Page 25 of Craving Consequences

Mondays are usually slow days. Most of the morning is spent getting a million things signed and filed away. Occasionally, there’s the odd meeting, but I know today is all about the annual autumn fair. Mayor Ferguson was very insistent we get that rolling.

There’s a good chance he will already be in his office, bent over his desk, his favorite fountain pen gripped firm and steady between his fingers. He’ll have found the files I left for him Friday in his designated cabinet and set straight to work getting through them for the day.

I peek at the clock on the dash. Peggy Sue is most likely just walking in; Mayor Ferguson has a policy that no one should arrive before him. And since he arrives before the sun is even up, it’s a rule no one’s broken. Not even Peggy Sue, who is Mayor Ferguson’s personal assistant and the first person to arrive for every occasion.

I know I’m the least qualified for the position of the mayor’s secretary. There are definitely people who could do itbetter, but it’s honestly the only job I like even if it was only offered because Mayor Ferguson and my father were friends ... and because my father brought up the state of Ole Miller’s Bridge two months before my parent’s car went over it.

Obligatory friendship and guilt are the foundations on which I earned my place in Jefferson, and I think that’s fine. My existence in my parent’s town is strictly necessity based. Pegged down by a handful of people I can’t leave.

Lauren. She’s my world. The very center of every day. I can’t even imagine a life without her in it. She is everything I wish I could be with a confidence I can only dream of possessing.

Van and Lachlan.

I blow out a breath.

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 nevercloses. 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 onSurvivor 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 comingin 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.”

---