“Glad you’ll be there to witness greatness.”
Her lips twist. “There’s that confidence.”
“You like it.”
“Maybe I do.” She slides reluctantly into the driver’s seat. “See you Saturday, Maverick.”
“See you Saturday, Parks & Rec Princess.”
When she drives away, I stand in the parking lot like a lovesick teenager, watching her taillights disappear around the corner.
This woman leaves me with a sugar crash and I can’t say I mind.
22
WINNIE
The Fire& Ice Fest is supposed to be my crowning achievement as Huckleberry Hill’s Parks & Recreation director.
Instead, it’s shaping up to be a disaster covered in snow and topped with competitive grandmothers.
“My brownies have a secret ingredient,” Grandma Joyce announces, positioning her platter at the center of the brownie ice cream sundae station.
Judy Waples narrows her eyes. “So do mine. It’s called love.”
“Mine have that too. Plus espresso powder and cinnamon.”
“Well, mine have—” Judy leans in conspiratorially, “—lard.”
I step between them before this escalates into a full-scale brownie conflict. “Ladies, there’s room for both platters. In fact, why don’t we arrange them together? A collaborative display?”
They look at me like I’ve suggested they share a toothbrush.
Judy sniffs. “Fine. But mine go in front.”
My grandmother is about to employ guerrilla warfare.
“Alphabetical order. Joyce, then Judy.”
Judy mutters something about rigged systems, but they comply.
Crisis averted. For now.
I glance at my clipboard, currently showing seventeen unchecked items. The ice sculptures are melting faster than anticipated. The hot chocolate bar ran out of marshmallows an hour ago. And I just got a text from Cody, the high schooler who usually wears the mascot costume, that he has the stomach bug.
I stare at the message, willing the letters to rearrange and say something different. Gus’s appearance to debut all the merch is the centerpiece of today’s event since it’s all new. Mayor Barbie already announced it like we’re unveiling a royal heir.
My phone buzzes again. It’s Mindy this time, wondering where our man in the mascot suit is.
I reply that I’m working on it, but no solution comes readily to mind. At least, not one that I want to entertain.
I look around the community room in the transformed municipal complex. It really is beautiful—ice sculptures catching the afternoon light, families skating on the outdoor rink, the smell of hot chocolate and brownies mixing with cold mountain air. This is what I came to Huckleberry Hill to create. Community. Connection. Joy.
But none of it matters if we don’t have a giant squirrel.
I find the costume in the storage closet, staring like it might throw acorns at me. Hey, stranger things have happened. Pulling it off the shelf, the chickaree squirrel suit is substantial. The tail alone is the size of Oreo the dog. The head looks like it could hold a couple of basketballs at least.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
