"I didn't sign up for this," Freddie said.
"No," she agreed pleasantly. "You didn't."
A brief silence.
"And yet," Freddie said.
"And yet." Mrs. Patel opened her own folder — smaller than Wren's, a single manila sleeve. "It is a longstanding custom in Valor that the two newest business owners on the main streettake on a committee role in their first full calendar year. It helps you learn how the town works: who to call when the marquee supplier cancels, why you don't schedule anything during the Hendersons' anniversary weekend, which vendors need to be placed next to each other and which absolutely cannot be. We find it orients people.
"As co-chairs, the two of you are responsible for the decoration scheme, vendor coordination, logistics planning, and on-the-day management. You'll have four committee meetings between now and the market weekend. Mrs. Hendricks is handling the catering liaison; Mr. Osei has the music stage, and Dot Fairweather is managing the harvest raffle, which she does every year and which always ends in at least one small controversy that resolves itself by Sunday evening."
"What kind of controversy?" Wren asked.
"The prize categories," Mrs. Patel said, in a tone that foreclosed further inquiry. "The point is that the two of you are the center of it. Decorations set the tone for the whole event. If the market looks beautiful, people feel generous, and if people feel generous, the vendors do well, and if the vendors do well, they come back next year, and that is how a town like this stays a town like this." She looked between them again, and there was something underneath the pleasantness now. "It matters. That's why I wanted people who would take it seriously."
Wren glanced involuntarily at Freddie. He was looking at the table. His jaw had the quality of a man recalibrating something.
"Any questions?" Mrs. Patel asked. But she rose from her chair without waiting for either Wren or Freddie to speak up. "I'll leave you to it."
She left the shortbread tin. This, Wren suspected, was deliberate.
The door swung shut behind her with a soft, settled click. Wren looked at the whiteboard. Freddie looked at his notebook. The radiator ticked.
"Right," Wren said. "I've put together a full scheme. Warm lighting, seasonal florals, a cohesive color palette across all the booths. I've broken it into zones: entrance, main walkway, the stage area, and the food vendors. I've also accounted for the weather contingency, because I heard last year the Hendersons' bunting situation was a crisis that this committee is not going to repeat."
Freddie had not moved. He was looking at her words on the paper. For a moment, Wren felt self-conscious about her penmanship.
"The lighting's good," he said. "The Edison bulbs. Good call."
She looked at him for a moment. "Oh."
"The florals," he continued, "are going to be a problem near the stage."
Wren capped the marker. "Why?"
"Stage needs clear sight lines from the main walkway. You put potted arrangements at the entrance to that zone, you're blocking the view for anyone under five foot six from the moment they come around the corner. And you'll have spent money on florals that half the attendees never actually see."
Wren opened her mouth. Closed it. Because he was right. "The entrance arrangements can be lower. I hadn't specified height."
"Hmmm." He pointed to something in her notebook with her pen. "What about the chalkboard sign?"
"Hand-lettered. Near the main gate."
"I was going to suggest two. One at each entrance."
Wren looked at her notes. She had written one chalkboard; main gate only in the margin and underlined it, because she had thought two would be excessive. But he was right.
"Two is better," she said, in a tone that communicated she had been about to come to this conclusion independently.
Wren pulled out the sage-tabbed section with perhaps slightly too much precision and flattened it on the table between them. He leaned forward to look — not far, because his default posture appeared to involve taking up more space than was strictly necessary — and she caught, briefly, the scent of espresso and cedarwood, warm and inconveniently familiar, and forced her attention back to the page where it belonged.
"I've got the food trucks here," she said, pointing, "along the east side. It should keep foot traffic moving in one direction and will help with the culinary judging."
"Hmmm."
Wren was starting to realize that was Freddie-speak for agreement.
"Except for the mulled cider booth."
