There was more he wanted to say. More that he had said, so many times.
His fellow city councilors—Doc Atwater, Josephine Stoddard, and William Kimball—hadn’t given much credence to any of his arguments. Of course he was pretty sure Old Man Kimball had a filter on his hearing aid that made the voices of anyone under sixty indecipherable, so there was no real way to tell what he really thought. Sebastian was convinced he just voted with the majority on every issue so he could get home sooner.
The young guy on the council, at forty, and certainly the new guy, at only a year and a half into his service as opposed to the rest of the council’s collective decades, Sebastian always felt like they were just humoring him by even letting him attend meetings. When the citizens of Adelaide Springs had unanimously elected him to fill the council seat vacated by Mabel Morris on the occasion of her eighty-sixth birthday, he’d taken it as a vote of confidence and a desire to embrace progressive leadership. It didn’t take him long, however, to realize he’d unknowingly been campaigning for the Ignorance Is Bliss Party, unopposed by any staunch Better You Than Me Party candidates.
Maybe they hadn’t realized just how stubborn he could be. Of all the things Sebastian Sudworth could be accused of, he knew that “yes-man” would never be among them. He’d become quite accustomed to sharing his viewpoint—about Township Days or anything else this town got stuck in a rut about—with anyone who would listen. Before, during, and after votes were cast.
They’d called him a hipster for trying to convince Jo Stoddard to start using an online reservation system—which, he feared, was going to be about as likely as convincing the Kardashians to live the rest of their lives off the grid. (He would never stop advocating for both of those things.) They called him a worrywart for insisting that before they even considered bringing back Township Days, they needed to figure out how—and if—they could pay for it. And he was pretty sure Old Man Kimball had called him a communist for suggesting it would be beneficial to conduct studies of the demographics of tourists they hoped to bring to Adelaide Springs rather than casting out the wide net based on niche hospitality data from the bicentennial. (Bill Kimball was also known to call Pat Sajak a communist when there were no vowels left in the puzzle, so he didn’t take that particular insult too personally.)
“Okay, then . . . tell me.” Andi walked past him and grabbed his down puffer jacket from the hooks on the wall and tossed it to him, then pulled on her own similarly styled coat—in orange as opposed to Sebastian’s green. “Who’s the ideal tourist in your mind? Since apparently money’s not enough.”
He was grateful for the follow-up question. He rarely got that far in council meetings.
“We need tourists who would appreciate the beauty and the serenity. There are people out there who are seeking the solitude we can offer. People who will find joy in the opportunity to disconnect and maybe even get lost for a few days. Stressed-out businesspeople seeking inspiration. Families wanting to put down their devices for a day or two. And I know we need money coming into the town soon. Probably sooner than we can get new highway signs and better Wi-Fi in place. I get that. But we’ve got to find a way to let people know we exist—everything Adelaide Springs already has going for it, just as it is. We shouldn’t become something we’re not to attract people we don’t really want. The last thing we should want is to be a joke to people.”
“Hey.” She raised her hand in protest. “I remember Township Days from when I was a kid. Yes, it was a ridiculous fluke that started it, but it really turned into something special. It did attract families. It was a tradition for a lot of people. Everyone took part, doing reenactments, giving presentations, supporting local businesses—”
“Andi, I’m not meaning to be insensitive about it. I’m not.” No matter how insensitive he was in the privacy of his own thoughts. “But what was the population then? A thousand? Fourteen hundred?”
“Something like that.”
“And now it’s 317. There are all of eight local businesses, and the same three or four families own them all. Who’s going to do all the work? Is Bill Kimball going to be out there with a musket? I would legitimately fear for our lives. Are Maxine and Mabel going to throw caution and rheumatoid arthritis to the wind and climb ten-foot ladders to hang up banners?”
With a chuckle Andi switched off the lights in the garage and motioned for him to exit through the overhead door. Once he had, she elbowed the control on the wall and followed out after him as the door slowly lowered. They turned left and headed toward downtown.
“I hear you. I do. And there are people who agree with you.”
“Like who?”
She zipped up to her neck and then adjusted back down to her collarbone. “You know . . . Laila. Cole, certainly. Jake and Lucinda, I would guess. Me, sort of. Depending on the day. Um . . . Neil, probably.”
That was what he figured. His viewpoint had the complacent support of the few adult citizens of Adelaide Springs who’d been born after the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Sebastian sighed. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. Not as it pertains to today’s vote, anyway.”
“Maybe they’ll surprise you.” She laughed at the skepticism on his face and amended her statement. “Maybe Doc will surprise you. Common sense tends to ultimately rule the day with Doc.”
There was truth—and hope—in that, if nothing else.
He hadn’t zipped up as they exited the garage, and a whip of frigid wind rushing up Main Street reminded him of his negligence. “Maybe.”
He glanced down at his watch. Eight fifty-four. The city council meeting was to begin in six minutes, but considering that he could look a few feet down the sidewalk and see both Jo’s old Range Rover and Doc’s ’76 Chevy—affectionately named Beulah—still parked in front of the Bean Franklin, he knew he didn’t have to rush. They kept walking side by side at a leisurely pace. Leisurely. The official speed of Adelaide Springs. There were moments when he almost felt like he had acclimated to it.
“I love this town, Andi. This town . . .” How could he even begin to sum up his feelings for the town and the people in it?
“I know,” she responded lightly with a compassionate smile.
“How can . . .” He cleared his throat, hoping his voice would then come out stronger. It didn’t work. “How can I stand by and do nothing as the wrong decisions are made? Everyone’s too busy living in the past or, at best, living in today. We need to be preparing for the future—making sure there is a future.”
“No one could ever accuse you of standing by and doing nothing. Waxing philosophical a little too often . . .” She smirked at him with affection. “Now that’s a fair accusation.”
Andi’s smile and Sebastian’s eyebrows, peeking up over the collar that had become his barricade against the persistent wind, communicated the same things. Humor. Understanding. Gratitude.
There was a tap from the other side of the picture window of the Bean Franklin, just as they arrived in front of it, and Andi and Sebastian both turned to see Laila motioning for them to come inside.
The Bean was a reliable hub for early-morning activity. You would consistently find seven or eight tables of two to four people each, and Laila or Andi took care of them all just as quickly as they could, but most of the patrons wouldn’t have noticed if they were ignored altogether. When they needed a refill, they’d step behind the counter and get it. If they needed another pastry, they’d grab it from the display and jot it down in the black-and-white composition notebook Andi used to track inventory. And of course whenever they got up for more coffee or more food, the conversations continued. They’d cross the creaky wood floor, calling over their shoulders to their breakfast companions—and, really, the room at large—sometimes asking if anyone needed anything while they were up, but mostly just carrying on with whatever they’d been saying while they were sitting.