"Morning, Clara! Hope we didn't wake you."
"You did."
"Wonderful! We need to borrow Jack." Maeve peered past Clara like she was a minor obstacle. "Jack! Perfect. You're already up."
Jack finished pulling his shirt on—too late to hide the strip of stomach he'd just flashed everyone—and joined Clara at the door. "Borrow me for what?"
"Festival stage collapsed last night. The old thing went down like a house of cards. The only saving grace is that no one was hurt.” Maeve's expression turned pleading in a way that would've won her an Oscar. "We need it rebuilt by Saturday, and you're the only carpenter for thirty miles. Please? The whole summer festival depends on it. The theater kids have been rehearsing for weeks and it’s too late to find a new venue.”
There it was. The children card. Ruthless. How did she know that was his weak spot?
Jack bit back a smile. This was a setup. An obvious, transparent, small-town setup that he'd seen variations of in a dozen different places. They didn't need him specifically—any competent carpenter could rebuild a stage. But they wanted an excuse to check him out, see what he was made of, make sure he was good enough for their Clara even though Clara had been clear they weren’t dating.
But he appreciated how protective they were of their girl and for that, he’d happily pitch in.
“This couldn't have been achieved with a phone call?" Clara said, raising an eyebrow.
"My dear, some things need to be done face-to-face," Maeve insisted. "Much harder to say no when you're staring into someone's eyeballs."
At least she was honest about it.
Clara turned to Jack, apologizing, “You don’t have to?—”
"We'll pay you," one of the men interjected—Thomas, Jack remembered. Owned the lumber yard. "Union rates. Cash."
"And Clara can show you where everything is," Maeve added, turning that smile on Clara. "Since you're new to town."
“Hold on, now, I have work," Clara protested. “A deadline!”
“I’m sure you’ll work it out.” Maeve's smile didn't waver. "Consider it community service. You know how important the Founder’s Festival is. I have pictures of you up on that old stage when you were young. Time to pay it forward for the next generation.”
Jack watched Clara's expression cycle through irritation, resignation, and finally defeat. Six pairsof eyes stared at her with varying degrees of hope and expectation—the kind of small-town pressure that weighed about a thousand pounds.
Clara looked to Jack in question, leaving it up to him.
How could he refuse? “I’d be happy to help out,” he said.
"Perfect!" Maeve clapped like Jack had just volunteered a kidney. "Meet at the town square in thirty minutes?"
They left before Clara could change her mind, climbing into Maeve's rusted Tahoe like they'd just won a battle.
Which they had.
Clara closed the door and leaned against it, a chagrined expression on her face. “I don’t even have words. I’m so sorry. You don’t have to go. I’ll make some kind of excuse and get you out of your offer.”
“Are you kidding? My carpentry skills are on the line. I can’t allow my reputation to be tarnished by flaking on an offer to help. But if you don’t want to go, I get it. I could borrow your boat?—”
“Oh hell no, you're not touching my boat." She crossed her arms. "Need I remind you what happened the last time you captained a vessel?"
"That's not fair. There was a freak storm.”
"I'll take you. But we're leaving in fifteen minutes. They can wait."
Jack grinned. "Yes, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am. I'm not ninety."
"Yes, Captain."
