“Trade ya for a plate of breakfast nachos,” he said.
“They’re only taking money now, Art,” Ida scolded. “Harrogate is on the international map with the Art Zurich Biennial Expo. In fact, they’re making a whole documentary about our town. We have to represent.”
“But these are fresh picked from just this morning. And,” Art said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I have moonshine.”
“How about you keep the moonshine, and I’ll take the strawberries and make you breakfast,” I told him, hefting the two five-gallon buckets of berries.
I wasn’t mad about the berries; I did need to make jam to sell. Tourists loved to buy locally made jam. It was actually our highest-margin item, and Lord knew we needed money at the restaurant.
I served the trickle of diners, coring the strawberries between customers. They were small and sweet, not like the giant mealy ones from the chain grocery store just outside of town.
“Zoe!” Gran called out as I finished the first of the buckets. “Don’t forget you have the planning meeting.”
“I’m busy,” I said as our last customer left. Only the Harrogate Girls Club, now quite inebriated, remained.
“I’ll hold down the fort,” she insisted.
“Don’t give away free food,” I warned her. “At least make people give you ingredients we can use to make jam.”
She nodded, but my grandmother lived to feed people. I knew she would hand out food to friends and neighbors ambling by. She had started the restaurant because she liked to cook for others. If people weren’t going to come in on their own, then she was going to bring them, sit them down, and feed them wholesome New England fare.
“I just need you to hold on until the art biennial,” I begged the restaurant. “We’ll be swamped with customers then.” I slowly took off my apron. “I don’t really know anything about festival planning.”
“Nonsense,” my granny said, straightening my hair, blotting my shiny nose, and hefting my ample boobs.
Remember what I said about her need to feed? Coupled with my need to stress eat, we made an unstoppable codependent pair.
“Stick your chest out when you walk into the room,” Gran ordered. “There are going to be men there. You might find a husband.”
“She doesn’t need a husband,” Ida insisted. “She just needs a hookup. Keep your freedom! Burn your bra!”
“I actually really need the underwire support,” I said, grabbing my bag and heading to the door, because anything was better than listening to my granny and her drunk friends start to veer off into sex-advice territory.
“Also, try not to swallow,” Gran called after me. “It gives you the runs.”
And on that note, off I went to yet another small-town shit show.
As much as I complained about Harrogate, I did enjoy walking down the streets. The town was quaint and picturesque. Workers were starting to decorate for the giant omelet festival that weekend.
There was a slight breeze as I walked to the historic city hall building. I was starting to feel… not great—I still wished I was a rich socialite with a hot, rich boyfriend in a fancy-schmancy apartment in Manhattan—but on a day like today, Harrogate wasn’t so bad.
Until I saw it.
Some douche had parked their expensive sports car in front of the city hall building, taking two whole spaces.
“The nerve!” I said aloud, grinding my teeth. “Why can’t people manage simple directions?” Things like that had a tendency to ruin my whole day. But I was going to try and be positive.
The catering gig from Weston was actually going to keep us afloat for another week, and he had given me a tip that would pay for the utilities that month, and I had gotten some fresh strawberries. I was going to make a killing on jam at the festival.
“You have to take gratitude where you can find it.” I tried to pep talk myself as I went into the historic building to the staircase that led up to the smaller meeting rooms.
“Maybe this will be fine,” I said as I walked down the hall to the large carved-wood door, messenger bag bumping my thigh. “You might make a new friend.”
Or an old enemy.
There were two other people present, who I recognized as my grandmother’s friend’s jobless and rudderless grandkids. I vaguely remembered both from high school. One was a mop-headed guy who, as I remembered, regularly ate glue and now streamed gaming online. The other was a hungover girl wearing a sweatshirt and chewing a baseball-sized wad of gum. Beside them was Sharla. Fuck.
And next to her?
Weston.
Fuck.
6
Weston
“Zoe!” I exclaimed when the door opened. She immediately slammed it shut. I jumped up and opened it again.
“Are you here for the festival planning meeting?” I asked, ushering her inside. “Isn’t this great? Small-town festivals are the best.”
The girl chewing the wad of gum coughed like a tuberculosis patient and took out a vape.
“You cannot smoke in here!” Zoe said in horror.
The girl rolled her eyes, stood up, and opened the window that looked out over the square.
The door opened again, and Meg stepped inside.
“You don’t have anything better to do with your day, Deputy Mayor?” Zoe asked her.
“I’m just here to make sure you have it all under control.”
“Do we ever!” I said, passing out the schedule of events I’d made. “Everyone, welcome to the first Festival Planning Committee meeting. We are in charge of ensuring these festivals go smoothly and are wholesome, fun family events.”
Zoe glared at me as I handed her a packet.
“We all need to be on Team Harrogate, so I started us off with making a more detailed schedule. I just tweaked a few things and added more information from what the Harrogate Girls Club started,” I explained, launching into my CEO mode.
Meg was impressed. “This is better than the drunken napkin scribbles I saw last week,” Meg said. “When you give Hunter your spying report, you can tell him I’m much more impressed with you than with him.”
“No, ma’am, Deputy Mayor, I do not have a death wish!”
Zoe did not look impressed as she flipped through the schedule I’d made. “Were you on Adderall when you did this? This is ridiculous.”
“By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.” I tapped my pen on the tabletop. “We have a number of festivals, including the omelet festival, the chicken festival, the bacon festival, the art festival, the jam festival, and of course, the Founders Firelight Festival. Every one of these has to go off without a hitch,” I said in my consultant voice. This was what my company did: we found the most efficient way possible to create complex systems and events. We optimized everything from conferences to industrial logistics.
“I have a chart with critical-path items. Now, I don’t want to step on any toes here, but I think what I have prepared will make this summer of festivals a success.”
Zoe rolled her eyes.
Sharla grabbed my arm. “I think this is wonderful, Weston!” she gushed. “You’re so smart and talented. No wonder you’re a billionaire!”