An hour later, the monthly board meeting of the Notchey Creek Historical Society was in progress. In years past the meetings were held at the public library, but Patrick Middleton, concerned about lagging attendance rates, changed the venue to this home instead. He hoped the promise of wine and appetizers would entice board member attendance, and as Harley looked down the long mahogany table, filled with board members swilling down Patrick’s wine, she realized his predictions had proven correct.
She regretted Patrick having talked her into joining the meeting and envied Tina who was still in the kitchen, preparing the main course of bourbon beef stew and buttermilk biscuits. While she had nothing against any of the members personally, she preferred to keep a low profile and sensed a conflation of egos gathered there.
Awkwardness permeated the space. At the opposite end of the table, Hazel Moses sat with her head down, presumably nursing her emotional injuries. Seated to Hazel’s left was Pearl Johnson, petite and slim, vigorously recording meeting minutes on a legal pad, her gray-blond head bobbing up and down as she scribbled with a pencil. Harley had always been fond of Pearl Johnson. In the summers following her mother’s death, Pearl had babysat Harley when her grandfather was busy at the distillery. Those summer days at the Johnsons’ house had been a blessing she would never forget. Pearl had always been kind and respectful of Harley’s quiet ways, and for this, she was grateful.
Beside Pearl sat her husband, Arthur, fiddling with his blue silk tie and cufflinks. In his early seventies, Arthur was the most successful of all of them, having built a very lucrative contracting business in town. Tonight, however, he seemed angry and withdrawn, presumably from his altercation with Patrick on Main Street that morning.
Savannah Swanson, a former Miss Tennessee and classmate of Harley’s, sat on the other side of Patrick. Harley hadn’t seen Savannah since she moved back to Notchey Creek the year prior, and she wondered if Savannah would treat her as coldly and indifferently as she had since they were children. Though it was chilly outside, Savannah wore a red mini dress and red heels, her upper thighs exposed for Patrick under the table. Beside her, Ruby Montgomery gave a disapproving glare as Savannah crossed, then recrossed her tanned legs.
Balancing out the two women was Iris O’Shaughnessy, proprietor of Celtic Memories on Main Street. From what Harley gathered, Iris was to give a presentation on Samhain, the Celtic precursor to Halloween. Now, however, they were discussing the controversial new history museum.
“But why build it there?” Ruby Montgomery asked. “Why not have it right in town? Renovate one of the old buildings downtown?”
“Because,” Patrick said, forming his hands into a steeple, “there isn’t room for the pioneer village in town. We discussed this, and we all agreed, did we not, that the village was a mandatory part of this endeavor?”
“It’s just a history museum,” Ruby said with a huff.
“A living history museum,” Patrick said. “And visitors need to interact with history. They need to examine how the pioneers lived centuries ago. It’s one thing to read about history on a plaque inside four walls. It’s quite another thing to interact with it in nature through the structures, the tools their ancestors used.”
The rest of the board watched as the arguments volleyed back and forth down the long mahogany table. Patrick was used to trading barbs with Ruby Montgomery, but no one was ever sure who would win.
Ruby shook her head. “I just don’t agree with the building’s location, Patrick. Simple as that. We could save a good deal of money by placing it in an existing building downtown.”
“I understand your point,” Patrick said, taking a more diplomatic tone, “but if we’ve gone to so much effort, if we’ve secured permission from the city, the state, for this endeavor, shouldn’t we create it exactly how we planned?”
“How you planned.” Ruby tucked a section of her auburn page boy behind her ear. “You.”
Patrick sighed and stacked the papers in front of him. “The blueprints have been finalized. The construction will go ahead as planned.”
“And what about the Sierra Club?” She pointed a French manicured finger at him. “I’m the president of that club, and they’re protesting, you know? And the ecologists at the university. They’re saying that by building it in the nature reserve, we’d disturb the natural habitat out there, killing the flora and fauna, uprooting the beavers from the creek. And I agree with them. Wholeheartedly.”
Patrick shook his head, tapping his pencil against the table as he looked at Ruby. “If it were up to them, we’d never be able to build anything. Progress would stall, and we’d all be living in the trees like monkeys.”
