“As I’ve heard, in excruciating detail,” Meg said. “Funnily enough, it seems like you still did all right for yourself, considering that you’ve been bribing people to support your efforts in propping up the Founders’ Firelight Festival.”
“It’s tradition!” Hunter insisted.
“It’s violent. Someone almost got set on fire last year.”
“Things happen.” Hunter shrugged. “It was the War of 1812. But it was worth it. Harrogate won the battle.”
“Harrogate didn’t do anything. People stood outside in the heat, someone passed out from drinking too much, and no one in the town realized the actual war was over and done with until three weeks after the fact,” Meg said flatly.
“See, tradition.”
“I think the Founders’ Firelight Festival is a great event,” Ernest said, shoving his hands under his overall straps.
“How much did he pay you?” Meg demanded.
Ernest shuffled his feet. “It wasn’t a bribe, Deputy Mayor. He prepaid for two hundred pumpkins for Halloween next year.”
“Who needs two hundred pumpkins?” Meg asked Hunter.
Hunter acted shocked. “The Svenssons are active members of this esteemed community, and we are hosting our annual Halloween party in October. One needs pumpkins for Halloween, Meg.”
“I cannot believe this!” she shouted.
I grinned at their antics. They acted very much like a couple in love.
I handed Meg my card. “When your boyfriend pops the question, you should have Weddings in the City plan your wedding. I love all the small-town charm here.”
Meg looked at my card in dismay. Hunter reached out and took it as Amy face-palmed.
“That sounds like an excellent idea, Meg.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Meg said to me.
“Could have fooled me,” I muttered as they left.
* * *
After Liz had signedoff on the flower arrangement, Mark let Beowulf sniff around in the garden patch while I went out to inspect the handcrafted wooden chests on display. I was oscillating between a large tote bag for the reception gifts or a crate when I saw a picnic hamper, one of the old-style wicker ones. I opened it and saw that it had spots for utensils, plates, and bottles of wine.
“Oh, this would be perfect!”
“Really?” a man said next to me.
I whirled around.
Tall, blond, gray-eyed, he was devilishly handsome. “Because you’re perfect.”
“Ignore him,” another nearly identical blond man instructed, pushing his brother aside. “He’s uncultured, a bumkin if you will. If you like that hamper, I will buy it for you. A gift,” he said, gesturing magnanimously.
“I’m just looking for a container for wedding reception gifts instead of a bag,” I said, taking my phone out to snap some pictures of the artist’s label to contact them later. “But thank you.”
One of the men took my phone out of my hand. I glared at him, but he grinned at me and snapped a few pictures of himself. Then he handed me his business card with a flourish. It read WILDER SVENSSON.
“So you have something to remember me by.” Wilder winked.
“Why don’t you give me the phone, and you can keep the card,” I said, taking my phone and trying to hand the card back.
“Get away from her!” Mark roared from across the yard, storming over.
