Chapter Fourteen
Crew
Crew Donnelly had never feared a mayor until one tried to thank him romantically.
That felt like an oversight.
Hockey had prepared him for many things: pressure, noise, bruises, angry coaches, airport delays, bad ice, worse coffee, and the kind of team group chat that could turn a roof fundraiser into a municipal incident.
It had not prepared him for Mayor Halford standing on the veterans center lawn with a wireless microphone, a patriotic bow tie, and a printed note card that included the phrase:
the couple who saved the roof
Crew stared at the note card.
Mayor Halford smiled.
Crew did not smile back.
“Mayor,” Crew said calmly, “we need to change that line.”
The mayor blinked. “Which line?”
“The couple line.”
“Oh.” Mayor Halford glanced down at the card. “Right. Mrs. Paxton mentioned there was some sensitivity around terminology.”
Across the lawn, Marin Webb’s head turned like she had heard the word sensitivity from fifty yards away and disliked its posture.
Crew saw it happen.
So did Talia.
Talia leaned toward Marin and said something that made Marin’s eyes narrow directly at the mayor’s note card.
Crew had about twelve seconds before the frosting knife became an official instrument of civic correction.
“It’s not sensitivity,” Crew said.
Mayor Halford looked up.
Crew kept his voice even.
“It’s accuracy.”
The mayor’s smile faltered.
Behind him, Mrs. Paxton clasped both hands in front of her chest like a woman watching a grenade roll gently under a parade float.
The veterans center lawn had been transformed for rehearsal night.
Folding chairs lined the grass in neat rows.
Small flags marked the walkway. The freshly delivered roofing materials sat off to the side under a blue tarp, proof that the deposit had cleared and the work had begun.
The staging equipment made the whole place look less like a fundraiser dream and more like reality.
Good reality.
Expensive reality.
The best kind.
Tom was seated in a chair near the front, wearing his Marine Corps hat, a light jacket, and an expression of deep annoyance at being treated like a person who had collapsed less than twenty-four hours ago.
Mrs. Bell sat beside him with a water bottle in one hand and an authority no one questioned.
Wilder, Sutton, Frankie, Cooper, Hayes, Beck, Junie, Reese, and Milo had arrived in what Sutton called “low-chaos formation,” which meant Frankie had brought snacks, Wilder was not holding his own phone, and Hayes was wearing sunglasses despite the sun already lowering behind the trees.
The Spitfires were scattered near the back, behaving.
Mostly.
Frankie had made a sign that said FOR THE ROOF, OBVIOUSLY and then, under Sutton’s supervision, added NO HEARTS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS SIGN.
Marin had stared at it for a full ten seconds before saying, “Fine.”
In Marin language, that was a parade.
Crew had been riding that tiny victory until Mayor Halford arrived with romance printed in twelve-point font.
Now the victory was in danger.
Mayor Halford cleared his throat.
“I certainly don’t want to offend anyone.”
“That’s good,” Crew said.
“Because, of course, people are very invested in the story.”
Crew looked at him.
“The story is the roof.”
“Yes, yes, absolutely. But the public response has been remarkable because of the human-interest element.”
Crew felt his old captain face lock into place.
The one that made rookies stop throwing tape balls.
The one that made reporters ask shorter questions.
“The human-interest element is my father’s service, Marin’s work, the veterans center, and the town raising the deposit.”
Mayor Halford adjusted his bow tie.
“Of course.”
“Marin and I are not a public category.”
The mayor’s eyebrows rose.
Crew heard someone behind him whisper, “Oof.”
Probably Frankie.
Possibly Talia.
Maybe Tom.
Tom had range.
Mayor Halford lowered the card. “I see.”
“I hope so.”
The words came out a little sharper than planned.
Crew breathed once.
Better.
Not a captain speech.
Not a public apology.
Just a correction.
He looked toward Marin.
She was watching him now, arms folded, weight on one hip, expression unreadable.
Not angry.
Not smiling.
Listening.
That mattered more than the mayor.
It probably should not have.
It did.
Mayor Halford looked back at the note card.
“How about ‘the pair who helped save the roof’?”
“No,” Crew said.
“Too close,” Mrs. Paxton whispered.
The mayor frowned. “The duo?”
“No,” Crew and Mrs. Paxton said together.
Frankie lifted a hand from the back. “Dynamic pastry-roof alliance?”
Sutton immediately pulled Frankie’s hand down.
“Sorry,” Frankie called. “Pun reflex.”
Marin’s mouth twitched.
Crew saw it.
A ridiculous amount of relief moved through him.
Mayor Halford looked confused, which was fair.
This town had become difficult to brief.
Crew took the note card gently from the mayor.
“Try this,” he said.
He crossed out the line with the pen clipped to Mayor Halford’s pocket and wrote:
Thank you to Webb & Whisk, the Spitfires, the Fourth Committee, and every donor who helped save the roof.
He handed it back.
Mayor Halford read it.
“Oh,” he said. “That is much better.”
