7. Sophie
SOPHIE
Sarah’s Jetta, which she graciously lent me again, smelled faintly of vanilla and one of those little pine-tree air fresheners that somehow never smelled remotely like pine trees. The seats were warm from the morning sun.
I started the engine. “Okay,” I told myself. “Today’s going to be different.”
I pulled out of the inn parking lot. “I am not chasing livestock today.” A beat passed. “I’m manifesting that.” Another beat. “Please don’t make me chase livestock today.”
The drive into downtown only took a few minutes, but Maplewood Falls was already awake.
The bakery had a line stretching onto the sidewalk.
A florist was arranging buckets of colorful flowers outside her shop.
Two fishermen were arguing beside the marina, both gesturing toward the water with the absolute certainty that only retired men seemed capable of possessing before nine in the morning.
A woman walked three golden retrievers that appeared to be walking her instead.
Normal. Peaceful. I relaxed a little.
Maybe yesterday had simply been… an unfortunate introduction. Maybe today would mostly involve paperwork. Paperwork sounded wonderful. Paperwork didn’t spit. Paperwork generally stayed where you left it.
As I approached the town square, colorful festival banners fluttered between the old brick buildings. Volunteers carried folding tables across the green while a landscaping crew planted bright yellow mums around the gazebo.
For the first time, I could almost picture what Helen had been seeing all along.
Families. Music. Food. Kids running around with sticky fingers. The whole town coming together. It really could be beautiful.
If we survived the next twenty-four hours.
I pulled into the temporary parking area behind the square and spotted Helen.
She stood beside a folding table with a clipboard tucked against her chest. She was dressed in a large blue blazer with shoulder pads that made her look like she was about to play football paired with cream linen pants and sensible shoes that looked capable of surviving both a town council meeting and a natural disaster.
Knowing Helen, they probably had.
She wasn’t alone.
Three food trucks sat parked in a crooked row with their serving windows firmly shut, looking less like cheerful festival attractions and more like disgruntled employees refusing to clock in.
One was painted bright cherry red with cartoon tacos dancing across the side.
Another advertised wood-fired pizza with flames climbing up the panels while the third was a polished silver with cheerful turquoise lettering that promised Coastal Lobster Rolls.
Beside the pizza truck stood a man in a spotless white chef’s coat with his arms folded so tightly across his chest I was surprised circulation still reached his fingers.
He was somewhere in his late forties and broad through the shoulders with a shaved head and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard.
His jaw worked slowly as he chewed what looked suspiciously like gum.
One foot tapped impatiently against the pavement.
A woman paced beside the lobster truck, talking animatedly into her cell phone while slicing the air with her free hand.
She wore black capri pants, expensive running shoes that looked far too clean to have ever been used for actual running, and oversized sunglasses perched on top of perfectly highlighted blonde hair.
Every few seconds she threw both hands into the air, stopped long enough to glare at Helen from across the lot, and then resumed pacing.
Neither looked happy.
Yesterday I’d negotiated with animals. Today I was moving up to humans.
I wasn’t entirely convinced this was an upgrade.
I took a deep breath. “I can do this. I’m an event planner. I plan. That’s what I do.” Well… since yesterday, anyway. But I was going to own it.
Watch me.
I parked, grabbed the binder, and climbed out.
Helen spotted me immediately. “There you are. Finally.”
“I came as fast as I could.”
She glanced toward the food trucks. “We have a problem.”
I looked from one tense face to another. “A tiny problem?”
Helen sighed. “I may have understated the situation.”
I had been afraid of that. “What happened?”
“The health inspector.”
I blinked. “The health inspector?”
“He changed the food vendor layout.”
“Can he do that?” I asked before realizing I’d probably just announced to Helen that I had no idea what I was doing. Experienced planners knew that. Right?
“He already did,” answered Helen, not suspicious about my question.
I looked toward the row of trucks. “They look pissed. How angry are they on a scale of one to ten?” Please say one.
Helen gave me a tired smile. “They’ve been waiting for you.”
Wonderful.
Helen tucked her clipboard beneath one arm and looked at me with complete confidence, which I very much wished I deserved.
“The health inspector decided the trucks have to be rearranged,” she said.
“Something about access lanes, fire regulations, and emergency vehicles. They all had their permits approved based on yesterday’s layout. ”
I nodded slowly as though I knew what any of that meant. I didn’t.
