Page 86 of Skating and Fake Dating
Mary-Ellen, startled, jumps back.
“I mean, not that. Um, it’s?—”
Mary-Ellen, like a slow-moving beagle that has caught a scent, moves closer, gaze trained on the time capsule contents. “What is?—?”
Bailey waves her hands dismissively. “Just some old?—”
Mary-Ellen’s hand lands on the metal box.
Bailey winces. I’m not entirely sure why she’d want to keep it a secret because obviously, we’ll need to share it to save Maple Falls, but I sense Mary-Ellen is a well-meaning busybody—my grandmother always warned me to keep my mouth shut around Mrs. LaShun if I didn’t want everyone to know about our dirty laundry.
The older woman whips around, eyes alight, practically frothing for an explanation.
“You’re not going to believe what we found,” Bailey starts.
Mary-Ellen blinks a few times. “Is it what I think it is?”
Bailey bites her lip and nods as if she’s not entirely sure this is how she wanted the big reveal to go because in less than sixty seconds, the announcement is made and the other guests at the Rustic Slice have gathered around while the older couple at the nearby table recount the story of the time capsule being buried to anyone listening. They were just kids back in the nineteen-fifties, but they remember it as clear as day.
Mary-Ellen simultaneously runs defense, making sure no one stains the historic documents with their pizza grease-stained fingers while making several phone calls.
Dozens of people move in and out of our vicinity, crowding around the table.
Mr. Romano, the owner, with a flour-dusted apron, comes out of the kitchen. He lets out a long and guttural, “Ooh! My father is in that photograph. Grandfather too. The Rustic Slice is third generation. We were going to name it Romano’s, but my grandmother insisted on the Rustic Slice. The rest is history.”
Someone whoops. “You’ve got that right. Maple Falls history!”
Bailey’s phone starts buzzing with notifications. Mary-Ellen and another woman take turns posting live updates to the town’s community forum and based on the constant jingles and beeps, residents are responding in droves. The people in the old photos wouldn’t know what to think about all the technology that makes something like a time capsule virtually obsolete in this day and age. Yet, it might be exactly what the citizens of Maple Falls need to save this place.
From the crowd, someone calls, “The council added an emergency item to next week’s meeting.”
“Thank you, Ashlyn,” Bailey says. “I hope your dad can help. I mean, this changes things entirely, don’t you think?”
Ashlyn, who is Mayor Thompkins’s daughter, grumbles and turns back to her phone.
In fact, during the last twenty minutes, I got a crash course about the inner workings and history of Maple Falls by a rotating cast of local experts, all chiming in on the validity of Alexander MacDonald’s property rights, dirt on council members, and who makes the best apple pie.
Whatever it is, Bailey has my vote.
Our eyes meet across the room, and something shifts between us. It’s something bigger than attraction, chemistry, or handcuffs. We’re partners now, united by purpose.
I soon find myself by her side, and above the loud chatter, I say, “We did it.”
Bailey slides her hand into mine, her fingers cool against my skin. She looks up at me, eyes bright. “No. We’re just getting started.”
The buzz continues building into the night, with residents stopping by our table to see the time capsule. By closing time, Mr. Romano promises to supply free pizza to anyone who works on saving his shop. Bailey prepares how she’s going to presentour findings at the town meeting after carefully returning the contents of the time capsule to the metal box.
As we exit, I say, “By the way, the grape juice, er, soda, was refreshing.”
Her laughter dances into the night. Once more, she takes my hand and swinging it between us, we walk down the street toward the truck.
A dark shadow edges out from the entryway of Maple Grounds, long closed at this hour. A reedy man wearing a suit and with slicked-back hair says, “I don’t know what you kids think you’re doing, but I suggest you?—”
Bailey stiffens beside me and her grip on my hand tightens in alarm.
I lengthen my spine and my shoulders slide back as I step protectively in front of her. “Sir, I suggest you cross to the other side of the street.” My tone is pure warning.
He puffs up and says, “Do you have any idea who I am?”
