Permanent Ink (Something to Celebrate #1) (19 page)

Chapter Eighteen

A couple of days later, Blair’s inspiration had turned into a full-blown plan, and she was about to put it into motion. Sitting in a booth at the Lovin’ Cup, she folded her hands on top of her neat stack of notes and smiled as the accounting girls walked toward her and scooted into place around the table.

“Thank you all for meeting with me on such short notice.” Blair smiled and paused for effect. “So who wants to help me make it a reality? Who wants to be on the parade-planning committee?”

Barb scooted closer. “I do.”

“Me, too.” Paula nodded.

Sheila looked at the other women and then at Blair. “I’ve chaired the parade-planning committee before.” She shrugged.

“Are you saying you wouldn’t mind doing it again?” Blair asked.

“I suppose I don’t mind.” Sheila’s cheeks were pink with pleasure.

“Perfect.” Blair smoothed a spreadsheet across the table. It was a color-coded masterpiece—the entire parade at a glance. Where the floats would be staged, the exact order, size, style, how many people on each—everything.

The information was complicated—and the plans were too grandiose for a small town parade. When the floats rolled down Main Street on the Fourth of July, the end result would rest somewhere between moderately shocking and outright disastrous. Blair would take either end of the spectrum, because no matter what, the contest couldn’t—and wouldn’t be won. She would be viewed as a woman who gave it her best shot. A woman who wasn’t perfect—but perfect for Celebration.

And the best part? At the end of that day, she wouldn’t be packing to take a job in New York City. She’d be where she belonged—in Ben’s arms, watching the fireworks. She would legitimately
belong
there.

Taking a deep breath, she proceeded to explain everything to the girls, who, as they became more and more excited, interrupted frequently.

Barb pointed a shiny pink fingernail at the yellow section. “So this is the Founding Fathers section?”

“Yes,” Blair told her for the second time.

“Where’s Roosevelt?”

Paula let out an exaggerated sigh. “He’s not a founding father, silly. He’s on Mount Rushmore!”

“Where is that?” Barb asked.

“In the green section,” Blair answered patiently. “The American Landmarks.”

Sheila tapped a pencil on her desk. “Get it together, Barb. This isn’t some pissant parade. We have a
professional
planner on board.” She nodded at Blair. “The proof is in the pudding I always say, and the May Day celebration proved to me that our Blair here knows exactly what she’s doing.”

“Thank you, Sheila. I’m glad to have the support.”

“Now, ladies, since I’m so confident of your skills, I am adding a brand-new section to the parade. This one is Twentieth Century American Families,” she announced calmly. “Ten floats, ten decades.” She paused, her eyes widening slightly as inspiration struck again. “And each of you can have first pick—choose one of these floats for your own family. Go crazy. Have a ball decorating it.”

“Ooh!” Paula gasped. She held the paper close to her face. “I call the sixties!”

“Damn,” Sheila muttered. “I’ll take the roaring twenties.”

“But, Blair, what about this century?” Barb asked.

Blair beamed at her. “I’m so glad you asked. We will have one float—the very last one in the parade—and it will be called New York: Present Tense.” She held up her hands as if she was picturing it. Which she wasn’t, not really. But it would come to her.

“Ooh,” Paula repeated. “What’s that one about?”

“It will be cutting edge—completely different. Very urban, and a nod to New York City.”

“But we’re not in the city. We’re in Celebration,” Barb pointed out.

“The judges are coming from the city,” Blair explained.

Sheila nodded. “I get it. It’s kind of kiss-ass, but we want to win, don’t we?”

“That’s the spirit,” Blair answered with a sunny smile.

“So I have one more favor to ask,” she said. “That you keep the plans hush-hush until we launch the website.”

“A
website
? Just for the parade?” Barb squawked.

“Sure. That way we can have families sign up online. They can choose a theme section, choose a specific float, and start their own decorating plans. That kind of thing.”

“But…if everything is set ahead of time, how are we going to give out awards?” Paula asked.

“Awards?” Blair smiled at her.

“We always give out awards. Most patriotic float. Best use of materials. Most creative use of theme.” Paula ticked them off on her fingers. “Who won the munchkin magic award last year, Sheila?”

The munchkin magic award?

