Part 29 (1/2)
”Not perform?” Susan repeats. ”How can Slice of Pie not perform? I've already told Bailey about it, and she's beyond excited. She told all the kids in her cla.s.s.”
”So did Noah,” Carol adds. ”He's been insisting I call him the Pieman for the past two weeks now. He won't stop singing 'Mustard Pie.'”
They swing their gazes to me. My stomach hurts.
”Well, their performance was contingent on me securing a big sponsor so we could afford to pay them,” I admit. ”So I'd been trying to get Edison Power on board as our one and only diamond-level sponsor. But the man at Edison who's in charge of making sponsors.h.i.+p decisions turned us down.”
”He turned down Mirror Lake's Bicentennial Festival?” Carol shakes her head in disbelief. ”Aren't they supposed to be all into community support?”
”Yes, but it was his daughter's birthday that was ruined,” I say. ”Needless to say, Edison no longer trusts me to pull off a town festival. And if we don't have their sponsors.h.i.+p, we can't afford to pay Slice of Pie.”
The Moms fall silent. A strange weight seems to lift off my shoulders. We spend so much time trying to prove ourselves and our children to each other, to make it seem like we're totally in control, that we know exactly what we're doing, that all our decisions are the right ones-that it is an unexpected relief to stand in front of a group of mothers and admit to failure.
”Well, Bailey is going to be devastated,” Susan mutters.
”I'm sure Bailey will survive the disappointment,” Carol replies, eyeing her pointedly before turning back to me. ”Do you have other sponsors, Liv?”
”Yes, but not at the diamond level. That's fifteen thousand and over. It was also going to help pay for extra tents and food trucks, plus the carnival rides.”
c.r.a.p. I need to call the carnival manager now and ask about scaling things back. I'm really running out of time.
”Frank works with the community outreach manager over at SciTech,” Carol says, reaching for a cookie from the snacks on the picnic table. ”I can ask him to put in a good word for the festival.”
”Brian runs the marketing department at Horville Foods,” Joan puts in. ”I'm sure he'll approve some level of sponsors.h.i.+p. And Kathleen still works over at the Blue Shoe Company. They just opened another franchise in Forest Grove, so they'd probably be into some community outreach.”
”Sam and I can make a personal donation,” Susan says.
They all look at me expectantly again. A faint hope flickers to life.
”In the corporate packages, I mention VIP seating and pa.s.ses as one of the benefits to sponsors.h.i.+p,” I say. ”I can give them to you to pa.s.s along, if you think people might be interested.”
”With Slice of Pie at risk, Liv,” Joan remarks, shaking her head, ”we're all interested.”
Something begins to lift inside me, as if rainclouds are parting to reveal a clear sky. I look at the other women with a dawning realization that for all the hot topics and controversy about advanced schools, organic foods, vaccinations, et cetera, The Moms know how to get stuff done. Not only for their children and families, but for their friends.
”Don't worry, Liv,” Susan says. ”We've got this.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN.
OLIVIA.
Over the next week, The Moms collect close to eleven thousand dollars in sponsors.h.i.+ps from various companies. Slice of Pie agrees to perform, and as word spreads of the festival troubles, Mirror Lake rallies to the cause with more volunteers and donations. Allie, Brent, and the planning committee scramble to secure the rest of the entertainment and food trucks.
Florence Wickham tells me her new friend Mr. Jenkins of the Historic Railroad a.s.sociation will be delighted to serve as the Chair Fair auctioneer. The carnival company sets up rides in a corner of Wizard's Park, while volunteers hang signs and posters in shop windows.
On Sat.u.r.day morning, the day of the festival, the sun rises into a cloudless blue sky. The gra.s.sy expanse of Wizard's Park is dotted with tents where people are selling artwork and various foods. Balloons float from the children's stage, which is surrounded by a bouncy-house and game booths. Folk music drifts from a band at the main stage, and the air is filled with the smells of popcorn, barbeque, and cotton candy.
