The sound of the mud swallowing my Santoni oxfords is the stuff of legends. I inhale at the feel of the mud above shoe level, absolutely making contact with my sock. There’s mud inside my custom Italian leather shoes. Shoes that are now ruined.
Everyone gasps and Steven wails as though he might actually be crying. I pin my gaze like a laser on the one responsible. She looks away, of course, but…I caught it. The side of her mouth went up with a quarter-of-a-second flash of truth. A moment of glee.
She’ll never admit it but she’s ecstatic over the death of my dress shoes.
This thrills me. She’s not only failing at her task with the town, she’s also letting her sweet, shy mask slip. My true adversary is revealed, just as hellbent on taking me down as I am on getting my plans executed exactly how I want. With the parking lot squarely in place of her shop.
I look away and take off my jacket. And suit jacket. I set them on the wood rail of the truck as I listen to Carl and Renaldo debate how best to push this damn thing out of what looks like a bloody sinkhole while the women whine and screech.
Steven eventually stands, moving about as fast as the syrup I was promised.
Carl takes off his leather jacket and Renaldo starts to roll his sleeves, so I do the same. Someone whistles at us.
“Steven, don’t make it weird,” Carl complains.
I look up and give the realtor another glare that could kill.
“Okay! I’m coming down, I’m coming down! Geez!”
He does and the women follow, as per Carl’s grouchy instructions. Then, myself and the three males available push the shit out of a truck the size of a small building.
It does not budge.
We lift with our legs, we pull, we do a lot of grunting. I smash the tip of my pinky finger and curse like a sailor. Carl and Steven make calls until a couple ATVs come to take people back to the market.
We wait for a larger four-wheeler to arrive to tow the front of the truck while we push the back.
Eventually, eons later, the thing pulls free. All of us are covered in sweat and grime. Forget the shoes, all my clothes are ruined.
Carl hands me a bottled water from his truck—questionably lukewarm and scuffed, but unopened, at least—and I chug.
Then scoff.
“Hey, the truck only got stuck on three tours,” Steven tries.
“Three!” I reply.
“Still, we had a great turnout. Don’t go busting her up about this,” he says again. As if Harper is the one who needs comfort here. I am sweating, bleeding and pissed. I look over to see how she is doing, wondering if she’s still pleased with herself. And, okay, wondering if maybe, like the couple obvious women directly across from me, she watched our “Forearm show” as Steven called it.
But she’s gone.
“And?” I pant. “Did the stores end in the black after all the costs? Stringing lights, booths, ads?”
Steven opens his mouth, shuts it, and looks away. He has no clue. But I do. No ticket for entry, free samples, more shoddy rides. This is not a winning formula.
Harper is not going make it to May, let alone July.
Why don’t I feel more triumphant about that?
CHAPTER 10
Harper
“This is unreal!” Maxine gushes as she barrels through door of the shop. She’s too loud for so early in the morning, and she’s much louder than the socially acceptable volume level for a coffee shop, but, as usual lately, it’s dead in here.
“What’s unreal?” Madison asks.
“The heat!” She answers, gesturing to her mucked rain boots and light jacket. I smirk. It’s 41 degrees out.