“One of the Cub Scout troops. They were miniature Uncle Sams.
Such
cute little guys!” Sheila answered.

Barb piped up. “We have to keep those awards, Blair. They’re handed out before the parade, and the winners get to put signs on their floats. They’re badges of honor.”

The other women nodded, their eyes wide.

Blair nodded back at them, matching the serious expressions on their faces. Inside, though, she was jumping for joy. The kooky awards—so sweet and quaint, but in the judges eyes, so amateurish—would be icing on the cake.

“Oh, sure. That’s not a problem at all. But because this year is going to be so amazing, let’s not reveal too many details too early. Wouldn’t want people fighting over floats before the sign-up sheets are even online.”

“We won’t breathe a word,” Sheila agreed.

Perfect. They wouldn’t be able to keep their mouths shut if Blair taped them. And that was the way she wanted it.

“Thank you, ladies. Put on your thinking caps for fund-raising ideas. We’ll have to get started soon.” With another smile, Blair stood up.

Barb and Paula headed for the door, but Sheila stood by the table.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the other girls, but I’m worried about Ink Fest,” she said.

You and me both.

“Don’t be,” Blair assured her. “I’m meeting with Ben and Starling in a few minutes to work out an alternative.”

“But isn’t it
still
on the same date as the parade?”

“Mm,” Blair answered.

“What about Ben?” Shelia asked hesitantly. “You two are…dating, right?”

“Well. We have been seeing each other,” Blair offered. “So we talk about Ink Fest a lot.”

Not really.

“Anything else?” she asked.

Sheila shrugged. “No. You’re the expert.” Grabbing her purse, she walked toward the door, but turned around, unzipping the large bag to pull out a sheaf of papers. “Wait. Ivy gave me this to give to you. She says it’s been sitting on her desk for a while, but you’re the one who needs it.”

“Okay.” Blair accepted the packet with a smile, trying not to bristle. Ivy had every right at this point to check up on her. She glanced at it briefly—it was the rules and regulations for the parade contest. She already
had
a copy of that.

As soon as Sheila had left the diner, the grin Blair had been forcing fell from her face. Sheila had called her an expert. Yeah, she was an expert, all right. An expert in getting herself more and more tangled up. Pretty soon, she wouldn’t be able to move.

Being able to move—figuratively
and
literally, hinged on one thing—gathering her courage and talking to Ben about the permit and Sunnyside. As long as she could accomplish that, she could wiggle out of the situation unscathed.

After a while, Crystal came by with her order, and right after Blair had taken a ginormous bite of a club sandwich, Ben strolled through the door of the diner with Starling close on his heels.

“Damn,” Blair muttered, wiping mayo from her chin.

She chewed as fast as she could, at the same time scooting as far into the booth as she could manage. Her elbow knocked into a plastic squeeze bottle of ketchup and it rolled off the table, onto the floor, and directly into the path of Crystal, who was walking quickly with plates of food stacked on her arms.

Blair’s hand flew to her full mouth as the side of one of Crystal’s shoes connected with the bottle, sending it spinning across the floor. Out squirted ketchup like horror-movie blood—it sprayed on metal table legs, looped in strings across the black-and-white linoleum, and—horribly—all over Starling’s tall suede boots.

Crystal whirled around and groaned.

Starling stopped in her tracks and glared at Crystal. “Son of a—”

“Got a mop?” Ben interrupted.

“Oh, no,” Blair whispered. She ducked her head and looked at Ben, who had grabbed a handful of napkins from a holder and was doubtfully surveying Starling’s boots. Starling huffed out a breath and ignored the offered napkins, instead turning on one high, skinny heel and heading for the bathroom.

Crystal stomped toward the long counter, reaching out to give the stool seat at the end a frustrated spin. “Chuck!” She pushed through a swinging door and disappeared into the kitchen.

Ben stood there with an amused look on his face, and for a couple of seconds, Blair drank in the sight of him. She couldn’t help it. With a deliberate, dazzling smile, Ben turned, met her eyes and walked across the floor. As she sat there gripping a spoon, he swung into the booth opposite her and picked up a menu. She swallowed.

“Hey.” His voice was easy.

“Don’t stop eating because of me,” he said as he perused the menu.

“Don’t worry, Ben,” she said softly.

