Page 85 of The Fire Captain's Unexpected Baby
And with all of Crown Hill seemingly exploding with excitement at her return, she’s going to be hard to avoid.
* * *
Summer
“You said everyone would be dressed up!” I hiss to my mom, shivering in the tight evening dress thatdefinitelyhas no place here in the town hall.
The rest of the fundraiser’s guests are in their Sunday best, formal but sedate, not a sequin or sparkle in sight. And hereIam, looking like I’m about to walk a red carpet, feeling like more of a fraud with every passing second.
“I’ll just run home and change,” I insist, pulling away. “Grab my coat from the car at least.”
But Mom’s arm is a vise around mine, holding me at her side. “You’ll do no such thing. You look fine, stop fussing.”
Before I can argue or break free from her grip, I’m spotted by Mrs. Oakley, who has a horde of other older ladies with her. “Summer! Look, it’s Summer!”
In a matter of seconds, they swarm, their excitement palpable, their well-wishes and compliments stirring up a fever of imposter syndrome that threatens to burn me alive from the inside out. I’m no one special. I’m not worthy of the celebrity they seem determined to foist on me.
“Are you back in town for research?” one asks.
“Well, I…” I don’t get any further than that before someone else jumps in, a clamor of voices that make my ears ring.
“I’ve always thought that Oak Valley is really Crown Hill.”
“If you know where to find me a Rhys Corbridge or a Maxwell Hart, you point me to ‘em.”
Laughter erupts, while I squirm in the center of it.
“Will it be out in time for the summer?” another well-meaning lady asks what appears to be the most pressing question. “I can’t imagine anything better than reading a new Redwood Sisters book by the lake. Gives me something to do while Walter is holed up inside watching his sports.”
“You should have said you were coming, dear,” someone else chimes in. “We could’ve brought our copies for you to sign!”
“Youmustcome and speak at our book club,” another insists, though I get the feeling that thisisthe book club.
“Doesn’t she look wonderful? Every bit the city girl!” someone, maybe Mrs. Oakley, cries. “If I were thirty years younger, I’d have myself a dress like that.”
Another woman snorts. “Your husband wouldn’t know what to do with himself!”
I take a breath. “I can’t give away the mystery, but you’ll all be the first to hear about it when there’s a new book on the way.”
That seems to appease them, and I feel even more terrible for not just being honest; they’ll be waiting for a book that’s never going to make an appearance. Then again, they’ll figure it out soon enough when they realize, months from now, that I’m still in Crown Hill, working some job that’s decidedly not writing a book.
It's Paige who saves my floundering ass, her voice rising above the din of eager chatter that fills the foyer of the town hall. “The fundraiser is about to start! Everyone, take your seats!”
I try to catch her eye to flash her a grateful look, but she’s deep in business mode, tearing tickets and selling little white ribbons. She never seems to stop, and I have to wonder if it’s by design, a distraction from everything that happened to her this past year.
“Come on, then! I want us to get a good seat!” Dad chirps, weaving my arm through his to steal me away from the heartfelt compliments I’m not sure I deserve.
Ten minutes later, what feels like the entire town is seated in the hall, a space that has always reminded me of a summer camp basketball court; it’s just missing the corrugated iron roof. A sixties addition to Crown Hill. I’m surprised there isn’t a renovation fundraiser alongside the one for the hospital.
A stillness settles over the audience, peppered by the usual coughs and crumpling of paper, a few sniffles and sneezes, though the quantity of bodies in the hall has stopped me shivering.
Onto the low dais that’s barely higher than the timeworn floor, the mayor, John Allbright, takes center stage with the flair of a Southern pastor.
“Are we all ready to raise some money for the hospital?” he calls out into an ancient microphone.
Shy voices mumble back, mostly in agreement.
“I said, are we all ready to raise some money for the hospital?” he tries again, sweeping his arms forward.
