Page 3 of Burning Hearts
My boss, Jonah, decided we should go after the Langford Prize too, convinced “Langford” on my ID badge was as good as a cheat code.
Which meant I was here wearing two headsets at once: make the town look good on camera and somehow prove Signal House deserved a Riverfield storefront without looking like a rigged bet.
It wasn’t what Tansy would call a glamorous job. If my aunt found out that I earned less than six figures a year, she’d probably have a heart attack.
She wasn’t in the habit of bankrolling anyone; least of all, her nephew.
I leaned over the balcony, hoping for one last glimpse of Cade. Nothing. Just the fountain, the florists, and the space he’d already vacated.
So, I turned back to the room. The Magnolia Suite was designed to make you stay, but the Ball was the show, and I was paid to run shows.
I washed my hands like a surgeon, flattened a rebellious collar, and told my reflection: “We’re going to stand with the operations crew tonight, not with the rich people.”
Optics were important.
Downstairs would be a carefully planned spectacle: a brass band tucked somewhere acoustically clever, a sponsor wall that made strangers feel famous. And the much-hyped Peach Basket on its pedestal like a holy object. Also: phones, everywhere. Hungry for a photo. And I wasn’t going to be the Langford who posed while other people worked.
I grabbed my folio and headset—habit more than necessity—and stepped back into the private elevator as the doors shut. My pulse did its own little rehearsal.
I checked my notes for the program information: introductions, Beau’s cold open, the bank president’s remarks, then finally the draw.
The elevator opened on the mezzanine, then the lobby. Music drifted up from the ballroom. I crossed the marble, nodded to a bellman, and slipped through the side door into the service hall that fed the stage.
“Ellis!” someone called out, waving a clipboard like a flag. A volunteer in a bow tie pointed me toward the comms table. “Beau wants a lighting check. He says the ceiling lights are waging war on his hair.”
I was here as the producer of record for the Peach Ball stream, so camera angles, the bank president’s mic, and even Beau’s hair were all my problem.
“Tell him I’ll negotiate a ceasefire and keep the shine,” I said, and clipped a pack to my waistband, checked the battery, and thumbed the talk button. “Comms, Ellis on. Beau, count to ten for me.”
Beau counted like a late-night host, turning it into a bit. The room softened into that production buzz I loved, where a thousand tiny parts pretend to cooperate because I asked nicely.
On my way to the wing, a placard at the double doors caught my eye:
CANDLELIGHT EFFECTS ARE SIMULATED PER MUNICIPAL CODE. THANK YOU, NO-FLAME PATROL.
Elegant script, blunt message.
Next to me, a partygoer asked his date, “Is that sign because of the Biscuit Fire?”
His companion quickly silenced him and said in a whisper, “Hush, we don’t talk about that in front of Langfords.”
Riverfield didn’t whisper about safety after the Biscuit Fire; they wrote it into code. Three years ago, on a windy afternoon, Cast Iron Café had hosted a special brunch. A kitchen torch, honey-butter brûléed biscuits, and dried Spanish moss in the window had all met a bad gust of wind. Awnings went up like kindling, and half the block smelled like burnt sugar for a month, like Riverfield had tried to crème-brûlée itself.
No fatalities, a few smoke inhalation calls.
And a town that now simulated candlelight.
Tansy had been the one holding the torch, demonstrating ‘harmless’ brunch theatrics.
The fire had pushed from one storefront to the next, chewing through a boutique, the law offices above it, and a small grocer before crews knocked it down.
The Langfords paid for the rebuild, and half the town signed nondisclosure agreements that politely renamed it an “incident” and put everyone on a first-name basis with their insurance agent.
The rest of us called it the Biscuit Fire—just not when Tansy was in the room.
I headed for the ballroom. Inside, the room smelled like citrus and magnolia leaves. Chandeliers hummed and people did their best not to stare and absolutely stared anyway. I drifted along the riser, checking the AV run, laying fresh tape where needed.
I pivoted to step back, and my heel caught the yellow-and-black cable ramp, a raised lip I hadn’t seen. The world tipped as the floor seemed to swing up to meet me. A glass clinked.
