Page 8
Me
Have you met Griffin Cole?
Pearl
Fair point. I’ll come down when the lunch rush lets me. Try not to kill each other before I get there.
I pocketed the phone and went back to my preparations, but my hands weren’t as steady as I wanted them. Developers don’t admit they’ve been outmaneuvered. They call it a strategic retreat and blame the weather. Griffin Cole admitting he’d miscalculated didn’t fit the villain I needed him to be.
The door opened at eleven fifty-eight.
He filled the doorway, and the cramped office got smaller. He wore a gray sweater pushed to his elbows and carried blueprints under one arm and a laptop bag over his shoulder. One side of his dark hair stuck up, as if he’d been dragging a hand through it. The flaw improved him, which was irritating. He’d also brought one folder, which told me he’d read everything I’d sent and kept only what he needed.
I hated that more than the hair.
“Ms. Winters.” He surveyed my binder fortress with an expression I couldn’t read. “You’ve been busy.”
“I believe in preparation.”
“Clearly.” He took the only other chair, the one facing the wall instead of the door, and didn’t comment on the arrangement. “Shall we begin with budget review or vendor coordination?”
“I’d prefer to start with goals. What do you want this festival to accomplish?”
He set his laptop on the small corner of the table I’d left him. “Increased attendance over last year’s numbers. Positive regional coverage. Revenue sufficient to demonstrate Main Street’s commercial viability.” He opened a second sheet. “And the permit requirements are strict. We need ninety percent of the vendors under contract and a twelve-thousand-dollar contingency reserve verified by December fourth. Miss either one, and the town cannot secure the festival permit or the extra insurance coverage it needs to close Main Street and run the event.”
“Those are metrics, not goals.”
“Goals should be measurable.”
“Goals should mean something.” I pulled the entertainment binder toward me. “The festival is forty-three years old. People propose at the tree lighting. Frank scattered half his father’s ashes beneath the crabapple and keeps the rest on his mantel because he wasn’t ready to let all of him go. Kids meet Santa here and believe in him for one more year.”
“None of that happens if the festival goes broke.” He met my gaze across the cluttered table. “I’m not arguing with the memories. I’m trying to keep the lights on.”
I’d had a whole speech ready for the version of him who said something else. I put it down, unused, next to the binders. “Fine. What’s your attendance target?”
“Fifteen percent over last year. That recovers the decline and demonstrates a growth trajectory.” He turned his laptop toward me, revealing a spreadsheet dense with numbers. “Based on regional tourism data and comparable festival performance, that’s roughly two thousand additional visitors across the three days.”
“Two thousand people. That’s significant.”
“It’s achievable. With updated marketing, improved traffic flow, and strategic additions to the program that attract visitors from outside Holly Creek’s immediate radius.”
“Strategic additions.” My hackles rose. “Such as?”
“I’d like to discuss replacing the sleigh rides with a holiday light maze.”
I stared at him, waiting for a punchline that didn’t come. “You want to eliminate the sleigh rides.”
“The current program serves approximately two hundred people over three days. A light maze could accommodate ten times as many people, generate photography that drives social engagement, and create a signature attraction that differentiates Holly Creek from competing festivals.”
“The sleigh rides have been part of this festival since 1986.”
“And attendance has declined every year for the past five.” He pulled up another spreadsheet. “The program costs more to operate than it generates in ticket sales. Insurance and maintenance add up quickly.”
“Mrs. Morrison runs those sleigh rides.” My voice rose despite my effort to control it. “Her husband started them before he died. She’s seventy-three years old and she shows up every December with her horses because this festival gave her something to hold onto after she lost him.”
“I understand sentimental attachment matters here.”
“Sentimental.” I repeated it so he could hear how it sounded. “You think grief is sentimental?”