“I have a bunch of appointments today,” Ben said suddenly. He peered at her over the menu, his smile not reaching his eyes. “Booked all the way until nine tonight.”

“Oh, that’s great news. Good for you.” Blair folded her arms over her white blouse. “I’ve been busy, too. Got the craft fair all set up for two weeks from Saturday. Joe volunteered to build some portable booths, and we can reuse them for other events.”

“Nice. Good thinking.” He let the menu slide to the table and gazed at her.

“Thanks,” Blair said quickly. “You still have the folder I gave you? We can discuss some Ink Fest details if you want. Before Starling gets here,” she added.

Ben frowned. “You’re not giving me much time.”

“Sorry. I’ve been so busy with the craft fair and…” She smiled. “I’ve been busy.”

“With the parade contest plans, too,” Ben said. “About that—have you figured out where spectators are going to park? I have a feeling all the spaces downtown will be taken by Ink Fest people.”

Shit.

“I’m working on it.”

“Okay, I—”

Something caught Ben’s attention and he glanced to his right.

Blair turned her head, too, and watched as Starling weaved her serpentine body through the tables and slid in next to Ben.

“My boots are ruined,” Starling announced and then glanced at Ben to gauge his reaction. He didn’t give her one. Then, as if it was an afterthought, which Blair could tell it wasn’t, Starling looked across the table and raised her pierced eyebrows. “Oh. Hello, Claire.”

“It’s Blair,” Ben corrected her.

With a shrug of a bony shoulder, Starling plopped a studded leather purse onto the table and pulled out a folder.
Blair’s
folder. Why did Starling have it? Blair glanced at Ben, but he was busy with the menu again. Jesus.

Starling tapped her chin. “So, Blair. I’ve looked over your plans for Ink Fest and made some changes.”

At the woman’s patronizing smile, Blair stiffened, but she kept her expression blank. “You’re welcome to give suggestions to Ben, and then I’ll discuss those with him at our next meeting.” She glanced across the table at him. “Sound good?”

Before he could answer, Starling waved a hand. “No time like the present. Besides, I need to leave town soon.”

Ben looked sideways at Starling. “When are you coming back, again?”

Blair thought she detected a thread of relief in his voice, but maybe that was wishful thinking. But if Starling laid out all her demands now, maybe she wouldn’t be coming back until the festival started. More wishful thinking, because Starling shook her head.

“Don’t worry, Ben. I won’t be gone long. I’ll still come back to finish my guest spot at your studio.”

Blair cleared her throat. “Sounds great. So about Ink Fest…what are your ideas, Starling?”

Starling looked up with that condescending smile again. “The layout of the vendor booths is actually perfect. I’ll hand that to you. But the kiddie stuff? And the carnival food? Come on. Where’s the beer garden or the shots station?”

“Shots station?” Blair raised an eyebrow even as she twisted her hands in her lap.

“Yeah. For body shots.” Starling gave Blair an I-can’t-believe-you’re-that-stupid look. “Pour the whiskey down the tube and drink it off someone’s belly. Haven’t you ever…?” She paused. “Of course not. What was I thinking?”

You were thinking of ways to be even bitchier.

Blair gave her a wide grin. “I grew up in the city, Starling. I’ve seen plenty of drunks entertain themselves. But our entertainment in Celebration will have to come from more creative avenues since we can’t get a liquor license for the town commons.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Starling retorted.

“Check at city hall if you don’t believe me.” Blair folded her hands and watched as Starling turned to Ben, her mouth open. The sunlight streaming into through the wide diner window highlighted fine lines bracketing her lips, and the slight sag to her jaw that an abundance of makeup couldn’t hide.

She reached across the table and took the folder. “Don’t know what to tell you. As long as Ink Fest is on the commons, that’s the way it has to be.” Quickly, her gaze flicked down Starling’s list. Bikini contest. Jell-O wrestling. A hot-or-not contest. What
was
this? A frat party or a professional event?

And what if Starling got her way? How was Blair supposed to broach the idea that Jell-O wrestling was being planned for an event at the senior center? She frowned, trying to look as if she was concentrating, even as apprehension began to mount.

“What’s wrong, Blair?” Starling let out a raspy chuckle. “Ben likes my ideas.”

“I said I’d consider them,” he said quietly.