One Night Only - This Saturday
* * *
The words are surrounded by more vibrant colors and images, hearts and flowers and roses. It’s very attention-grabbing.
He’s going to hate it.
But that’s the point, apparently.
We’ve been brainstorming for five days about how to complete the next task. This was the best we could come up with, after Daphne set up a whiteboard and corkboard in the office and we filled both of them with notes, ideas, pictures, and sticky notes.
It’s like we’re solving a murder instead of trying to get a grouchy recluse to sit through an entire film next to someone he finds annoying or possibly hates with the fire of a thousand suns. It’s me. I’m someone.
This idea is a bit of a Hail Mary at this point.
But at least the work distracts me from thinking too much about Spencer.
About what his dreams are, besides running around town all day helping whoever needs it like it’s a personal vendetta. About why he wears sweater vests and how he makes them look way too appealing. About why he’s still single, even though he’s a major catch.
About how I think he was thisclose to kissing me the other night but didn’t.
And how I would have let him.
But we haven’t exchanged more than a few words here and there. I’ve only seen him in passing. There have been no more surprise meals. He’s been gone by the time I get up almost every day, and only Quinn is there, typing away or answering calls.
It’s like I’m twelve again, dealing with the ill-advised crush on my co-star Whitman. Thank God I got over that one quickly.
I follow Daphne down the sidewalk. The snow has mostly melted except for where it was piled up along the curb. “How is he even going to hear about it if he doesn’t leave his house?”
“Oh, he’ll hear about it. Men cannot live on squash alone. Noah will tell him, if no one else. We’ll make sure he gets a flyer in his squash box. Don’t worry. The whole town is going to be in on this by the time we’re done.”
“But how?—?”
She’s on the move before I can finish my sentence.
I chase her across the street and to the next block as she hands the flyer to a group of teenagers and says, “Tell your friends. And your parents.”
We keep moving. “I still don’t get how this will guarantee he shows up and stays.”
She stops and turns to me. “Graham is a famous writer, which means he has a massive ego. He doesn’t write heartwarming coming-of-age bullshit; he writes crazy, funny, super-smart horror books. This is going to kill him. Not to mention the potential legalities. An unauthorized use of his work in a way he will hate.”
“Why wouldn’t he just send his lawyer then? Or a cease and desist?”
She shrugs. “He’ll want to see for himself who’s behind this. Plus, he won’t have time to bring someone else into town for him, and he can’t hire Spencer or ask him to interfere because it would be a conflict of interest, and Spencer would have to turn him down if he tries.”
“Okay. So, let’s say he shows up. How do we get him to stay for a whole film?”
“That will be a little trickier. But I have an idea.”
“And that is?”
She waves a hand down the street. “Come on. We’ll put some of these up at the diner, then we need to talk to Peggy.”
I vaguely remember Beverly mentioning someone with that name. “Who’s Peggy?”
“She owns the bookstore, and she knows everything. If anyone can figure this out, it’s her.”
“That’s your idea? Find someone else with an idea?”