“The vendors don’t want to move,” Helen continued. “The inspector says they have to. They’ve been arguing for the last forty-five minutes.”
Another slow nod. Forty-five minutes. Excellent.
I hadn’t even gotten out of Sarah’s car before inheriting almost an hour’s worth of someone else’s problems.
Helen smiled and patted my arm. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Oh, if only you knew.
“You’ve done this before,” she said. “You’ll know how to smooth everything over.”
I smiled back. It felt surprisingly convincing, considering my insides had just burst into flames. “Absolutely.” My mouth really needed to stop volunteering me for things.
Helen looked visibly relieved. “I knew hiring you was the right decision.”
Guilt twisted somewhere beneath my ribs. Please don’t say nice things to me. Nice things made lying feel significantly worse.
She glanced toward the vendors again. “Well…” Then she handed me her clipboard. “I’ll leave them in your capable hands.”
My fingers automatically closed around it before my brain had a chance to object.
“I have to meet with the parade committee and then check on the volunteer registration tent,” continued Helen. “If anyone can sort this out, it’s you.”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
Helen smiled warmly. “I’ll come check on you later.” Then she turned and walked away with a brisk confidence that said she believed every problem had now been delegated to someone fully qualified to solve it.
Me.
I watched her disappear across the square. “Okay,” I whispered to myself. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, tucked Helen’s clipboard under one arm, and marched toward the three food trucks with what I hoped looked like confidence.
Inside, however, my brain was running around in tiny circles screaming.
Nothing says “qualified professional” quite like internal panic.
The chef spotted me first. He uncrossed his arms, pushed away from the side of his truck, and fixed me with the sort of expression usually reserved for people who announced they were microwaving steak. “You the event planner?”
My smile arrived two seconds before my confidence did. “I am.”
He looked me up and down. “Good,” he said. “Tell him we’re not moving.”
“Tell who?” I looked behind me like an idiot. Nice.
“The inspector,” he growled, staring at me like I was a simpleton.
I glanced back at him. “Yes. Right.”
The blonde woman ended her phone call with an exaggerated sigh and marched over.
“I’ve already rearranged my truck twice this morning,” she said without bothering to introduce herself.
“First Helen wanted us one way. Then the inspector wanted us another way. I’ve already plugged into the electrical hookups. ”
The chef pointed toward the pavement. “So have I.”
I looked. Sure enough, thick black power cables snaked across the asphalt toward each truck. Right. Electricity. Of course food trucks needed electricity. Why had I imagined they simply… showed up?
I opened Helen’s binder. Surely something in here would cover negotiating with angry chefs. Or electrical cables. Or conflict resolution. Instead I found a laminated page titled WASTE MANAGEMENT.
Helpful.
If one of them suddenly needed information about recycling bins, I was ready.
I closed the binder. “So…” I said brightly. “Let’s all take a breath.”
“I’ve already taken one,” the chef replied.
“I’ve taken several,” said the blonde.
I smiled, even though their expressions at the moment looked like they both wanted to strangle me. “I understand everyone’s frustrated. But I’m sure we can figure something out.”
The blonde folded her arms. “The inspector says we need twelve feet between trucks.”
“The fire department regulations changed,” the chef added.
“But if I move twelve feet,” the blonde shot back, “I’m blocking the dessert truck.”
“The dessert truck isn’t even here,” growled the chef.
“It will be,” pressed the woman.
The chef furrowed his brow. “When?”
The blonde woman paused for a second. “I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” answered the chef.
I watched them argue for another thirty seconds, which felt oddly like watching tennis. My head kept turning left. Then right. Then left again. At some point I became reasonably certain they’d forgotten I was standing there.
I cleared my throat.
Nothing.
The chef was now explaining something about propane tanks. The blonde countered with customer flow. He replied with generator clearance. She came back with foot traffic.
I didn’t understand a single word. Not one. This was like listening to two surgeons debate spleens.
Eventually I raised both hands. “Okay! We all want the same thing. Right? A successful festival,” I continued. “Happy customers. Am I right? Yes?”
They nodded cautiously.
“And…” I searched desperately for something inspiring. “Food. People like food. I like food. We all like food. Carbs. Yum.” I wasn’t sure I’d landed the motivational speech I’d been aiming for.