Sebastian picked up shifts a couple times a week—sometimes because Fenton was scheduled to have the night off and sometimes because Fenton forgot he was scheduled to work until after he’d had a couple of beers. Sebastian usually jumped at the chance. He enjoyed chatting with tourists, and it was fun to drive that ugly old Bronco. It was a classic, of course, and getting it out on the mountain roads was Sebastian’s go-to trick for experiencing adrenaline and comfort, all at once.
The pickup truck was Andi’s personal vehicle, and that morning was the first time she’d allowed Sebastian to try out his developing mechanic skills on it. He felt good about it. He’d feel even better when Andi made it safely home that night—in other words, when she didn’t go careening into an elk herd because Sebastian had unknowingly cut her brake line or something.
Yeah . . . it would be good for Roland to swing by. Just in case.
“What’s on your agenda for today?” Andi asked him as he took a second to stretch his arms over his head and rotate his shoulders. “Heading back to the Bean? Coffee’s on me.”
The Bean Franklin. Andi’s other Revolutionary pun-inspired enterprise.
“I can’t. Council meeting.”
He hadn’t meant to roll his eyes at the mention of that morning’s city council meeting, scheduled to begin at nine, but he hadn’t fought very hard to prevent it either. Andi’s laughter indicated his disdain had slipped through.
“Ah yes. Today’s the big vote. How could I have forgotten?”
“Ha! Vote. As if the outcome isn’t already decided.”
“It’s going to be good for the town, Seb.” The laughter was still in her eyes, but there was a slight hint of lecture in her voice. “There are only a few weeks left of ski season, and Jo’s only had a guest or two at the inn every night. At most. What’s it going to look like once the season’s over? At least bringing back Township Days will get some tourists passing through again.”
Township Days. Sebastian didn’t understand how anyone in Adelaide Springs kept a straight face when they talked about Township Days. It was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard of in his life.
Apparently, in 1975 an advertisement had run in whatever the 1975 equivalent of AARP magazine was, promoting the big upcoming celebration happening in Adelaide Springs, Colorado. The big upcoming four-day celebration with Revolutionary War reenactments on Adelaide Battlefield—where Patriot militia had infamously been defeated by the British after failing to bring the gunpowder in out of the rain, of course. (It was early in the war. They got better.) It was worth celebrating, in 1975 and beyond, because the Massacre at Adelaide Battlefield availed the surviving members of the Fourth New Hampshire Regiment to provide their assistance at the Battle of Bunker Hill. You know . . . any excuse for a parade and a carnival.
The problem, of course, was that the Massacre at Adelaide Battlefield had taken place in Adelaide Township, New Hampshire. Not in Adelaide Springs, Colorado. Obviously. Since Meriwether Lewis and William Clark would have still been toddling around in their colonial nappies at the time.
But when a tour bus of senior citizens back in 1975 showed up to check out the historically inaccurate absurdity, some particularly industrious citizens of Adelaide Springs—suffering from the economic impact of the worst drought in thirty years—made the most of it. It was a ridiculous farce, but they sold it with aplomb for the length of an afternoon.
By the time the country was celebrating the bicentennial the following year, word had spread about the kitschy battle reenactments and butter-churning expertise worthy of Mount Vernon happening in the Centennial State—so nicknamed because of its statehood that didn’t come along until one hundred years after the Declaration of Independence.
“But see, Andi, these aren’t the types of tourists we want.”
She crossed her arms and leaned her shoulder against the wall of the Valet Forge garage. “Why? Do these types of tourists not have money?”
Ah. That old chestnut.
It was the same argument that everyone in town threw at him when he voiced his objections. It was the argument that was going to result in the rest of the city council overruling him three-to-one in today’s vote.
He grinned and made his way to the sink beside her to wash his hands. And his arms. His neck, maybe? Good grief. Had he gotten any oil into the truck?
“Yes, they have money. And I know there’s something to be said for an immediate influx of cash. I’m not downplaying that. Really.” He pumped a handful of the powder soap that always reminded him of elementary school and began scrubbing. “But that won’t last long. They’ll be here a day. Maybe two.”
“It’s a four-day festival, Seb.”
“Fine. They’ll be here four days. And then they’ll go home—”
“And tell their friends about this adorable little mountain town that’s only forty-five miles from Telluride—”
“Oh, come on! That’s as the crow flies, and you know it. It takes four hours to drive to Telluride.”
“And they’ll tell their friends that this little town had the best mountain views they’ve ever seen, and the best hospitality, and it would be a delightful scenic detour on a trip to Denver or Vegas or LA—”
“See, that’s the thing. That’s not how it will get communicated.” He finished rinsing and grabbed a clean towel from the utility shelf. “They’ll tell their friends about all the times they got lost because the signs off the highway were outdated and unclear. They’ll talk about how they got stuck in the snow or mud or dust storm or elk migration, and by the time they got to Adelaide Springs, late at night, the two restaurants in town were closed. There was an inn, but by the time they got there, all the rooms were full.”
Andi guffawed. “Jo has nine rooms, you know. I’m pretty sure she’s never sold out.” She thought for a moment and then asked in earnest, “You really think the inn will be full?”
Still drying, he turned to face her and rested his hip against the sink. “I don’t know, Andi. And that’s sort of the point. We don’t know what to expect, and we don’t know if we’re prepared for it, and everyone wants to rush into this thing for September. It just makes no sense. We can’t act out of desperation and expect anything better than a mess to clean up on the other side.”
She eyed him warily and appeared deep in thought, and he began to feel hopeful that maybe he’d helped one person apply some logic to the situation.
After a few more seconds of silent staring, she shrugged. “If the inn is full, they can just drive on to the next town—”
“Where they have fewer rooms than we do.”
“—or to Alamosa. They have plenty of chain hotels in Alamosa. And it’s an easy drive since it’s interstate almost the whole way.”
Why did no one ever realize that when they were arguing these same points with him, over and over, they were actually helping him prove his point?
“First of all, it’s more than forty miles of interstate, after driving on twenty miles of back roads just to get there. An hour out of the way is a big deal at the end of a long day. But more than that, is that really the first impression we want to give? If our answer for them is going to be to head to Alamosa, why didn’t we just encourage them to make reservations there in the first place?”