I clutch the edge of the table in my excitement. “You’re having the marching band play Fleetwood Mac?”
He smiles. “ ‘Tusk.’ ”
“Ilove‘Tusk,’ ” I say.
“Me too. It was between that and Paul Simon’s ‘You Can Call Me Al.’ But ‘Tusk’ has a part where the kids get to run around and yell a bit, so it won in a landslide when we put it to a vote.” He lets out a charming, almost dorky laugh that only makes him more attractive. “Ha. ‘Landslide.’ Get it?”
Boy do I ever. “I know we just met,” I say, “but I think we should be best friends.”
He laughs again. “In that case, you should probably know that my name is Ryan.”
“Nice to meet you, Ryan the hepcat,” I say. And then I maintain eye contact with him as I wrap my lips around my straw and take a sip of my iced tea. The intense sweetness comes as a shock to my tongue. “Holy shoes, that’s like straight-up simple syrup that might’ve brushed against a tea leaf a few years ago.”
“Ha, yeah, they take their sweet tea very seriously in these parts. I grew up in Vermont and I prefer my tea unsweetened, which might be the real reason half the town hates me. Um, so, Ms. Watts-Cohen—”
“You should call me Millie if we’re going to be best friends.”
“Millie,” he repeats with that easy smile of his that momentarily pauses my brain. “I’m here to ask a very big favor of you, but I think I can make it worth your time.”
Oh, right. He came over here to chat about something and presumably it was not the speed with which information spreads around Gadsley or his excellent taste in marching band music. “Sure, I’m listening,” I say.
“Our mayor went to this small-town tourism convention last month and now he’s obsessed with getting ‘younger’ people to think Gadsley’s hip and fun. And by ‘younger’ people, he apparently means millennials. So he started this Young Residents Advisory Council, which is really just me and his daughter. Which... now that I think about it, maybe the council is all just an elaborate matchmaking attempt?” His jade-colored eyes drift away for a moment, considering, before refocusing on my face. “Anyway, he asked me to find a grand marshal for the Broccoli Festival parade who would match our new hip and fun millennial vibe. And, uh, I procrastinated on it because I’ve been busy with the band, and because his daughter told me that he’d probably change his mind anyway and want to be the grand marshal himself like every other year but... parade’s tomorrow, he hasn’t changed his mind, and I’m completely screwed.”
“So you want me to help you find someone who will appeal to millennials and is willing to be your parade grand marshal with twenty-four hours’ notice?” Does he think I have a phone full of contact info for celebrity thirtysomethings who just happen to live within driving distance of Gadsley, South Carolina?
“No. I wantyouto be the parade grand marshal with twenty-four hours’ notice. You’re exactly the person we need. I don’t think I could’ve found anyone better had I actually put effort into it.”
“Thank you?”
Ryan’s eyes drift upward, looking somewhere over my head, and his smile droops like a flower arrangement on the fifth day in its vase.
“Hey. Sorry to interrupt,” says a familiar voice that doesn’t sound even a little sorry.
I tilt my head back until I’m staring up at the stubbled underside of Hollis’s chin. He’s focused on Ryan until I say, “Hey, what are you doing here?” Then his head bows so he can meet my upturned eyes, and his glasses slide a fraction of an inch down his nose. For some reason, when he pushes them back up with his index finger, I feel the need to take an extra deep breath.
“Needed a break. Figured I’d get some lunch.” Without waiting for an invitation, he pulls an empty chair over and sits beside me. “Have you eaten yet?”
“I had an egg and some toast,” I say. “But that was hours ago now. I wouldn’t mind something else.”
Hollis is looking at Ryan again and there’s an odd tension in the air. It’s momentarily broken when the waitress comes over to take Hollis’s and my lunch order—Hollis ordering for me, reluctantly this time because I insist on the kid’s mac and cheese, which is topped with a hot dog sliced to look like an octopus. Ryan doesn’t order anything since he won’t have time to eat before he has to get back to the school.
“Oh, introductions,” I say once the waitress leaves. “Hollis, this is Ryan. He’s the high school’s band director and he’s just proposed something very interesting. Ryan, this is Hollis.” How does Hollis want to be introduced? Am I supposed to keep up the Mr. and Mrs. Hollenbeck nonsense here, or just at the B&B? “He’s my... uh... Hollis.”
Ryan’s friendly smile can’t hide his confusion, but I give him points for trying. “Nice to meet you,” he says.
“Likewise. So what’s the proposition?”
Ryan repeats his explanation about the mayor and the parade. Hollis sits with his arms crossed, nodding, as Ryan gets to the point. “So I’ve asked Millie to be our grand marshal.”
“Okay, and? What’s in it for her, exactly?”
“Oh, right. Yes. That part’s important, isn’t it? So I heard that you’re in a bit of a hurry to get back on the road. If you do this for me, I’d be happy to lend you my car for as long as you need it.”
At that, Hollis’s spine straightens and his arms unfold, literally opening himself up to the idea. “We’re going pretty far, and don’t plan to pass back through this way again for about a week.”
“No problem,” Ryan says. “I bike or walk almost everywhere. The car’s just sitting in my driveway doing no one any good right now.” He turns his attention toward me. “I’d really like to help you, Millie.”
“But she has to help you first,” Hollis says.
