Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
I pulled the phone away from my ear and glanced at the screen. The voice sounded like my mother, and the call was coming from her number, but…
“Is this one of those things where you want to let me know you’ve been kidnapped but can’t say so directly?” I demanded. “Cough if you need me to call the police.”
She gave a long-suffering sigh. “Reagan, honestly.”
There we go. “Sorry, Mother. How have I pleased you?”
“Oh, not you, dear. I’m pleased because your father’s just informed me that Thatcher agreed to attend the awards ceremony after the Festival of Ice. Such a coup having him here in person! I’ve let all the organizers know. Of course, I’ll expect you back in town well before then. By… oh, Wednesday at the latest.”
“What are you… Wait, Wednesday? This Wednesday? Three days from now Wednesday?”
“Naturally. We have more events than ever this year, and it’s so important that the Wellbridges present a unified front at as many of them as possible. Oh, speaking of which! You’ll need to bring your dark Ralph Lauren suit to coordinate with my dress for the Friends of the Honeybridge Art Council luncheon. None of that flashy stuff you get from your internet friends.”
I ignored her swipe at my sponsors and gritted my teeth. “Mother. I’m working. I’m on a work trip. I know I’ve told you this—”
“Yes, and I told you, Thatcher will understand. I’ll call and check with him myself if I have to. Your father and I are very proud of you for doing your… work things, I’m sure, Reagan, but reporters will simply be flocking to town to cover the festival and the awards ceremony, and we cannot miss this opportunity. You know how small-town family values ignite your father’s voter base.”
I opened my mouth to ask how Maine voters would feel about a mother contacting her adult son’s boss to arrange time off so her son could pose for pictures, but then I caught myself. “Wait… reporters?”
“Yes! Dozens of them. From Maine, mostly, but Channel 5 in Boston might be sending up a crew for one of their features on scenic New England towns, and I believe your father’s convinced the Wall Street Journal to give him—I mean, the town—some coverage, too. He reminded them the Honeybridge Investment Summit is happening the same week. It’s a veritable whirlwind of newsworthy events here in Honeybridge!”
Right. I was sure the Wall Street Journal would be sending a team of journalists to cover a meeting of ten commercial real estate investors in a tiny, rural Maine town. For as savvy as my mother could be about certain things, she was utterly delusional about the importance of Honeybridge on a global scale.
But if there really were going to be a bunch of reporters and an investment summit in town…
“You know, Mother,” I said thoughtfully, “you might be onto something. Let me speak to Thatcher.”
“I felt sure you’d be reasonable about this… eventually. Oh, and don’t forget to get a haircut, dear. Something tidy this time, hmm? Your internet friends don’t have the same high standards as our family.”
I’d learned long ago that trying to get the last word with Patricia Wellbridge was an exercise in futility, so I didn’t bother. Instead, I said goodbye and made my way back to the kitchenette.
“What’s wrong?” Thatcher demanded.
“Not wrong exactly.” I slid into the booth and drummed my fingers on the tabletop, still pondering. “The Honeybridge Festival of Ice starts this week, and my mother insists I come to Honeybridge to fill my usual spot as a member of the Senator’s faithful family in press photos, especially since there might be some national reporters on the scene. I told her no, but then I got to thinking. You already committed to attend the awards ceremony at the end of the festival—”
“Did I?” he demanded.
“Yup. You told my father so this morning, and my mother is over the moon. It’s a good thing the Senator didn’t ask you to sign over your company or donate him a spare kidney, eh?” I grinned.
Thatcher rolled his eyes.
“Anyway, what if we made Honeybridge part of our PennCo tour? There’s an investment summit happening in town at the same time—which I’m sure is small potatoes compared to what you’re used to—but it might make for some good publicity. All the same hokey, small-town festival things that make great photo ops for my dad—baby kissing, helping old ladies cross the street, building snowmen with little kids—would be good for you, too. So I’m thinking… what if we schedule some press meetings and have photos taken of you and Flynn at the Tavern? We’d get a much more personal and home-baked image of you and PennCo Fiber than the industry stuff we’ve gotten on this trip. Imagine the TikToks of Nova’s drunken arrest stitched with a video of you wearing a puffer jacket and khaki pants, drinking some local mead, and checking out the festival’s winning ice sculpture—which, last year, was my cousin Alma’s eight-foot-tall depiction of Peregrine Wellbridge, one of the town founders, looking like he might bust out of his breeches and join the cast of Magic Mike. There was a lot to check out.”