.
Silky but not shiny, the fabric practically ran through my fingers like water.
“She wore this,” I whispered, “The summer I turned twelve. There was a wedding down at Seaglass Beach, and she… she looked so beautiful in it.”
Margot’s voice softened. “Then that’s the one.”
Upstairs again, Margot perched on my bed while I wriggled into the dress.
“It fits!” she shrieked when I emerged. “Now I’m going to make you wear all of those dresses.”
Holding my breath, I turned toward the mirror.
The dress looked like it was made for a summer afternoon in my grandmother’s garden.
Soft, peachy-pink fabric, scattered with flowers, clung neatly to the bodice before spilling into a skirt that swayed and fluttered around my calves.
The puffed sleeves framed my shoulders, and the cinched waist gave the whole thing an easy, graceful shape.
Not fussy—I imagined she probably walked barefoot through the sand or danced the night away without tugging at seams or hems—but it was beautiful all the same.
Tears sprung to my eyes. I tried for so long to fit myself into her mold—to shape Georgie into Marigold, thinking that would honor her legacy.
I didn’t have to reinvent myself to pay homage to her, though. Standing here, swishing in her dress, the same curls she wore everyday hanging around my shoulders, I knew that was enough.
Margot clapped her hands. “Now, accessories.”
I groaned, but she already delved halfway into my jewelry box. She tried three necklaces before settling on a delicate chain with a tiny seashell charm. Next, she forced me to sit while she experimented with my curls, muttering under her breath about bobby pins and the injustice of humidity.
“Margot,” I said when she’d been fussing for fifteen minutes straight. “It’s just the festival.”
“Just the festival?” Her eyes narrowed in the mirror. “You have been working on this and worrying about it for weeks. Plus, you’re not just representing you anymore—” She jabbed a finger at my shoulder. “—you have your future pottery empire to think of!”
I laughed and shook my head, but a strange sense of pride washed over me at her words.
Not long after, Margot managed to sweep my curls into a graceful updo, leaving a few strands loose to frame my face.
“Perfect,” she said, hands on her hips. “Now, shoes.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I assume you’ll be mad about my sneakers.”
“You assume correctly. You really don’t have anything? Flats?”
Gathering the skirt in my hand, I crouched into the corner of my closet and pulled out a pair of nicer sandals that I hadn’t worn in years—bright red with a cherry pattern. I held them up for her inspection, biting my lip against a laugh. She squinted, leaned closer, then seemed to give up.
“Fine. Wear your sneakers.” Margot pinched her eyebrow and groaned. “Do you own a pair that’s not stained?”
“Yes!” I clapped, digging through what was left of my closet until I found them. Cream colored high tops that I’d special ordered for graduation, then ended up being too scared to wear. Not exactly heels, but at least my feet wouldn’t hurt walking up and down Main Street all night.
She waved another resigned hand at me and strode down the stairs.
We were still chatting over a cup of hot chocolate when the knock came. I hurried to the door, heart in my throat, half-expecting to see a handsome, dark-haired man on the other side.
“Hey, um… you heard, right?” Rachel said, peeking in to see Margot at the dining table.
Margot and I exchanged glances. “Heard what?” I asked.
Rachel winced. “The gala. It’s cancelled.”
For a moment, her words didn’t register.
“What?” I finally said, mind reeling.
“Flooding,” Rachel explained quickly. “The storm last night washed out the road to the country club. Power’s out on half the property. They just… called it off.”
Margot let out an incredulous laugh. “Well, that’s kind of perfect.”
I stared down at the laces of my shoes, pulse hammering against my throat. The festival was safe, but everyone who had put their faith in the gala—Joe, Dot, Florence, and all the rest—would have nowhere to go. No matter what, they were still a part of Bluebell Cove. I wouldn't abandon them now.
“C’mon, Margot,” I commanded over my shoulder, grabbing the cardigan by the door.
She scowled at me. “What now?”
“We’ve got one hour until the festival. And it’s got some new guests on the way.”