Eight
HOLLY
Town Hall Politics
The Everdale Falls Community Centerhad never felt smaller than it did Tuesday evening when I walked in for our first official festival planning meeting with what appeared to be half the town in attendance. Mrs. Peterson had called it a brief informational gathering but judging by the number of folding chairs that had been set up and the suspicious abundance of homemade cookies, this was clearly going to be a full-scale community event.
“Holly, dear!” Mrs. Brooks waved me over to where she was sitting with Mrs. Hall and Mrs. Patterson—the holy trinity of Everdale Falls gossip and social coordination. “Come sit with us. We saved you a seat.”
The saved seat was, naturally, right next to where Declan was already sitting, looking politely attentive while Mrs. Patterson explained something that involved a lot of hand gestures and apparent enthusiasm about Christmas wreaths.
“Thanks,” I said, sliding into the chair and trying to ignore the way the three women immediately leaned forward with expressions of barely contained delight.
“You two look so professional together,” Mrs. Brooks announced in the kind of stage whisper that was clearly intended to be overheard. “Like you were meant to be working as a team.”
“It’s just festival planning,” I said quickly.
“Of course it is, dear,” Mrs. Hall agreed with the sort of smile that suggested she thought it was anything but. “Though I have to say, it’s wonderful to see young people taking on leadership roles in the community. Sets such a good example.”
Before I could figure out how to respond to that loaded comment, Mrs. Peterson called the meeting to order by tapping a small bell that looked like it had been liberated from someone’s Christmas decoration collection.
“Friends and neighbors,” she began, beaming at the assembled crowd with the kind of theatrical enthusiasm that suggested she’d been practicing this speech, “we’re here tonight to discuss our annual Christmas festival and to introduce this year’s planning committee chairs.”
A small round of applause rippled through the room, and I felt my cheeks warm as dozens of familiar faces turned in our direction.
“As you know, Matthew Winters has been graciously managing our festival coordination for the past few years, but work commitments will prevent him from joining us this year.”
“Such a shame,” someone called from the back. “Matt always did such a nice job.”
“Indeed, he did,” Mrs. Peterson agreed. “But I’m delighted to announce that his very capable sister Holly will be stepping in, along with Declan Hayes, who’s generously volunteered his time and expertise.”
This time, the applause was more enthusiastic, accompanied by murmurs of approval that sounded suspiciously like people congratulating themselves on a plan well executed.
“Holly’s always been so organized,” Mrs. Johnson said loudly enough for half the room to hear. “Remember how beautifully she managed the high school graduation ceremony?”
“And Declan brings such a valuable outside perspective,” Mrs. Brooks added. “It’s wonderful when young people with different experiences can collaborate.”
I glanced sideways at Declan, who was listening to the commentary with an expression of polite interest that didn’t quite hide his amusement. Either he was better at managing small-town enthusiasm than I was, or he hadn’t yet realized the extent to which we’d apparently become the town’s favorite matchmaking project.
“Now,” Mrs. Peterson continued, “Holly and Declan have already begun the planning process, and I’m sure they’d be happy to share some of their initial thoughts.”
This was news to me. We’d discussed vendor lists and logistics, but we definitely hadn’t prepared any kind of presentation. I looked at Declan in mild panic, but he was already standing with the sort of easy confidence that made public speaking look effortless. I guessed that being a hotshot lawyer, you needed to have that ability.
“Thank you, Mrs. Peterson,” he said, addressing the room with the same professional competence he’d probably used in New York courtrooms. “Holly and I are excited to be working on this year’s festival, and we’re committed to honoring the traditions that make it special while ensuring everything runs smoothly.”
It was diplomatic, appropriate, and gave away absolutely nothing about our actual plans. I was impressed despite myself.
“We’re still in the early planning stages,” I added, standing up beside him, “but we’ll be reaching out to individual vendors and volunteers over the next few days to confirm participation and discuss any logistics.”
“Will there be mistletoe?” Mrs. Hall called out, and the question was delivered with such pointed innocence that several people laughed outright.
“There’s always mistletoe at the Christmas festival,” Mrs. Peterson replied before either Declan, or I could respond. “It’s tradition.”
“Good,” Mrs. Brooks said with satisfaction. “Christmas isn’t Christmas without mistletoe.”
“And romantic music,” Mrs. Patterson added. “The festival needs romantic music for the tree lighting ceremony.”
“Romantic music?” I repeated, feeling like I was missing some crucial subtext.
