Page 28 of The Worst Possible Plan

Helen sighed. “I may have understated the situation.”

I had been afraid of that. “What happened?”

“The health inspector.”

I blinked. “The health inspector?”

“He changed the food vendor layout.”

“Can he do that?” I asked before realizing I’d probably just announced to Helen that I had no idea what I was doing. Experienced planners knew that. Right?

“He already did,” answered Helen, not suspicious about my question.

I looked toward the row of trucks. “They look pissed. How angry are they on a scale of one to ten?” Please say one.

Helen gave me a tired smile. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

Wonderful.

Helen tucked her clipboard beneath one arm and looked at me with complete confidence, which I very much wished I deserved. “The health inspector decided the trucks have to be rearranged,” she said. “Something about access lanes, fire regulations, and emergency vehicles. They all had their permits approved based on yesterday’s layout.”

I nodded slowly as though I knew what any of that meant. I didn’t.

“The vendors don’t want to move,” Helen continued. “The inspector says they have to. They’ve been arguing for the last forty-five minutes.”

Another slow nod. Forty-five minutes. Excellent.

I hadn’t even gotten out of Sarah’s car before inheriting almost an hour’s worth of someone else’s problems.

Helen smiled and patted my arm. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Oh, if only you knew.

“You’ve done this before,” she said. “You’ll know how to smooth everything over.”

I smiled back. It felt surprisingly convincing, considering my insides had just burst into flames. “Absolutely.” My mouth really needed to stop volunteering me for things.

Helen looked visibly relieved. “I knew hiring you was the right decision.”

Guilt twisted somewhere beneath my ribs. Please don’t say nice things to me. Nice things made lying feel significantly worse.

She glanced toward the vendors again. “Well…” Then she handed me her clipboard. “I’ll leave them in your capable hands.”

My fingers automatically closed around it before my brain had a chance to object.

“I have to meet with the parade committee and then check on the volunteer registration tent,” continued Helen. “If anyone can sort this out, it’s you.”

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.

Helen smiled warmly. “I’ll come check on you later.” Then she turned and walked away with a brisk confidence that said she believed every problem had now been delegated to someone fully qualified to solve it.

Me.

I watched her disappear across the square. “Okay,” I whispered to myself. I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, tucked Helen’s clipboard under one arm, and marched toward the three food trucks with what I hoped looked like confidence.

Inside, however, my brain was running around in tiny circles screaming.

Nothing says “qualified professional” quite like internal panic.