“Yes,” Crew said.
Mrs. Paxton exhaled like a woman whose visor had been spared.
Marin started walking toward them.
Crew braced.
Mayor Halford did not see her coming.
That was unfortunate for him.
“Mayor,” Marin said.
He turned.
“Marin. Wonderful work this week.”
“Thank you.”
Her voice was pleasant.
Dangerously pleasant.
“I hear we had a terminology issue.”
Crew looked at the ground.
Mrs. Paxton looked at the sky.
Mayor Halford laughed weakly.
“All resolved.”
Marin held out her hand.
He gave her the card.
Smart man.
She read the edited version.
Her eyes flicked to Crew.
Then back to the card.
“This works.”
Mayor Halford smiled with visible relief.
“Excellent.”
Marin handed it back.
“Also, no ad-libbing.”
The mayor blinked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you get emotional on stage and suddenly feel inspired to mention fate, second chances, young love, old flames, fireworks, viral romance, hearts, destiny, or anything involving the word couple, I will personally cut the microphone.”
Mayor Halford stared at her.
Marin smiled.
Bakery smile.
Customer-service anger in lipstick.
“Respectfully.”
Wilder whispered, “I am terrified.”
Sutton whispered, “You should be.”
Tom’s shoulders shook.
Mrs. Bell handed him the water bottle, probably to keep him from laughing himself back into observation.
Crew looked at Marin and should not have felt pride.
He felt pride.
Too much.
A dangerous amount.
Mayor Halford nodded slowly.
“No ad-libbing.”
“Wonderful,” Marin said.
Then she turned to Crew.
“Are you supervising public officials now?”
“Only when necessary.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“It was a yes.”
Her eyes dropped to the card.
“You fixed it.”
“I edited it.”
“Without making a speech.”
“I’m growing.”
“Do not get smug about emotional literacy.”
“I’ll try.”
She narrowed her eyes.
Crew caught himself.
“I mean, yes.”
“Better.”
Her mouth softened.
Barely.
Enough.
The whole lawn seemed to brighten around that almost-smile.
Then Frankie clapped once.
“Can we rehearse the thank-you thing before Mayor Romance accidentally invents a vow renewal?”
“Frankie,” Sutton said.
Mayor Halford looked mildly wounded.
Marin turned.
“Frankie.”
“Yes?”
“I like you more when you’re quieter.”
Frankie nodded solemnly. “That is a common note.”
Rehearsal began ten minutes later.
Nothing about it should have been complicated.
The parade order was simple. Tom would ride in the open vintage convertible with Mrs. Bell seated beside him “purely for hydration enforcement.” Mayor Halford would make a short thank-you announcement from the veterans center lawn before the parade lineup moved toward Main Street.
The roof crew’s staging area would be roped off.
The Spitfires would walk together behind the veterans center banner because Mrs. Paxton had decided their “youthful energy” would be good for morale.
Frankie had immediately asked if youthful energy required jazz hands.
Sutton had said no.
Wilder had asked if respectful finger guns were allowed.
Sutton had said absolutely not.
Crew had said nothing because he was still emotionally recovering from the phrase Mayor Romance.
Marin stood near Tom while the committee adjusted chairs. She had brought him soup, a turkey sandwich, two electrolyte drinks, and a glare that made him eat without negotiation.
Crew watched from ten feet away.
Not hovering.
Barely.
He was attempting a new relationship with distance.
It involved standing far enough away not to crowd people and close enough to catch his father if gravity became dramatic again.
Tom looked up from his sandwich.
“I can feel you monitoring me.”
Crew stopped pretending to look at the bunting.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Mrs. Bell nodded. “He is.”
Marin did not look away from Tom. “He has a monitoring face.”
Crew sighed.
“I have one face.”
Tom, Mrs. Bell, and Marin all said, “No, you don’t.”
From the back, Beck called, “That’s what we said.”
Crew turned.
The Spitfires all looked suddenly busy.
Marin’s mouth twitched again.
Crew turned back, because apparently the entire town had united around facial criticism.
Tom took another bite of sandwich and looked satisfied with the outcome.
Good.
Let him enjoy it.
Let him sit in the July evening with a full roof deposit, a parade waiting, and people who loved him badly but thoroughly.
Crew could survive mockery for that.
Mrs. Paxton hurried over with a clipboard.
An actual clipboard.
Marin saw it first.
Her eyes widened like a predator spotting movement.
“Shirley.”
Mrs. Paxton froze.
Then looked down at the clipboard with horror.
“Oh! I forgot.”
She shoved it behind her back.
Marin closed her eyes.
Crew pressed his lips together.
Tom looked delighted.
“What’s wrong with clipboards?” Mrs. Bell asked.
“Nothing,” Mrs. Paxton said quickly.
“Everything,” Marin said.
“It’s a long story,” Crew added.
“It is not a story,” Marin corrected. “It is a boundary.”
Frankie whispered, “Put that on a sign.”
Sutton whispered back, “Do not.”