Page 4 of Faking It with my Small Town Billionaire

“I know that, John,” I say. “But the answer isn’t giving up. We need to unite and find innovative ways to breathe life back into this community.”

“How are we supposed to fight against Donovan Enterprises?” Cindy Caldwell cries. “They’re too big. They’re going to come here and do what they’ve done to every town they’ve ever developed. They’ll build ugly shopping malls and a drive-thru and stick some fast-food place in the main street.”

“Hey, I’m game if it’s a fried chicken joint,” Colly Pearson says with a grin.

I go to laugh but get cut off by Jack Sundry.

“Shut up, Colly. I won’t stay if that’s the direction it goes,” Jack spits.

“What? You’ll leave like everybody else?” Cindy snaps.

Jack bites back, and I can feel myself losing the crowd.

Willow Creek has suffered over the last five years. It used to be a thriving town. My bakery, Harper’s, still stands as a testament to sweeter, busier times, but only just. I’ve felt the pinch as much as everyone. I’m struggling to pay my only member of staff, Jasmine Miller, who is standing a few feet away.

Call it the economy, call it fickle people, call it what you want, but foot traffic has dwindled, and the town has suffered. Like the desperate people crammed into this tiny room, I’ve been fighting tooth and nail—and any other appendage—to avoid losing the business my father started fifty years ago.

My job is hard enough. I’m up before the sparrows fart to bake my products, and sometimes, I’m not falling into bed until after midnight. I suppose I don’t have to go too far. My apartment is right upstairs. But exhaustion would be a blessing. I’m more than exhausted. I don’t know if there is a word in the dictionary that describes that feeling, but if I find it, I’ll use it copiously at every opportunity.

I’m running this place by myself. Dad died, Mom has dementia, and my two sisters live over fifty miles away in different directions doing their own thing. Ellie, the youngest, is a beautician with dreams of running her own salon, and Martha, the oldest, is a kept woman after marrying a successful plastic surgeon. I can assure you, she won’t be growing old gracefully.

Maybe I stayed because I’m the middle child. We’re renowned for our stubbornness, right? I was also Dad’s favorite. We all knew it. I would spend hours at the bakery when he ran it. The customers loved having their parcels wrapped by a cute little girl with brown pigtails sticking out the side of her head.

The pigtails are gone now, thank the Lord. With the length of my hair, I’d break every health and safety law there is. Besides, I’d look ridiculous. But my passion for the business has never waned. Which is why I’m here, trying to rally the rest of the town to fight against Donovan Enterprises coming in and ruining the place I love with all my heart.

“What about the town council?” Jack says. “You’re a member, Lily, but I don’t see any other members here. Why are they not supporting us?”

It’s a fair point, and I don’t really have a good answer. “They were busy,” I say weakly.

A low but knowing groan emanates throughout the small space. “Typical,” Jack spits. “They’ll be the first to hold their hand out. They’ll sell us out. You just watch.”

There are only four of us on the town council. Willow Creek is a pretty small place with a population of less than two thousand. But Jack is right. Any of the other three could have come along to show their support.

Mr. Lyle isn’t a local. He moved here a few years ago, and from our previous council meetings, I know he’s keen on redevelopment. The others, Mr. Warrick, and Mrs. Makenzie, were both born here, and in truth, I did expect them to make some effort. But given their vague replies when I invited them, it’s no surprise that they didn’t come.

The anger of the people is not just because Donovan Enterprises has targeted our little town. It’s because it’s Donovan Enterprises that is targeting our little town. You see, there’s a lot of history here, much of which I am too young to remember, but my dad explained a lot of it.

There are now three Mr. Donovans. Mr. Arthur Donovan, who started the business years ago. His son, Mr. Chase Donovan, who took much of the business over and expanded it a lot. And then his son, Mr. Orson Donovan, who, from what I’ve heard, is highly successful in said business. Orson is the one I know best, mostly because he grew up in the town at the same time I did.

He was a couple of years older than me and a bit of a loner. I always felt sorry for him. He had a terrible time because of his family name. Secretly, I thought he was really cute, and I will admit, I had a crush on him throughout my school years. We spoke a few times, and I tried to be nice when everyone else was horrible, but as soon as he finished school, he was out of here, and to be honest, I can’t blame him.

Mr. Arthur Donovan was born right here in Willow Creek. He made a name for himself, and the more his business grew, the more jealous people became.

It’s sad, really. That generation clearly was not about supporting their own. Unfortunately, Willow Creek is a generational town, and stories were passed down. I don’t know if they’re true, but Mr. Arthur Donovan is said to have stepped on a few toes. He borrowed money that they say he never repaid, and thus, the Donovans got a reputation for being swindlers.

If that’s what happened, then I can understand how people could become bitter. But I always remember what Dad said when we were talking about it one day after school.

“There are three sides to every story, Lily. What one guy says, what the other guy says, and then the truth of what actually happened. Never take anything at face value. Small towns harbor small minds, and gossip is free.”

I’ve never forgotten those words. They made a huge impact on me. Maybe that’s the reason why I didn’t join in with the other kids in torturing Orson with all the name-calling. I often wondered why his parents didn’t take him out of Willow Creek High and send him to another school. I think they were cruel to put him through that for all those years.

“So, what are we going to do?” Cindy Caldwell says.

“There are a few things we can do,” I reply. “We can petition for grants. We can do some fundraising. We can reach out to other businesses that are looking to branch out and show them how great Willow Creek is.”

“But it isn’t great,” Mrs. Carter says. “How can we possibly expect other businesses to want to open up stores here when we can’t keep our own businesses open?”

I’m about to answer when four or five people raise their voices all at once. Some of them are arguing with Mrs. Carter, and others are fighting for her. I heave a sigh. I feel like a kindergarten teacher in charge of a bunch of kids who had too much sugar at lunch.

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