"Not perform?" Susan repeats. "How can Slice of Pie not perform? I've already told Bailey about it, and she's beyond excited. She told all the kids in her cla.s.s."

"So did Noah," Carol adds. "He's been insisting I call him the Pieman for the past two weeks now. He won't stop singing 'Mustard Pie.'"

They swing their gazes to me. My stomach hurts.

"Well, their performance was contingent on me securing a big sponsor so we could afford to pay them," I admit. "So I'd been trying to get Edison Power on board as our one and only diamond-level sponsor. But the man at Edison who's in charge of making sponsorship decisions turned us down."

"He turned down Mirror Lake's Bicentennial Festival?" Carol shakes her head in disbelief. "Aren't they supposed to be all into community support?"

"Yes, but it was his daughter's birthday that was ruined," I say. "Needless to say, Edison no longer trusts me to pull off a town festival. And if we don't have their sponsorship, we can't afford to pay Slice of Pie."

The Moms fall silent. A strange weight seems to lift off my shoulders. We spend so much time trying to prove ourselves and our children to each other, to make it seem like we're totally in control, that we know exactly what we're doing, that all our decisions are the right ones-that it is an unexpected relief to stand in front of a group of mothers and admit to failure.

"Well, Bailey is going to be devastated," Susan mutters.

"I'm sure Bailey will survive the disappointment," Carol replies, eyeing her pointedly before turning back to me. "Do you have other sponsors, Liv?"

"Yes, but not at the diamond level. That's fifteen thousand and over. It was also going to help pay for extra tents and food trucks, plus the carnival rides."

c.r.a.p. I need to call the carnival manager now and ask about scaling things back. I'm really running out of time.

"Frank works with the community outreach manager over at SciTech," Carol says, reaching for a cookie from the snacks on the picnic table. "I can ask him to put in a good word for the festival."

"Brian runs the marketing department at Horville Foods," Joan puts in. "I'm sure he'll approve some level of sponsorship. And Kathleen still works over at the Blue Shoe Company. They just opened another franchise in Forest Grove, so they'd probably be into some community outreach."

"Sam and I can make a personal donation," Susan says.

They all look at me expectantly again. A faint hope flickers to life.

"In the corporate packages, I mention VIP seating and pa.s.ses as one of the benefits to sponsorship," I say. "I can give them to you to pa.s.s along, if you think people might be interested."

"With Slice of Pie at risk, Liv," Joan remarks, shaking her head, "we're all interested."

Something begins to lift inside me, as if rainclouds are parting to reveal a clear sky. I look at the other women with a dawning realization that for all the hot topics and controversy about advanced schools, organic foods, vaccinations, et cetera, The Moms know how to get stuff done. Not only for their children and families, but for their friends.

"Don't worry, Liv," Susan says. "We've got this."

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

OLIVIA.

Over the next week, The Moms collect close to eleven thousand dollars in sponsorships from various companies. Slice of Pie agrees to perform, and as word spreads of the festival troubles, Mirror Lake rallies to the cause with more volunteers and donations. Allie, Brent, and the planning committee scramble to secure the rest of the entertainment and food trucks.

Florence Wickham tells me her new friend Mr. Jenkins of the Historic Railroad a.s.sociation will be delighted to serve as the Chair Fair auctioneer. The carnival company sets up rides in a corner of Wizard's Park, while volunteers hang signs and posters in shop windows.

On Sat.u.r.day morning, the day of the festival, the sun rises into a cloudless blue sky. The gra.s.sy expanse of Wizard's Park is dotted with tents where people are selling artwork and various foods. Balloons float from the children's stage, which is surrounded by a bouncy-house and game booths. Folk music drifts from a band at the main stage, and the air is filled with the smells of popcorn, barbeque, and cotton candy.

Armed with a walkie-talkie and my cell phone, I walk around the festival grounds, making sure everything is running smoothly. The volunteers are wearing their purple Mirror Lake Festival Staff T-shirts as they help with crowd control, entertainment, and safety.

Earlier that morning, we moved the auction chairs to a cordoned-off area outside the auction tent. The colorful, painted chairs are arranged in perfect rows, like a flower garden drenched in sunlight.

