He gives me a one-armed hug. “Hey, Riley. Sorry for the change of plans. But the downtown board of directors needs to speak with you about something really important.”
A thousand thoughts run through my mind.
But the one that sticks out the most is that I look like crap on toast.
I glance down the front of my ratty tee-shirt and my jeans, all smudged with old paint. My family is used to seeing me like this, but the board of directors isn’t.
“Can’t it wait?”
He sees me looking at my clothes and says, “Don’t worry about that, you’ll be fine.”
Inside the restaurant, several familiar faces smile, and some wave hello.
It does nothing to calm my nerves.
“Hey Pete, have you ever had one of those dreams where you find yourself in the middle of a play and you don’t know any of your lines?”
Pete laughs boisterously. A little too much, if you ask me. This is all very weird, because it wasn’t that funny, and it seems like he’s trying to look relaxed and unflappable.
The hostess leads us through the main dining area into the party room at the back. About twelve people are seated around a live-edge oak table, already set with an array of sandwiches and salads, served family-style.
What in the world am I walking into?
I recognize all these people, some from my childhood in Songbird Ridge, others that I’ve met in the last few years. Some, like Angela, the owner of this very restaurant, I’ve known my whole life. Others, like Foster, are transplants who have opened newer, trendy shops in the area to cater to the ever-growing number of tourists and backpackers.
Everyone is smiling expectantly as I take a seat.
I get the sense that these are the smiles of people who are about to ask me for a giant, unscheduled, inconvenient favor.
I already know I’m going to say yes, and I’m going to hate it.
Chapter
Two
Rowdy
“Missed her again?”
My friend Foster catches me leaving the art gallery for the second time this week.
I shove my fingers through my unkempt hair in frustration.
“If I did happen to see Riley Hutchinson, I wouldn’t be standing out here, freezing my ass off and talking to you. No offense,” I say.
Foster shrugs. “ None taken. I wouldn’t wanna talk to me either.”
The misanthropic vibes are real with this one. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” I joke. “People in Songbird Ridge have been nothing but nice to you since you moved here.”
Foster scoffs. “If by nice you mean they keep trying to set me up with their single daughters and nieces, then give me a cold shoulder when I turn them down? Sure. Real nice.”
To be fair, Foster hasn’t given any of them a chance. And his northern attitude can be a little bit much for some people.
“Well, you like me,” I say.
“Everyone loves you. And you have to be nice to me, because I’m the only person within thirty miles who carries decent hiking gear.”
“ I guess we’re stuck with each other.”
