Page 12 of Craving Consequences

They are ... everything they shouldn’t be. They are my harbor in a storm. My pillars. Where Lauren is a wild forest fire, a surge of chaos and life. Lachlan and Van are my calm, summer nights. The place I want to curl up into and rest without a care.

Still, as nice as a fantasy is, that is all it will ever be. Can be. There is no world in which I can claim the life I dream of without setting fire to my current life. Without destroying everything I know, plus everyone around me.

I pull around the back of City Hall, the prominent and extravagant red bricked building with its white trim and expertly maintained lawn tucked neatly behind an iron gate. It never closes. The motto is always that the doors are to remain open to the people of Jefferson at all hours.

I think it’s because the twisted, wrought iron is rusted open and can’t be closed even if someone tried.

Like the town, undesirable things are brushed over.

Painted over and spot checked, concealed and tucked out of sight.

Every six months, a mandate is issued that all residents must check and touch up their properties and surrounding areas.

I know because I personally print, label, address and send each of those letters twice a year to five thousand people.

For City Hall, the gates are painted a sharp black. Including the hinges.

I park in my designated spot — not next to Mayor Ferguson. That’s Peggy Sue’s spot — but two slots over and shut the engine off. I leave the windows down and my bag in the passenger’s seat; there’s a higher risk of a bird building a nest in my backseat than there is of anyone stealing anything.

Living in Jefferson is like living on Survivor Island. Someone is always watching.

I am not that dedicated or observant. The daily lives of the people I’ve known my entire life doesn’t fascinate me the way it seems to for other people.

Not that that stops people from bringing me news I don’t need to know or ask me for gossip I won’t give.

My lack of commitment to the wheel of information is probably why I never get invited to the Women’s Tea Garden, despite my key position in the mayor’s office and the fact that my mom used to be a member.

I exit with my phone and keys clutched between my fingers. After a quick inventory of my sundress, the lack of pockets, I toss my keys down into my seat, shut the door and set off in the direction of Maisie’s.

The sun is already high, baking the sidewalk beneath my flats as I make the familiar turn onto Church Avenue.

Heat clings to my skin, but Jefferson wears summer like a May Day ribbon — beautifully and with grace.

It practically glows with life. It’s the kind of radiance most only experience through Hollywood.

Flower boxes explode with an array of stunning colors beneath gleaming windows. Wind chimes tinkle from doorways. There isn’t a speck of litter, not a single debris or crack in the perfectly aligned cobblestone. Not a hint of grease stain on the street. Even the lampposts are dusted.

I step off the curb and sprint across the street to the mint green awning and the mouthwatering display of freshly baked pastries lined behind a meticulously scrubbed sheet of glass.

Baker’s Bakery has been a staple in my life since before I was born.

Joyce Baker, Maisie’s mom used to sneak me cookies when my parents weren’t looking.

She’d give me a wink like it was our little secret and I lived for those pilfered treats every morning on my way to school.

I realized years later that of course my parents were well aware of our scheme.

But the joy of coming in every morning for my coffee and muffin still lives bright in my heart.

I step over to the gleaming countertop with the frosted pink stools tucked in a neat row underneath and smile at the pretty brunette on the other side.

“Morning, Everly.” Maisie grins at me, long fingers already drifting in the direction of the case. “The usual?”

Deep into her thirties, Maisie has a sweet, round face that is only heightened by the dimples embedded deep on either side of her lips. Her thick riot of ebony curls are twisted and bunched into a knot at the top of her head and restrained by a red bandana.

I beam at her. “You know it.”

With a smile that lights up her dark eyes, Maisie grabs her tongs and fishes out the thickest muffin in the group and tucks it into a paper bag. My coffee is poured next. Both are placed before me within minutes.

“Headed to work?” Maisie asks while punching the brass keys on the antique register that look complicated as heck.

I pop the back of my phone case open, dig out the stray bills I keep folded inside and set them on the counter.

“Sure am.” I give her a grin. “We’re working on this year’s autumn festival preparations.”

Maisie’s face lights up. “I can’t wait. Are you keeping the corn maze? Because that was so much fun. ”

And a nightmare to organize.

As Mayor Ferguson’s personal assistant, the task should have been Peggy Sue’s, but I made the mistake of thinking I wanted to be helpful.

A mistake I regretted immediately when I spent eight weeks working with Mr. Sutton getting his cornfield ready.

Almost eighty with failing hearing, it had taken a lot of miming and passing notes, but we finally got the maze carved out to match my hand drawn map.

Still, she’s not wrong. It had been fun once I stopped stressing about someone getting lost and enjoyed the evening.

“I’ll let Mr. Ferguson know,” I tell Maisie, scooping up my breakfast with one hand and waving my change away with the other. “ Are we still good for the you-know-what?”

While Lauren may not be in the vicinity and the bakery is relatively empty, keeping a secret from my best friend is the equivalent of hiding something from the FBI. It’s not possible. Lauren can smell the attempt on me.

Still, somehow by the grace of God, I have somehow kept this party from her and only have the two weeks to go.

Maisie chuckles and gestures with the nod of her head in the direction of the backroom. “Started all the prep work and will have everything ready for pickup bright and early Friday morning.”

I grin. “You’re the best. Thank you for all your help. I can’t wait to see the...” I drop my voice to a whisper, “cake. ”

“Oh, I am so excited. I think it’s my best work.”

Exchanging smiles, I promise to see her tomorrow and hurry to leave, only to get as far as the sidewalk when Thelma Walker and Florence Page block my path.

Eighty-five and a solid four feet of trouble smile up at me like a pair of Cheshire cats.

