Oh, God.
My mom continued. "And you know how much that means to Ginger."
I did know. For the last seventy years, the annual festival had begun with the crowning of the Tomato Queen – a local girl chosen to serve as a goodwill ambassador, not only at the festival itself, but at similar events throughout the state.
Back in the day, Ginger had nudged out my mom to claim the local crown, along with a modest scholarship and bragging rights. And my mom? She'd been runner up.
Over twenty years later, history had repeated itself when I'd served as runner up to Emory. I hadn't minded too much, until I'd been relegated to runner-up for Bryce's affections. That, I'd minded.
In the kitchen, my mom was still talking. "You should've seen Ginger's face. To think, she had no idea the festival was in danger."
My stomach lurched. The festival was still in danger. Mom just didn't know it.
But I did.
The whole thing had started last August when the festival's biggest sponsor, Skeezak Hardware, had gone out of business. They'd been sponsoring the festival for nearly three decades, and the truth was, the festival committee had gotten a little complacent.
Okay, a lot complacent.
Skeezak Hardware had not only supplied the festival with a large donation in return for a modest amount of advertising, they'd also supplied free rental of all kinds of equipment and supplies – tractors, tents, tools, you name it.
When they'd gone under, they'd almost taken the Tomato Festival with them – until I'd talked Farmland Financial into picking up the slack.
It had been a major triumph on my part – well, until three days ago, anyway.
And here we were.
I listened as my mom went on to tell me that everyone at her table had chimed in to tell Ginger how I'd saved the day by finding another sponsor just in the nick of time.
Time. Even now, I could hear the mental clock ticking in my head, reminding me that if I didn't find a replacement sponsor soon, we'd be back to square one.
No major sponsor. No festival.
And I'd be the one who let everyone down.
Yikes.
Chapter 5
Mina
"Oh, my God," Natalie groaned. "You still haven't told them?"
Natalie was my younger sister – three years younger, to be exact. She was in her junior year at Eastern Michigan University, where she was studying to become a psychologist.
This was a good thing, too, considering that I'd been calling her for sisterly therapy at least once a week, ever since losing my job – and now the related sponsorship.
It was the day after that unpleasant encounter with Chase Blastoviak, and I was back in the coffee shop, where the morning rush had already come and gone, just like the coffee shop's owner, a woman named Abigail, who owned another business across town.
As usual, I'd tucked my cell phone into my apron pocket. And now, with nobody else in the shop, I was using my cell phone's earbuds – the kind with a microphone included – to talk to Natalie while I wiped down the tables.
I had to remind her, "Hey, I just found out this week."
"Yeah. On Monday, which was four whole days ago."
"Yeah, so?"
"So you should've told them by now."
I wasn't sure if she meant the festival committee or my parents, but my response was the same either way. "Tell them what? That the festival's screwed? I can't do that."
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because that's admitting defeat. And I still have a few more sponsors on my list."
"You mean potential sponsors."
"Okay, fine. Potential sponsors, then."
"So, how many have you contacted?"
Reluctantly, I said, "Almost all of them."
"And?"
I sighed. "And they all said basically the same thing. They can chip in a little, but not enough to make a difference."
I'd been disappointed, but not surprised. The local economy wasn't terrific, and times were tight for everyone, especially small, local businesses.
And yet, just down the street from where I stood right now, there was a huge business – a global business with local owners. This should have been a no-brainer. Blast Tools would've been the perfect sponsor for all kinds of reasons.
Unlike the other businesses on my list, Blast was on a huge upswing. Thanks to that reality show, their brand had become a household name, not just here in Bayside, but all over the globe.
The company was privately owned, too, which meant the decision could be made on the spot – if only someone, anyone, at the company would give me the chance to make my pitch.
Until yesterday, I'd had zero luck in securing anything resembling a meeting. I'd called. I'd emailed. I'd even stopped by in person – only to be given the brush-off by the main receptionist.
That was part of the reason I'd been so excited to see Chase Blastoviak standing out there on the sidewalk. As everyone knew, he was the one who handled all of the promotional activities for Blast Tools, which meant that he'd been the contact of my dreams.
Some dream.
Our encounter had been a total nightmare.
Even now, as I gazed out the same front window, I could practically hear his voice in my head, telling me, "Look, I don't want to fuck you, okay?"
The jerk.
And yet, I'd actually managed to be polite and professional, even after he'd been such an arrogant tool.
On the phone, Natalie was in the process of encouraging me yet again to tell everyone what had happened when a soft thud from somewhere behind me made me turn to look.
When I did, I spotted Abigail standing behind the coffee counter, looking seriously ticked off.
I wasn't even sure why. Was it because I was talking on my cell phone? I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. Did she even realize I was on it?
As far as I knew, there was no rule against talking on my personal cell, especially in an empty shop.
And yet, I could tell by Abigail's scowl that I'd done something to displease her. After all, she'd seemed perfectly happy two hours ago, when she'd left the coffee shop to open her fabric store across town.
Still, I tried to smile as I said, "Oh hi." I glanced toward the back room. "So I guess you came in through the back, huh?"
Abigail was around my mom's age with short black hair and an upbeat demeanor, well, usually, anyway.
Not now.
In a strained voice, she replied, "Yes. Is that a problem?"
It shouldn’t have been a problem. I mean, it was her shop, not mine. But obviously, something was a problem. With growing unease, I asked, "Is something wrong?"
She eyed me with obvious disgust. "You might say that."
In my ear, my sister had gone totally silent, which was probably for the best. With my boss glaring daggers at me, I chose to ignore the microphone near my face as I said a silent prayer that Abigail would conclude that I was simply listening to music or a podcast.
Or maybe this was frowned on, too.
I wasn't quite sure. All I knew was that I'd obviously done something wrong. With a nervous smile, I held up the damp cloth and explained, "I was just wiping down the tables."
"Good," she said. "When you're done, you can leave."