Still, one does not piss off a Valkyrie if one does not want to be made the tasting judge of every weird cooking contest said Valkyrie dreams up.
Images of the time I’d been roped into judging the Rhubarb Rally flickered behind my eyes, and I shuddered.
Never again.
I scanned the room. Bertie was behind the podium at the front. Folding chairs spread out in an arc before her. She looked like a spry, business-savvy octogenarian, her short white hair choppy and her suit jacket a deep, rich plum.
Her gold fingernails were set off by the hoop earrings, chunky bracelets, and cascade of jeweled necklaces she wore. Her eyes were sharp, her make up on point. She posed there, as if perched atop a mountain, scanning the cliffs below for things to kill.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I said easily. I strolled to the left where Myra already sat, saving three seats, which seemed odd since there was only Jean and me, but I figured someone would be joining us.
She did these sorts of things automatically. All part of her gift. Right place, right time.
Jean eased down to the chair next to Myra, dropped the mallet into the row in front of her, and sat. I took the seat next to her.
The conversations in the room picked up again. I took a little time cataloging who had come out into the teeth of a storm to listen to Bertie list all the festivals and events she was going to drag us through this year.
The line up didn’t change all that often. The people in attendance were humans, gods, and supernaturals—shop keepers, bed and breakfast owners, restaurant managers, the bowling alley guy, and putt-putt golf owner—who all benefited from the tourist traffic the events brought in.
Mixed in with the business owners were folks who headed up local charities, and hobbyists who were also funded by T-shirt, souvenir, and craft sales at their booths. Then there were the usual handful of volunteers who showed up no matter what the event.
Bertie sorted through sheets of paper, then tapped a stack to line up the edges, and walked out from behind the podium.
“Let’s pass these out,” she said, handing half the stack to a guy named Curt in the first row. He took a sheet and passed the stack to his right. Bertie stalked in front of the gathering, moving to some sort of internal pendulum of her own.
At exactly the top of the hour, she turned and clapped her hands.
“Welcome everyone. I’m pleased to see you’ve come out today despite the rain, as this is one of the most important meetings I’ll be holding this year.”
I settled back. This was the same script I’d heard every January meeting for at least a decade.
“Ordinary is renowned for our delightful, entertaining, and charitable community events,” she said. “This year, I’d like to mix it up a bit.”
Myra leaned toward me and Jean. “Her sister Valkyrie in Boring, Oregon, just announced her list of festivals,” Myra whispered. She thumbed through her phone screen, then handed it to me.
I read through them. “They’re all Bertie’s festivals,” I whispered back.
Myra nodded.
“Oh, gods,” I said. “She stole her festivals. This is going to be a train wreck, isn’t it?”
“Chief Reed,” Bertie called out. “Did you have a comment you’d like to share?”
“No. Nope.” I said. “Just exchanging information on a case. About trains. Uh, wrecking.” It was a lie, but luckily no one in the room had the ability to read minds.
Or at least I hoped they didn’t.
“When I say mix it up,” Bertie said, back on track, “what I intend is to invigorate Ordinary’s offerings. To really create something exciting and new that no one can easily copy or steal.
“The paper you have lists last year’s most successful events. To the right of those are my suggested changes. You will note that many of the seasonal events will remain the same structurally but may change in detail or focus. For example, the Rhubarb Rally will now be the Strawberry Jamboree. Many of the same events will be held—the pie contests, canning contests, and, of course, art, but instead of basing the event on rhubarb, we will base it on strawberries. Any questions?”
Curt’s hand shot up. “What about all the people who look forward to the Rhubarb Rally? Won’t we disappoint them?”
“A very good question. Which is why I’m proposing we run a simultaneous secondary event. An event within an event, if you will. The Rhubarb Rally within the Strawberry Jamboree will feature our traditional rhubarb offerings.
“That is my plan for all of our seasonal events. If we want to keep Ordinary fresh, and keep the tourists coming, we need to reimagine our offerings. Take what works and add a dash of something new to it.”
I glanced at Myra and Jean. They both sat there wide-eyed. Shell shocked.
Yep. Making every event a two-in-one was going to be a royal headache for logistics. Not to mention manpower and getting the advertising and marketing correct. I glanced to my right to see how the audience was taking it.
Mixed, but definitely intrigued.
The door opened, and a man paused on the threshold before spotting me. He held my gaze with laser-like focus as he walked down the aisle toward me.
Ryder Bailey was a handsome man. With his light brown hair, mossy eyes, and wide shoulders, he looked every inch a man who worked with his hands and worked hard. I loved the look of him, the strength of his body. But it was that mind of his, clever and thoughtful and curious that really did me in.
And right now, I could almost hear what he was thinking: Why had I’d been avoiding him? Why weren’t we on our vacation right now?
I gave him a small smile and pointed at the open chair next to me—thanks, Myra—then turned my attention back to Bertie before she called me out in class again.
Ryder settled into the chair. The scent of rain mixed with the sweet, foresty smell that was all him.
“Hey,” I whispered.
“Hey,” he whispered back.
I put my hand on his thigh, and he immediately dropped his palm over mine. Our fingers laced together, and his thumb found the inside of my wrist, stroking gently there.
A chill washed over me, and I leaned my shoulder into his, enjoying his weight as he leaned back.
“What’d I miss?” he whispered.
I handed him the paper. He read through it, and his eyebrows knitted. “Huh.”
Bertie hadn’t missed a beat or stopped talking. She was still spinning the details of how she was going to merge the Slammin’ Salmon parade with something that involved a town-wide, cosplay-treasure hunt, and I was listening. Really, I was.
But only with a part of me, the police officer part of me that was calculating how we’d handle traffic, lost kids, and shoplifting.
The rest of me, the most of me, was zeroed in on the pad of Ryder’s thumb. The soft stroke across my wrist, over and over, bringing me out of my mind, out of my worries, back again and again to my body. To sitting right here, in this moment, with him.
I felt my shoulders relax, my breathing settle. A soft tingle radiated deep in my belly. This, now, was familiar. A part of my life that I never wanted to change. Both of us together, holding on no matter what ridiculous events were headed our way. Both of us connected, alive.
“Sign-up sheets are here to the right,” Bertie called out, “and I strongly encourage each of you to sign up for at least one event. When we all work together, we can make great things happen. Also,” she went on before anyone could bolt for the door, “suggestions, comments, and ideas are vital to the success of these events.