She smirked. “Oh, itmighthave a little something to do with some pranks I pulled as a kid. Remember that goat fiasco in high school?”
I did. Someone had released three goats into the school, but numbered them One, Two, and Four, sending the staff into a panic, searching for a non-existent goat number Three. We thought it was hysterical. Richard Bowen, the principal at the time, did not.
“That wasyou?”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” she caged. “Doesn’t matter. EveryonethinksI did it. I’m not trusted to ‘coordinate’ anything. Works for me.”
I chuckled, but then the amusement faded. If someone as rooted in this town as Bristol couldn’t change old impressions, what chance would I have?
I chewed on my thumbnail as Beverly stepped up to the podium.
“As you know,” she started, “it’s time for our annual summer fundraiser. This year, we’ll be raising money to support our local food pantry and community crisis response program.”
Murmurs swept through the room.
“What crisis program?” someone hollered.
“I’m glad you asked. It’s a brand new initiative our town council voted to create. This program will serve as a local safety net for any of our residents facing unexpected emergencies. This might include being displaced by a fire or someone undergoing cancer treatment. It will include essentials like clothes, food, toiletries, gas cards, or even childcare if needed.” She paused for a breath. “This fundraiser will be a wonderful way to get it off the ground.”
I thought of Jordan, and how this might have helped his mom. “I can’t argue with the idea,” I whispered to Chase.
“It’s a good one,” he replied.
She continued. “So, to raise funds, we’ll start with our annual pancake breakfast. And I, of course, will contribute my famous recipe.” She beamed proudly and began scanning the room. “I just need someone to coordinate the details.”
Emalee shrank further.
“Donna?” Beverly called sweetly, her eyes zeroing in on someone near the back. “How about you?”
A woman getting up from her seat in the back froze, then bolted out the door without a word.
Beverly’s lips pursed. “Emalee Abbott? Where are you, dear? The Dogtrot is right near the pavilion. It just makes so much sense.”
“No,” Zach said firmly, cutting her off.
Beverly blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“She’s not doing it this year,” Zach repeated, his voice even but resolute. “She’s helped you the last two years. I’d like my wife to enjoy the event instead of running herself ragged.”
Beverly opened her mouth but was interrupted by a squawk from the back.
“Doc Zach’s bringing sexy back!”
The room erupted into laughter as Mayor Sterling fluffed his feathers proudly.
“Hello to you, too, Mayor,” Zach called with a grin.
Once the laughter settled, someone in the back called, “Why does it have to be a pancake breakfast?”
“Yeah,” several others chimed in. “It’s the same every year!”
“Boring,” someone added.
Beverly faltered. “Well, it’s tradition. But I guess we could do a car wash?”
“Boo!” someone shouted over a collection of groans.
“A bake sale?”
