Page 24 of Burning Hearts
Cade absorbed it without reacting, then looked at me the way he looked at a sprinkler head pointing the wrong direction. Attentive, problem-first, and no drama.
“Signal House,” he said, “brings a spotlight and a voice to people. They’ll make folks feel heard, then get out of the way before Beau talks them into questionable life choices.”
Strange for a pitch. But it was right.
Beau staggered theatrically. “Gentlemen, I asked for a flirt and you’re giving… civic poetry. This is a roast, not couple’s counseling.”
“We’re not flirting,” I said, probably a little too quickly.
“He flirts slow,” someone yelled, which did not help my pulse.
Beau checked his imaginary wristwatch. “Okay, one-minute notice. Give me your best closer before Miss Pearl shuts off the streetlights.”
I went practical again, the way I know how to win rooms.
“We’ll be open at reasonable hours,” I said, “with audio described tours of exhibits, bilingual shows.Riverfield Rememberson Sundays at noon. We’ll do the boring paperwork so that the interesting people can talk and shine.”
“Interesting,” Beau said, “is a polite word for ‘uninsurable.’ Right, Wyatt?”
Wyatt lifted a single finger in the air and nodded.
Cade wrapped up. “We’ll add four full-time jobs, eight part-time. Free nonalcoholic drinks for designated drivers. Soft-serve ice cream machine that actually works. And a posted last call that is the actual last call.”
The cameraman did a delighted little hop when Cade mentioned the functioning soft-serve machine. Social media would eat that alive by morning.
Beau breathed the crowd in like perfume. “Riverfield, tell me, do you feel informed?”
“Count the tokens!” someone yelled.
This audience never met a callback it didn’t love.
“Count the tokens,” Beau agreed, winking at me. “Count the cones, count your blessings. And count yourselves lucky that Miss Pearl has not put us all in time-out.”
Miss Pearl lifted her clipboard. The Commons quieted by instinct.
“And now,” Beau said, “for the part wherein I ask you to clap.”
Applause rose. The cameraman swung wide to catch the entire square. Brickyard’s canopy with its sandbagged legs, Wick & Wax’s LED tapers glinting as if they’d learned their lesson, and a sponsor wall pretending to be Cannes with a peach instead of a palm frond.
Beau leaned close for the sign-off. “This has beenPitch & Play,” he said, his voice velvet dry. “Batteries included.”
He lowered his mic and the crowd’s noise faded again. Pins traded sides and a woman hugged Miss Pearl for no reason other than simple gratitude.
It wasn’t a brutal roast; it was the Riverfield kind—soft edges, hard truths, and everyone going home with their eyebrows intact.
I stepped back from the edge of the riser. My pulse hummed.
Cade was at the other end of the stage, handing the mic stand to a volunteer because he’d seen her struggle with the latch. He looked up when the stand finally cooperated. Our eyes met in the space between applause and chatter.
I could’ve been coy. But instead, I did the thing that costs nothing and counts for everything. I nodded once, and it meant: thank you.
Cade did his micro-acknowledgment.
Beau slid between us with the flair of a talent agent trying to manage us. “Delicious, boys,” he murmured. “If I had a spoon, I’d eat this tension.”
I smiled and replied, “Save it for your after show.”
“Already writing it,” Beau quipped. “The working title isFire Code & Feelings.”
