Page 21 of Burning Hearts
A brass band played jazz, pins bloomed on collars for rival teams. The sponsor wall did what sponsor walls do: made regular people semi-famous for twelve seconds at a time. A foam finger had appeared from somewhere, already declaring support for #TeamBrew.
Someone else wrote #TeamSignal on a craft stick and held it high, showing their support.
Beau floated up the risers in a new velvet jacket that was even more fitting than the last. Mic in hand, smile calibrated to melt butter, and his cameraman tracking him like a planet with gravity.
“Riverfield,” he purred, “welcome toPitch & Play, where small businesses flirt with your wallets. But only within the bounds of safety and good sense.”
He paused for laughter.
“House rules,” he added, “two minutes each. No safety myths. This is a Riverfield roast, not a legal deposition. Light scorch only.”
He turned and smirked toward the mezzanine as if it were haunted. “Kiss the fire code, not each other.”
A cheer rolled across the square; a tide of a dozen phones rose.
I stood at the edge of the stage, headset snug out of habit, even though tonight I wasn’t running anything but my mouth. Miss Pearl waited just off camera with her clipboard and her “you better not” energy. Wyatt stood at an aisle with his arms folded and the relaxed posture of a man who had the off switch for your bad idea within easy reach.
“But first,” Beau said, “a little Riverfield history. Previously, on Ember City…”
Oh no, I thought.He’s using Riverfield’s nickname, Aunt Tansy will be pissed.
“We do, of course, recall the Great Biscuit Fire,” Beau continued. “A thoughtfully deployed brûlée torch met honey-butter, someone decorated with dried Spanish moss, and a polite breeze RSVP’d yes. No lives lost, just a few egos singed. And thus was born Riverfield’s proud tradition of battery-operated romance.”
Aunt Tansy materialized like good lighting. “Beau, sweetheart,” she chimed, her smile perfect, “we do not discuss folklore on a live microphone. In this town, we call it ‘the pastry incident.’ My legal team prefers euphemisms.”
She preferred we not workshop the incident while multimillion-dollar lawsuits were still in the oven.
“Count your tokens, ladies and gentlemen,” Beau added. “Not your scorch marks!”
Miss Pearl gave a single, satisfied clap that said: that’s enough.
“First up,” Beau said, “Signal House Studios—pitching a glass booth and a thirty-seat theater to turn Riverfield’s stories into radio, video, and occasional mischief.” He made eye contactwith me, then with the crowd next. “Ellis Langford—nephew by blood, producer by choice. Currently living on a hundred-dollar incidental hold and the illusion that this isn’t nepotism.”
I took the steps like I owned them, then like I didn’t. The crowd gave me polite noise with no distinct slant. The pins split into a tiny forest of town opinions.
I had no idea how Beau had found out about my incidental hold.
“Evening,” I said, and tried to settle myself as I stood before the mic. “I’m a producer at Signal House. We want to build a booth on Main Street. Soundproof, beautiful, and visible from the street. We’ll create a thirty-seat theater beside it so you can hear your neighbors, maybe argue about barbecue. And we’ll tell the stories that make this town this town.”
“You’ll set it on fire?” someone in the back heckled.
Hopefully, Aunt Tansy wasn’t around to hear any fire jokes.
“Per code,” I answered, “our romance is battery-operated.”
Laughter.
I pressed on. “We’ll program weekly shows.The Town Talkstays the flagship, and we’ll add more, like local history and kids’ reading hours. We’ll host ‘Start Up, Don’t Burn Down’ small business segments. And maybe even Beau’s hair tips if he ever agrees to share intellectual property.”
Beau flipped his hair and took the bait. “All trade secrets live behind a velvet rope.”
I gestured toward the walkway. “We’ll also run live-caption displays. We’ll be quiet at night and have our microphones off by 9:59.”
Beau scooched closer, his eyes bright. “Before we continue this fantasy of civic performance: Ellis, do you believe in miracles?”
“I do,” I said, nodding and smiling. “But only ones you can audit.”
“Then audit this,” Beau said as he held out a carved wooden token he’d magicked from a pocket, squinting at the engraving. “Signal House. Familiar? Or did your aunt order this one from the secret menu?”