“Good morning, Mrs. Walker. Mrs. Page. How are you this sticky morning?”

“Feeling old,” Thelma pipes up as if waiting for the question. “It’s a long walk from Magnolia Avenue in this heat with no benches to rest on.”

I draw in a slow breath to keep from repeating my argument through gritted teeth. “I’m really sorry to hear that. Mayor Ferguson has your suggestion in the books. I wrote it myself. He will look into it the second he’s—”

“We’re ninety years old, Everly. We can’t spend our last few days on earth walking.”

Because I’m not suicidal, I don’t correct them their age, but nod sympathetically. “I absolutely agree we could use a couple of nice benches around town. I’ll make sure Mayor Ferguson has a look over your request.”

“And don’t forget the awning. No point sitting in the hot sun without some cover,” Thelma prompts .

That’s not going to happen. I might be able to swing a few benches here and there if I can convince Mayor Ferguson to have someone local build them, but awnings are pushing it.

“I’ll add it to the notes.”

Not a lie. I will include it, but I know it will get rejected.

“We did also have another concern,” Florence cuts in, voice barely above a whisper. Her brown eyes, the hue of a wet log, blink up at me. “The MacAllister house.”

I wait for her to continue but both are staring at me like they’d given me a dire proclamation of doom.

“I’m sorry. What about it?”

Florence and Thelma exchange glances.

“We heard Bron Shaw has offered to take the listing,” Thelma hisses with the dramatics of someone discussing porn.

“Of course you know what a concerning idea that is,” Thelma prompts.

What’s even more concerning is the fact that, no, I have no idea what they’re talking about.

Bron never talks to me about his work and I don’t think I’ve ever asked him.

Granted, I don’t think he’s actually ever sold a house.

As a junior member on the team, he follows the others to viewings and learns the process.

I had no idea he was even getting listings.

“What Bron is doing at work isn’t really my—”

“He can’t sell that house, Everly. Surely Mayor Ferguson understands the gravity of the situation,” Thelma gasps, bony fingers clutching at the gold cross dangling around her throat. “It’s just not holy.”

“Mayor Ferguson doesn’t interfere with property sales,” I point out, trying not to stare at the fat, purple vein wiggling beneath the paper thin skin at the back of her hand. “The house will eventually sell and a family will make good use of it. Isn’t that what’s important?”

The thinning of their lips, the narrowing of their eyes tell me clearly it’s not even before Florence opens her mouth.

“It should be condemned after what those two did to poor Lucy—”

In zero mood to crawl into that hornet’s nest, I drop my gaze to my silent phone.

“Oh! That’s Mayor Ferguson texting me. Probably wondering where I’ve gone off to. It was lovely seeing you both.”

Without waiting, I dart past them. I don’t stop until I’m sprinting up the white steps to the grand City Hall doors.

History has never been my strong suit. Next to math and algebra, I passed history by the skin of my teeth.

But everyone is required to live, breathe and recite the fruition of Jefferson.

I may not know every prime minister Canada’s ever had, but I know every founding member who helped create our town.

I know the year they settled, the first land they broke and the family tree that continues to spin the wheel to this day .

The Ferguson family has led our town for over two hundred years and will most likely continue to do so for another two hundred.

There has never been a call for change and never will be when no change is required.

Why fix what isn’t broken? The town is flourishing, maintained and preserved in a manner that is free of outside influences.

We have access to the trends online, the growing unrest as it’s called, but they serve as warnings of what will happen if we’re not careful. Salvation is fed to us on a spoon crafted from generations of systematic control and fear.

Still, we all stay.

I stay.

I climb the three flights of stairs to Mayor Ferguson’s office. The spacious sprawl of calm pastels and sweet harmony of harps greet me at the doors. My desk, a simple steel and wood structure, sits with intention next to the wide set of doors at the end of the room.

Like all doors in Jefferson, they stand open.

I catch a glimpse of Mayor Ferguson seated behind his wooden ship, head bent.

Peggy Sue leans over his shoulder, bony hands clasped at her center.

Neither notice as I reach my desk and deposit my things.

As I take a hasty sip of my drink while nudging my computer awake.

I check emails and skim through the calendar before joining the two in the office .

“Everly, good morning.” Mayor Ferguson lifts his head when I reach his desk with my coffee clasped tight between my fingers. His smile shines all the way to his warm, brown eyes. “Have you eaten your muffin?”

Michael Ferguson is the spitting image of his father back when Clayton Ferguson III sat behind the desk. But I like to think he smiles more than his father. Mayor Clayton Ferguson had a seriousness to him that never quite felt real.

“I can later.” I nod my chin to the papers laid out before him. “Anything I can put away, sir?”

Rather than answer, Mayor Ferguson folds his big hands over the pages, pen still clasped between his fingers. “What’s rule three?”

Despite the tiny prickle of annoyance, I roll my eyes over my grinning mouth. “Me before work.”

“Exactly. Go eat. Slowly!” he adds with narrowed eyes and his own grin. “When you’re done, I have some paperwork that needs to be signed for the new rec center. Can you see that Shaw signs them before lunch?”

All thoughts of my muffin are forgotten at the prospect of seeing Lachlan.

I have to fight the bubble of excitement.

The urge to bolt from the room and head straight for my car.

I have to keep my face calm, neutral as I accept the folder Peggy Sue pulls off the top of all the others on the desk and passes them over .

“I’ll get that done right away, sir,” I say.

“After you eat,” Mayor Ferguson warns, but I’m already hurrying from the office.

At my desk, I grab my phone and muffin and race to the stairs.