“Well, that’s fitting,” she said.
Beside Patrick, Savannah Swanson once again crossed her legs in her red mini dress. A good portion of her upper thigh was exposed for Patrick’s enjoyment, and he forced his gaze to her hairline. “Yes, Savannah?”
“Patrick,” she said, using a tone Harley considered too familiar, “we need to discuss Pioneer Days, remember?”
At twenty-six, Savannah Swanson was engaged to Michael Sutcliffe, heir to the Sutcliffe timber and real estate fortune. Harley wondered how long the engagement would last after hearing the gossip surrounding Savannah and Patrick Middleton. If Savannah lost Michael Sutcliffe, she would also lose his wealth and standing, a loss her social-climbing parents would resent. And if there was anything in the world Savannah Swanson had always wanted, it was her parents’ approval.
“I have an idea for the festival.” Savannah cupped her knees with her hands, exposing an inch of cleavage in her low-cut dress. “How about we ask Beau Arson to do a performance?”
As soon as the words “Beau Arson” left Savannah’s lips, Patrick Middleton sprung from his seat, spilling wine down the front of his trousers. “No,” he said.
Every member of the table except Harley stared at Patrick in surprise.
“And why not?” Ruby said.
A flustered Patrick seemed to search frantically for a response. “Um … well, isn’t his music inappropriate for this? I mean, that band of his, Assault, isn’t it a bit loud, don’t you think for this kind of festival?”
“He does acoustic performances all the time,” Savannah said. “And not hard rock ones.”
“Well,” Ruby said, “I will say he isn’t the most charming person in the world. I had the pleasure, I mean displeasure, of meeting him this morning on Main Street.” She glared at Harley across the table. “He completely disregarded Alveda and me. Completely rude and without any class.”
“But who cares about that?” Savannah said. “He’s a worldwide sensation. Women love him. Men want to be him. Think of all the publicity and money this would garner for the festival.”
“Perhaps,” Patrick said, but he was shaking his head as he said it. His face had gone pale. “But there’s no certainty he’d agree to do it. And it’s last-minute. Why would he?”
“Well, I think we have a good shot,” Savannah said, “with him living here now. It’d be a good way for him to get in good with the community.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Arthur said, still not making eye contact with Patrick.
“Well, let’s just take a vote and get it over with,” Ruby said. “And besides, we have other matters to discuss. Iris still hasn’t given her presentation.” She raised her right hand, simultaneously leering at Patrick. “What say you, Patrick?”
Patrick rose from the table and retreated to the fireplace, turning his back to them while he dried the wine from his wet trousers. He looked over his shoulder, and frowned when he noticed everyone had raised their hands but Harley. And like a buoy in a dark ocean, the drowning Patrick looked to her to save him. “What say you, Harley?”
Harley Henrickson spoke for the first time. “Beau Arson came to Notchey Creek for one reason. For privacy. We should give him that.”
“What do you know about it?” Ruby said.
“See, Harley agrees with me,” Patrick said. “It isn’t a good idea.”
“But the two of you are outvoted,” Ruby said.
“And so we are.” Patrick lowered his head, watching the flames in quiet contemplation. “So be it.”
“Great!” Savannah said. “I’ll personally make sure he gets the invitation.”
“No, no, I’ll do it,” Patrick said. He returned to the table, seeming to hate them all, wanting to be rid of them all. But somehow, he managed a smile, though Harley knew it was one of defeat. “I need to be the one to do it.”
“Well, let’s get on with the meeting,” Ruby Montgomery said. “We’re running out of time.”
A half hour later they had reached the end of the agenda. Three bottles of wine sat empty on the table and speech was slurred from the alcohol and abundance of hot air in the room. They discussed Pioneer Days, the membership drive, and the ratty old books needing replacement at the library. The majority of the books were Firefox novels, chronicling the traditional folklore of the Southern Appalachians. The entries dealt with the daily chores of Appalachian pioneers, including log cabin building, hog dressing, moonshine distillation, and mountain medicine.
At last, it was time for Iris O’Shaughnessy’s presentation on Samhain.