Armed with a walkie-talkie and my cell phone, I walk around the festival grounds, making sure everything is running smoothly. The volunteers are wearing their purple Mirror Lake Festival Staff T-s.h.i.+rts as they help with crowd control, entertainment, and safety.
Earlier that morning, we moved the auction chairs to a cordoned-off area outside the auction tent. The colorful, painted chairs are arranged in perfect rows, like a flower garden drenched in sunlight.
In addition to being thrilled by how everything worked out, I'm incredibly proud of what the townspeople have contributed to the Chair Fair-beautiful, detailed, whimsical, and artistic creations of whatever inspired them. There are chairs painted with teddy bears, rainbows, ocean landscapes, Impressionist artworks, Dr. Seuss characters, and jungle animals.
Taking a break from checking my spreadsheets, I join Archer, Kelsey, and Nicholas for some fun. We have gooey slices of pizza, play beanbag toss, and ride the carousel. I text Dean that the festival is going well, and include a picture of Nicholas eating a cone of cotton candy bigger than his head.
”Forty-five minutes until the auction, Liv.” Allie hurries up to me, her ponytail swinging and her gla.s.ses askew. ”Where's Patrick?”
”He had to cancel.” I peer toward the auction tent. ”Mr. Jenkins is going to subst.i.tute as the auctioneer.”
”Mr. Jenkins?” Allie repeats, her expression both surprised and doubtful. ”Isn't he, like, eighty?”
”Well, yes, but he's still very agile and spry.” I smile to hide my own uncertainty. ”It'll be fine.”
Just fine, I repeat to myself firmly. I leave Nicholas with Archer and head toward the auction tent, which is starting to fill with patrons. Several people wander around outside looking at the chairs, and their conversations are tinged with admiration and delight.
”h.e.l.lo, Olivia, dear.” Florence Wickham, dainty and pretty in a peach-colored suit and hat, approaches me with a smile. ”What a wonderful success this is!”
”So far,” I allow, though I won't be entirely relaxed until the festival is over and done with.
”I'm so sorry Dean couldn't be here,” Florence remarks wistfully. ”But Ronald is delighted to help out. Oh, Ronald! Over here!”
A wizened older man waves and approaches us, leaning on a cane. A fringe of white hair encircles his bald head, and he's wearing a rumpled brown suit and polka-dotted tie. He extends a shaky hand to greet me, and I lead him over to the podium to explain the lot numbers and how the auction will run.
I leave him looking through an auctioneer booklet while I get the volunteers organized handing out paddles and catalogs. As the start time nears, the seats begin to fill up, and before long I realize it's going to be standing room only.
Nervousness twines through me. I've worked hard on the entire festival, but the Chair Fair is especially critical, not only for the Historical Society but for the town itself. If we don't raise enough money to save the railroad depot, there's no telling what developer might grab up the land and possibly ruin the picturesque beauty of Wizard's Park with a strip mall or condos.
I glance at my watch. Five minutes. Mr. Jenkins is standing by the podium with Florence, whispering something in her ear as he pats her rear end. She giggles.
With a smile, I go out to the chair display to ensure they're all lined up in the same order they are in the catalog. A cloud pa.s.ses over the sun, throwing the chairs into shadow. I do a quick check and return to the tent to get the auction underway.
The crowd quiets down as I introduce myself, thank everyone who has supported us, explain how the auction will run, and then turn the microphone over to Mr. Jenkins.
He puts on a pair of bifocals and clears his throat, peering at the list of chairs.
”Uh, first item...” he glances at the stage, where a volunteer brings up a chair painted with a rainbow theme ”...is a chair.”
The crowd smiles indulgently. I move closer to Mr. Jenkins and point to the list.
”Lot number one,” I remind him quietly.
”Lot one,” he says into the mic. ”A really nice chair painted with rainbows. Let's start the bidding at... say, fifty dollars!”
Several paddles wave in the air. I see Archer standing by the edge of the tent, Nicholas perched on his shoulders.
”Fifty dollars, anyone for sixty?” Mr. Jenkins's voice grows louder, excitement appearing on his weathered face. ”Sixty dollars for this beautiful, hand-painted chair!”