In addition to being thrilled by how everything worked out, I'm incredibly proud of what the townspeople have contributed to the Chair Fair-beautiful, detailed, whimsical, and artistic creations of whatever inspired them. There are chairs painted with teddy bears, rainbows, ocean landscapes, Impressionist artworks, Dr. Seuss characters, and jungle animals.

Taking a break from checking my spreadsheets, I join Archer, Kelsey, and Nicholas for some fun. We have gooey slices of pizza, play beanbag toss, and ride the carousel. I text Dean that the festival is going well, and include a picture of Nicholas eating a cone of cotton candy bigger than his head.

"Forty-five minutes until the auction, Liv." Allie hurries up to me, her ponytail swinging and her gla.s.ses askew. "Where's Patrick?"

"He had to cancel." I peer toward the auction tent. "Mr. Jenkins is going to subst.i.tute as the auctioneer."

"Mr. Jenkins?" Allie repeats, her expression both surprised and doubtful. "Isn't he, like, eighty?"

"Well, yes, but he's still very agile and spry." I smile to hide my own uncertainty. "It'll be fine."

Just fine, I repeat to myself firmly. I leave Nicholas with Archer and head toward the auction tent, which is starting to fill with patrons. Several people wander around outside looking at the chairs, and their conversations are tinged with admiration and delight.

"h.e.l.lo, Olivia, dear." Florence Wickham, dainty and pretty in a peach-colored suit and hat, approaches me with a smile. "What a wonderful success this is!"

"So far," I allow, though I won't be entirely relaxed until the festival is over and done with.

"I'm so sorry Dean couldn't be here," Florence remarks wistfully. "But Ronald is delighted to help out. Oh, Ronald! Over here!"

A wizened older man waves and approaches us, leaning on a cane. A fringe of white hair encircles his bald head, and he's wearing a rumpled brown suit and polka-dotted tie. He extends a shaky hand to greet me, and I lead him over to the podium to explain the lot numbers and how the auction will run.

I leave him looking through an auctioneer booklet while I get the volunteers organized handing out paddles and catalogs. As the start time nears, the seats begin to fill up, and before long I realize it's going to be standing room only.

Nervousness twines through me. I've worked hard on the entire festival, but the Chair Fair is especially critical, not only for the Historical Society but for the town itself. If we don't raise enough money to save the railroad depot, there's no telling what developer might grab up the land and possibly ruin the picturesque beauty of Wizard's Park with a strip mall or condos.

I glance at my watch. Five minutes. Mr. Jenkins is standing by the podium with Florence, whispering something in her ear as he pats her rear end. She giggles.

With a smile, I go out to the chair display to ensure they're all lined up in the same order they are in the catalog. A cloud pa.s.ses over the sun, throwing the chairs into shadow. I do a quick check and return to the tent to get the auction underway.

The crowd quiets down as I introduce myself, thank everyone who has supported us, explain how the auction will run, and then turn the microphone over to Mr. Jenkins.

He puts on a pair of bifocals and clears his throat, peering at the list of chairs.

"Uh, first item..." he glances at the stage, where a volunteer brings up a chair painted with a rainbow theme "...is a chair."

The crowd smiles indulgently. I move closer to Mr. Jenkins and point to the list.

"Lot number one," I remind him quietly.

"Lot one," he says into the mic. "A really nice chair painted with rainbows. Let's start the bidding at... say, fifty dollars!"

Several paddles wave in the air. I see Archer standing by the edge of the tent, Nicholas perched on his shoulders.

"Fifty dollars, anyone for sixty?" Mr. Jenkins's voice grows louder, excitement appearing on his weathered face. "Sixty dollars for this beautiful, hand-painted chair!"

My tension eases a little. He just needed some time to warm up. I glance at Florence, who is watching from the sidelines and gazing at Mr. Jenkins adoringly.

After the rainbow chair sells for over a hundred dollars, Mr. Jenkins waves to the next, teddy-bear themed chair.

"And who wants to own this adorable chair, perfect for a nursery or children's room?" he shouts into the mic.

A loud squeal penetrates the tent from the feedback of his yell. I wince and gesture to the sound guy to turn it down.

"Who bids fifty bucks for the teddy bears?" Mr. Jenkins calls.

