“Rowan, I’m so glad you could stop by.” She smoothed a hand over the front of her dress and offered me a warm smile. “I haven’t had to deal with the details of The Founders’ Festival for quite a while. Sabrina used to handle it before she left to start the coffee shop. Could you check over everything to make sure we’re in compliance?”
“I’d be happy to, but that’s also literally my job.” I rocked back on my heels and tried to will away the beginning twinges of a tension headache.
“Fantastic. I have the map in the conference room. In full disclosure, the map is actually three maps taped together with a note from our night manager about not letting the axe throwing team block the elevator.”
“That’s an excellent note,” I said.
She smiled. The skin at her temples tightened for a second and then smoothed. “If you hear the words The Ex-List, please pretend my hands aren’t shaking. It’s been a circus since he checked in.”
I didn’t need to ask who he was. Laughter came from the lounge and a man’s voice followed, bright, practiced, and carrying without effort. “—and you’re saying the Butterfly is a real person. Tell our listeners what makes him so… portable.”
Portable. I held still, very aware of my pulse.
Mrs. Qualle’s eyes shifted toward the sound and back. “He’s promised a tasteful series. He hasn’t delivered tasteful yet.”
“Let’s deal with the map first,” I suggested.
We laid the parade plan out on the conference table. Mrs. Qualle had indeed taped three copies together. She had not, however, missed a single delivery window or vendor location. She was one of those people who could coax chaos into a straight line.
“The float staging is along Founders’ Way,” she said. “Food trucks on the east end. Kids’ zone at the park. We’ll use the Inn lot for ADA parking and the loading ramp for band gear. The Knotty Tap wants to set a second beer garden near their side door.”
“Perimeter fencing, two access points, and a staff list posted at each,” I said. “And whoever is doing axe throwing needs a safety officer with a radio.”
She made a note, her hand trembling slightly. “Thank you.”
The voice from the lounge rose again. “Folks, we’re here with locals who say the Butterfly burns bright and then flits. He’s charming. He’s fun. He starts fast and moves on before the dust settles. That’s the consensus, right?”
A woman’s nervous laugh carried. “I wouldn’t say?—”
“You just did,” the podcaster said. “Don’t worry. We’re not here to hurt feelings. We’re here to uncover the truth.”
Mrs. Qualle’s pen paused. She looked at me like she had something to say but no official reason to say it. “I keep thinking about how something meant to entertain can still do damage.”
“It can,” I said.
“And how once a story spreads, people start acting like it’s fact, whether it is or not.”
I thought of a steady hand at my back. The quiet certainty of saying yes. And then I thought of my parents’ divorce—how they split holidays like stolen treasure—and of my ex-fiance walking out with no warning a month before our wedding. Love wasn’t steady. It was reckless. I’d been foolish enough to trust it once. Never again.
“Let’s finish the staging,” I said, because maps never asked me to rewrite the truth.
We walked through routes and time marks, then returned to the lobby. The podcaster had moved into the center of the room like a performer who expected everyone to follow him. He wore good headphones, a mic on his collar, and the smile of a man certain that the town existed to entertain him.
“Ms. March?” he said as if we’d met. “Perfect. I’ve been hoping to catch you. Listeners love a good rule. Tell us how the town plans to handle this sudden influx of… romance.”
“We plan to handle parade staging and public safety,” I said. “Romance isn’t a municipal function.”
He laughed a little too loudly. “Hard Timber is adorable. You all speak in capital letters.”
“Do you have a question related to permits?” I asked.
“Just one.” He angled the mic. “What do you think of The Butterfly?”
I looked at the mic and then at him. “I think it’s funny how people pick metaphors without thinking about what they really mean.”
He rocked back, pleased with himself. “That’s a good line. We’ll use it.”
“You won’t use me,” I said. “Not for your joke.”
