Chapter 18: Citizen of the Year

Through the pantry door, I heard Connor's mother take the tart out of Brynn's hands.

"Put it on the counter. Go and sit in the front room, the two of you. I'm not finished with this crust."

"Mom, we need to talk about Saturday."

"We'll talk about it on Saturday."

Heels crossed the hall and a sofa creaked, and a television came on.

Grandma opened the pantry door and nodded at the back step.

Pippa kissed her cheek, quick and hard, and we went out through the apple smell into the cold.

On Saturday night the Dunmore Grange hall had two hundred chairs and a stage Abraham had built the steps for in 2019.

Roz's centerpieces stood on every table, orange dahlias in mason jars, forty of them.

She had charged the Chamber full price.

"They put me on the vendor list," she said, straightening one. "A vendor can stand anywhere."

I wore a dress of my own, deep green wool that I had cut and pinned in four evenings, with the sleeves set in by hand.

Abraham stood at the back wall in the one suit he owned, and his eyes did not leave me.

"Sit," Roz said, and pointed me to a table near the door.

The head table sat in front of the stage, white cloth, a centerpiece, a gold banner that said CITIZEN OF THE YEAR.

Connor's mother sat at it in a brooch the size of a teacup saucer.

Brynn sat across from her in a navy dress, pale and very still.

Connor sat between them with one arm on the back of his mother's chair.

He had never looked handsomer, and half the town was watching him not look at me.