A few paddles rise. I write down the numbers.

"Fifty dollars, right there, lady in the blue, who bids sixty right there man in the red shirt perfect seventy bidder bidder would you bid eighty one hundred would you bid more who bids more would you bid one hundred five..."

His words slur together faster and faster, as if he's trying to whip the crowd into a frenzy of bidding, though the audience is looking at him with confusion.

I step forward and put my hand on his arm, leaning toward the microphone. "We're at one hundred five, ladies and gentlemen. Do we have a bid for one twenty?"

More paddles rise. The chair sells for one hundred fifty, and I write down the winner's number as a volunteer brings up the next chair.

"Hey, Liv!" shouts Mr. Jenkins, even though I'm standing right beside him.

I glance at the audience. Several people are shifting in their chairs, looking vaguely impatient. A cool wind wafts through the tent, the light dimming as if clouds are gathering overhead. I smile nervously.

"Yes, Mr. Jenkins?" I say.

"What do planets like to read?" Mr. Jenkins asks.

"Um, what?"

"Comet books!" he yells.

A few people smile indulgently, but restlessness runs through the crowd.

"And the next lot number, three, is an incredible chair painted by renowned atmospheric scientist Kelsey March!" I announce. "Let's start the bidding at one hundred dollars."

"Who bids one hundred one hundred lady in white do you bid one hundred five one hundred five six seven bidder up batter up seven eight nine..."

His voice lowers again into a garbled, unintelligible monotone that has the audience looking both baffled and impatient. One person in the back row gets up and leaves.

I grab the microphone and yank it away from Mr. Jenkins.

"Hey, Mr. Jenkins," I say brightly. "What did the ocean say to the sea?"

"What?" He cups his hand behind his ear and leans toward me.

"Nothing. It just waved."

"Hah!" Mr. Jenkins thumps the podium and cackles. "Now, folks, that joke comes free with the purchase of this incredible chair! Does anyone bid two hundred?"

A woman in the back, looking amused, lifts her paddle. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Two fifty?" I ask. "Anyone?"

No response.

"Come on now!" Mr. Jenkins bangs his fist on the podium again. "Someone bid two fifty or we'll tell another joke."

Three paddles shoot up into the air along with a few chuckles.

"Two fifty!" Mr. Jenkins points at a man who might have raised his paddle first. "Two seventy-five anyone? What do you get when you cross a busy road and a strawberry?"

"What?" I ask dutifully.

"A traffic jam!"

The audience chuckles again as a patron raises her paddle.

"Three hundred if you stop with the jokes!" she calls.

"Sold to the lovely lady in pink!" yells Mr. Jenkins, banging the gavel and pointing at the winner. "Next item is a princess chair complete with crown!"

The volunteers bring up the pink, sparkly chair topped with a glittering tiara. The bidding gets started, interrupted by what turns into the Liv-and-Mr.-Jenkins comedy act as Mr. Jenkins fires off riddles about bugs, animals, and outer s.p.a.ce, while I play the straight man and laugh at every joke.

"Lot five, folks," I announce as a volunteer brings up another chair, "a gorgeous Indian-patterned chair with an incredibly detailed mandala on the seat."

The next hour pa.s.ses in a blur of activity and whirlwind bidding, as the audience gets into the rhythm of the event and Mr. Jenkins and I find our groove. The light grows dimmer as more clouds gather overhead, but at least I'm not worried about rain because Kelsey checked the forecast and a.s.sured me the weather would be good all weekend.

Archer's chair is next-the detailed rendition of the comic-book superheroine Blue causing a stir of interest in the crowd. Paddles lift into the air as Mr. Jenkins reads the description.

"We have a bid for three hundred," I announce. "Do I hear three fifty for this incredible work of art?"

"Five hundred dollars," a female voice calls from the back of the audience.

Everyone turns to look at the woman who dared defy the order of the paddles.

Kelsey March.

Of course.

She's standing on the edge of the crowd, the blue streak in her hair glowing like neon, her arms crossed and her features set in that stubborn expression I know so well. She looks exactly like the strong, fierce Blue who can create tornadoes from the palms of her hands.

"We have a bid for five hundred dollars," I say into the mic. "Do we have a..."