Page 14 of Burning Hearts
Ten o’clock.
Riverfield was ready to watch itself be charming. I could work with that.
Then I noticed a sprinter van gliding up to the curb. The door slid open and a dozen people in coordinated neutrals poured out. Good hair, matching totes that read THE LANGFORD.
Two ring lights deployed with military efficiency. A woman with a clipboard clapped twice and steered the whole school of fish directly toward our setup.
Aunt Tansy arrived with them like a reveal. She’d gone full old-money chic: blonde hair in a sleek low bun, ivory skirt suit, and a single strand of pearls that knew where the cameras were.
“Darlings,” she sang, “friends of the house. We’re just stopping by to welcome our favorite content artists.”
What coincidental timing, too, just as the major crowds were starting to appear along Main Street. I could see people pointing their phones at us to record.
The head-turn was immediate; people began gravitating toward the Signal House stand as Tansy’s crowd made us look more popular.
She’d do anything for appearances.
Miss Pearl detached from the sponsor wall and met the convoy with a smile that had swords behind it.
She glared at Tansy.
“We welcome visitors, sugar,” she said to Tansy, warm as butter but final as granite. “We don’t import applause.”
Tansy’s smile didn’t fade. She casually air-kissed an inch from Pearl’s cheek.
“Enthusiasm is scarce,” Tansy said. “I’m merely redistributing.”
She’d paid people to create a fake crowd. I was shocked.
Miss Pearl’s eyes flicked to me as if to say: your turn, producer.
I stepped in front of a woman holding a clipboard who appeared to be the leader of the paid group. “Hi,” I said, pleasant but firm. “If you’re touring, wonderful, but it’s all three finalists, not just Signal House. Public space means no staged foot traffic.”
The woman with the clipboard seemed confused. “But Mrs. Langford told us to station here by Signal House.”
“Friends of the house still have house rules,” I said. “Which means we all get a boost; Brickyard, Wick & Wax, then Signal House. And then repeat.”
“Not a problem, honey,” Tansy said, which meant the opposite.
Behind her, I noticed my cousin Beck approaching.
“Good morning,” Beck said, carrying a tray of coffees labeled in tidy block print. “Beck Langford, Director of Operations and Programming at The Langford Hotel.”
I noticed the coffees. Three oat, two almond, and one regular. He set it down, then took in the van, the interns, Tansy, and me in a single glance.
“Let’s make this simple,” he said, looking at the clipboard lady. “We’ll do a Finalists Tour. Twenty minutes per stop. Brickyard at the top of the hour, Wick & Wax at twenty past, Signal House at twenty till. Then loop.”
“Mrs. Langford said—” the woman started.
“I’m also a Langford,” Beck said, politely but decisively.
He didn’t raise his voice. He just turned to Tansy.
“Mom,” he said, gentle and immovable, “we host, but we don’t vote. And we don’t stack the deck.”
He pulled a Sharpie from his pocket, flipped over three hotel notecards, and wrote the schedule in clear block letters. He handed one to the escort, one to the driver, and one to an intern already vibrating.
Beau drifted by with his cameraman, grin already half on.
