“So … who does the marketing?” I ask casually. I don’t want to step on any toes.
“Emily. Remember her? You went out runnin’ with her that one time.”
The super quiet woman with zero personality? Vaguely.
“She’s workin’ on something special for this year’s poster.”
“A poster.” Tell me that’s not the extent of their marketing campaign?
“Yes! We put them up all over the Mat-Su Borough. Gets people excited.”
Right.
“What if I helped her? I think you could use a new website and a social media campaign and …” My words fade as Muriel waves me off with a doubtful expression.
“Emily’s got all that covered. Besides, have you ever been to a winter carnival in Alaska?”
“Well, no. But there’s this Christmas market in Toronto—”
“How are you supposed to convince people to come when you’ve never even been?” She shakes her head but then offers me a reassuring smile. “That social media may have worked where you come from, but none of that stuff works on people around here. Don’t worry. We’ll keep you busy.”
I struggle to smooth the sour look from my face and trail her through another set of doors and into the hall—a dull, sterile, windowless rectangular room. A group of nine women of varying ages and one gray-haired man chatter while rearranging long tables into a horseshoe. One of them—Candace, from the Trading Post—I recognize.
“Lift those legs, ladies!” Muriel croons in a singsong voice, as if to mask that she’s giving them an order. “Remember when Sally gouged the floor last year dragging a table? The town council was not happy about that.”
“You’re on the council, Muriel,” Candace says with a chuckle. She’s wearing the same pale blue floral-embroidered cardigan and Crocs that she always wears at her store.
“Exactly! And I was not happy about wastin’ money to fix it.” Muriel slaps her folder on the table—in the center of the horseshoe, I note. “Go on and grab yourself a chair, Calla, and come sit next to me.”
Several women—including Emily—offer me polite smiles as I pass, heading for a stack of chairs off to the side.
“I found a church pew the other day and I thought of you,” Candace says, trailing after me.
I feel my cheeks flush. “Uh, okay?” Because I’m a terrible liar who clearly needs to pray? I’ve been in the Trading Post a few times and on one trip, she asked me how my mother liked the coffee table. I balked at admitting the truth and instead told her that I hadn’t realized how expensive it would be to ship so I’ve kept it for myself.
She chuckles. “I’m nosy. I asked Toby what you were doin’ with all these old things you keep buyin’ from me. He said you use ’em around your house. You know, turning them into somethin’ else. He said you were really good at that sort of thing.” She shrugs. “Anyway, it’s a solid piece. Worn to hell and needin’ some cleanup, but I thought you might have an idea for somethin’ like that.”
I’ve seen church pews repurposed before, as benches, and I have to agree—there’s definite potential. “Thank you, for thinking about me.” And I genuinely mean it. “Maybe I can come by tomorrow and take a look at it?”
She offers me a toothy grin. Something tells me she enjoys finding treasures for people.
“Okay, everyone!” Muriel shifts her chair over to make room for me and then claps her hands. “Let’s get started. We’ve got a lot to cover tonight.”
I steal a glance around the table to catch the mixed expressions as everyone takes their seats—everything from eager smiles to a grim stare from the older gentleman. That could be his face, or it could be a reaction to the task ahead.
Or it could be Muriel’s abrasive, domineering manner. Toby said his mother feels a certain ownership over Trapper’s Crossing, that she has her fingers in every pot when it comes to how the town runs. She’s an elected official on the board—and reelected many times over—so people must respect her passion and fortitude.
But I wonder what all the other residents really think of her.
Muriel clears her throat. “First things first. Everyone, this is Calla. She’s new to the community.” Eleven sets of eyes land on me, and my cheeks burn with the attention. I do recognize some of the ladies from the Ale House, I realize. “Let’s do a quick round-table intro. Calla, this is John. He manages the overall budget. Gloria runs the volunteer schedule, you’ve already met Candace …” She goes around the table, introducing each person.
“Now that that’s sorted, how about we start with last month’s follow-ups. John, you were going to provide a sponsorship budget update and crunch some numbers so we could figure out how to make the fireworks show bigger …”
Muriel steers the meeting, rifling through last month’s minutes, each member giving their own updates while a small, mousy woman named Ivy takes notes. It reminds me of my corporate days, sitting around a table in a conference room, discussing projects and plans.
I listen quietly for the next sixty minutes as they talk, struggling to quell my simmering annoyance with Muriel for so swiftly dismissing my suggestion to help with the marketing. Sure, this carnival sounds as hokey as I was suspecting it might be—from the pancake breakfast right down to the karaoke competition—but so far, the only marketing that’s been discussed is Emily’s thrilling, hand-drawn poster and a quarter-page advertisement in the local newspaper a month before the event.
I’m trying to come up with a plan for how to broach the subject with Muriel again later when I feel a jolt in my chair, followed a moment later by a shake that grows more intense by the second. Muriel’s voice drifts midsentence, and everyone moves at once, shifting out of their chairs to dive under the tables.
“Come on!” she beckons me, easing her stout body to the floor. I follow her, dumbstruck, and soon, the group of us are huddled beneath the bank of tables, John’s wary gaze on the ceiling tiles above us.
The shaking subsides about fifteen seconds later to a chorus of nervous laughter, before people slowly crawl out.
“That one was close,” someone says.
“I guess we better go and find out what kind of damage that caused.” Muriel wipes her hands over her jeans as if dusting dirt off them. “What do ya think? Five point six?”
“Four point three.” John nods to the clock on the wall. “It’s barely crooked.”
“Wager the first catch of the season?”
His jowls lift with the first smile I’ve seen from him as he offers his hand, and they shake on it. “Let’s hope you catch another thirty-pounder.”
They’re betting on the magnitude of the earthquake that just shook the ground like we’re at a race track on a casual Sunday afternoon.
I stare at them, trying to make sense of their cavalier attitude. There’s one explanation I can think of. “Are earthquakes normal around here?” I ask.
Chuckles and sympathetic looks answer me.
I stir as the mattress sinks beneath Jonah’s weight. Moments later, his hot, naked body is molding itself against my back. His lips graze my neck, and his hand slips into the front of my panties.