We both know Foster talks a big game and that he’s outwardly kind of a grump compared to the locals in Songbird Ridge. But when it comes down to it, my friend is a big softy inside.
And when he does get me a ticket, I’ll be one step closer to meeting Riley Hutchinson.
Chapter
Three
“You wantme to do what?“
Some of the board members shift nervously in their seats.
Elsa Dietz, who runs the historical society and one of several downtown galleries, looks very excited. “As you know,” she says, “Songbird Ridge is growing by leaps and bounds. Whether we like it or not, new people are moving here all the time, and our businesses have benefited from that. But one way we can keep our charm as a small artist colony is to continue with the annual art gala and silent auction.”
I look around the room. Why wouldn’t we continue with the gala? Where is she going with this obviously prepared speech?
Elsa cuts her eyes at Foster, the owner of the sports equipment store at the end of Main Street. “Some of us, who shall remain nameless, have expressed doubt as to whether we should be giving any sort of base salary to the guild.”
“Wow,” I breathe.
Several people feel the need to reassure me with supportive murmurings.
“Not me.”
“Not me either.”
Pete finally cuts in. “The thing is, Riley, some of the biggest art collectors and donors are aging and dying off. Many of their descendants are more interested in selling off those art collections rather than carrying on a tradition of supporting the arts in Songbird Ridge.”
My stomach becomes a hard knot.
“And? We still have a whole community behind the guild, Pete. So I don’t understand the point of this meeting,” I say. “Why am I here?”
I’d love to ask, Why am I here, losing my appetite when I could be taking a walk and then enjoying chicken and dumplings with my sister-in-law and niblings right now?
“Local support in a small town is not the same kind of money that comes from Raleigh, Durham, Charlotte, Winston-Salem…you know what I’m saying,” Pete says.
I shake my head. “True. But I’m an artist. I’m not involved in getting donors to come to these kinds of things.”
Pete clears his throat and then finally says it, with Elsa staring at him.
“We need you at the gala.”
I look around the room again, and everyone is staring at me.
I laugh. “But the artists don’t go to the galas. We just provide all of the live auction items and exhibit our latest work.”
Pete continues, “Like I said, this next generation is different. We have to woo them. We have to answer questions. We have to make them feel important and seen.”
I look around the table.
“In other words, you want me to go and make small talk with mega-rich people so they’ll be convinced to bid on things.”
Elsa chirps, “You got it!”
This is my worst nightmare.
“I’m no good at small talk,” I remind everyone.
Everyone around the table laughs. “We know,” someone groans.
