Page 6

Owen’s voice cut through it. He leaned over the council table, looking exhausted. “We’ve heard both perspectives. The council will recess for fifteen minutes to discuss our position.”

The room emptied slowly. I stayed at the front, reorganizing materials I’d already organized and pretending I wasn’t watching Nora accept quiet congratulations from her allies.

Two council members had nodded along with her letter excerpts. Neither of them had nodded at anything of mine.

I’d underestimated her. That was a mistake I wouldn’t make twice.

The recess lasted just over twenty minutes. When the council reconvened, Owen’s expression suggested he’d spent those minutes losing arguments he hadn’t wanted to have. “Mr. Cole. Ms. Winters. Please approach the front.”

We stood shoulder to shoulder before the council table, still on opposite sides.

“The council has discussed your competing visions for Main Street’s future.” Owen shuffled his papers and took his time lining up the edges. “We’ve also reviewed the upcoming Christmas Festival, which has historically been Holly Creek’s largest revenue generator, and which suffered a twenty percent attendance decline last year.”

I hadn’t researched the festival. It hadn’t seemed relevant to infrastructure renovation.

“The festival’s success this year is critical, both to potential investors and to the preservation committee evaluating our historic-district application.” Owen met my gaze, then Nora’s. “To get the festival permit and the extra insurance coverage, we need ninety percent of the vendors under contract and a verified twelve-thousand-dollar contingency reserve by December fourth. Miss either one, and we cannot close Main Street or hold the festival. The preservation committee visits in December. I’d like her to see a town, not a canceled event or a construction site.”

“The festival committee is doing its best with limited resources,” Nora said.

“The festival committee is understaffed and underfunded.” Owen’s interruption was gentle but firm. “And frankly, Nora, last year’s attendance drop happened on their watch. We need new energy. New approaches.”

Nora’s spine stiffened, and she moved her chair away from mine.

“The council is prepared to sponsor the festival and keep the road-closure application moving on one condition.” Owen took a breath. “Mr. Cole, Ms. Winters, you submit a joint recovery plan and co-chair the Christmas Festival together.”

I waited for the punchline. Owen didn’t deliver one.

“Co-chair,” Nora repeated. “With him?”

“You’ll share responsibility for vendor coordination, budget management, the insurance conditions, and event execution. You’ll meet three times weekly from now until opening night and sign the recovery plan before the binder deadline.”

“And if we refuse?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“Your ordinary safety permits aren’t part of this,” Owen said. “But your private phase-two redevelopment agreement needs council action, Mr. Cole, and the town won’t let you use the north lot or discuss preservation money without a written plan showing how the community benefits.” He turned to Nora. “Your downtown merchant grant renewal is due in January. It pays your rent and utilities through the two dead months, and it requires qualifying public programming. You’ve filed the festival for eight years running. I assume you’d like a ninth.”

Nora went very still. “That grant has always been a technicality.”

“It’s a line on a discretionary grant form,” Owen agreed. “It’s been there since the program began. Nobody’s ever had cause to read it out loud before.”

“That isn’t much of a choice,” Nora said.

“I’m putting terms on help the town is not required to provide.” Owen squared his papers. “This town needs the festival to make money, and the preservation committee needs evidence that redevelopment and local businesses can coexist. I’d rather have your cooperation. I’ll settle for a signed plan and results.”

I looked at Nora. She looked at me. We still disagreed, but now we had the same problem. Walking away would cost me the redevelopment deal. It would cost her the festival and the grant that carried her shop through winter. Neither of us planned to leave.

“Fine,” she said, the word clipped and furious.

“Agreed,” I said, because every other option cost more.

“Excellent.” Owen’s relief was visible. “Your first planning session is tomorrow at noon. The festival office in the community center basement. Don’t be late.”

The meeting adjourned. I gathered my materials and headed for the parking lot, aware of Nora’s footsteps behind me but not slowing.

Cold November air hit my face. I was halfway to my car when her voice stopped me. “This doesn’t change anything.”

I turned. She stood under the lot’s single functioning streetlight, arms wrapped around herself against the chill, her breath misting. Behind her, both municipal doors bore wreaths, and the left one had been rehung so many times the wire had worn a groove down through the paint.

“No,” I agreed. “It doesn’t.”