But that’s not what a future mayor would do, was it? Or a Landry.
He slapped on the smile and turned to see Mrs. Peters bustling toward him as fast as she could over the uneven ground. She expertly dodged the puddle he’d stepped in, giving it a look down her nose.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Peters?” He glanced at the phone in his hand. The loading icon still spun.
The librarian patted the top of her white hair. “As I’m sure you know, I’m part of Magnolia Grace’s choir that’s performing at the festival this week.”
He didn’t know. “Yes ma’am?”
“I came to check out the stage situation, report back to the music minister.” She curled her arms around her navy pantsuit, the shoulder pads of which stretched wider than her hips. “And thank heavens I did.”
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Peters?” He snuck another glance at his phone. The app had loaded, and he subtly clicked the account button to scan the transactions. Another spinning wheel filled the screen.
“A senior choir can’t stand on risers like that.” Her lips pursed as if Cade shown have already known. “We’ll break our arthritic knees.”
“I’m sure we can adjust the risers for your performance. But you’ll need varying heights somehow, or no one will be able to see you.”
“Are you calling me short, young Landry?” She lifted her chin—and her five-foot frame—as high as she could while holding her glare.
“I…” He looked down again. “I’m, uh—” The website had loaded. “Yes!”
“Excuse me!” Mrs. Peter’s eyes flashed.
“No! Not you.” Cade held up his phone. “I was waiting on something.”
She scowled. “Back in my day, young professionals had manners.”
“I know. And they returned their library books on time too.” Cade gestured with his cell again. “I’m sorry, this is an emergency.” But now he couldn’t look at the data in his hand without proving her point.
She bristled. “So is the stage situation.”
“I’ll make sure the risers—” Cade sniffed. Why did the air suddenly smell like essential oils?
“Cade, darling.” Madame Paulette swept up behind him, brandishing a pink feather boa. Loose feathers fluttered behind her, trailing the ground like a molting flamingo.
Cade reached and checked his own forehead. Cool and dry, despite the sweat forming on his back. So he didn’t have fever.
He kept his smile steady. “Hey, Madame Paulette. Let me guess—you have a problem?” He looked behind her, searching for context. But all he could see was Zoey, talking frantically into her phone. Miley stood beside her, also on her cell, one finger plugging her free ear as she paced in front of the book booth. He frowned. Everyone was on their phones. Sadie. Farmer Branson…Hehada phone?
“Honey, you’re much too handsome to be so negative.” Madame draped the boa around his neck. “I was going to let you know the stage looks perfect for my little dancers to perform this week.”
That was a relief. He nodded, fingers itching to check the bank account. “I’m glad to hear it.”
She tugged the boa back. “After you make it bigger, of course.”
His smile faltered. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t apologize honey, I’m sure it’s not your fault.” She patted his arm.
“I wasn’t?—”
“Oh!” She pointed to the food trucks. “I’m glad I came a little early. I swear I could smell those breakfast burritos from Village Lane.” She rushed away before Cade could figure out what happened.
At least someone would be getting a burrito this morning.
He looked back at Mrs. Peters, who watched him with a hawkish expression, as if he was supposed to say something else.
But he couldn’t wait any longer. “If you’ll give me a moment…” Cade held up one finger, then ducked his head as he scrolled the contents of the bank page. He held his breath, ignoring Mrs. Peter’s pointed tapping of her orthopedic shoe and willed a charge to appear from the porta-potty company.
