by Molly Macrae
J. Scott blinked.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout,” I said. I surreptitiously wiped my mouth in case I’d also spit. “But the stories I remember hearing always made that whole episode sound more like a loud fuss between neighbors—with a lot of that yelling—than a feud. With guns.”
“But these days a feud is more fun,” he said. “Plus, think of the marketing possibilities. If it goes well this year, just wait until next year. And I can assure you it will be perfectly safe. No projectiles. No live rounds. No actual aiming at people. I think your mayor and aldermen were impressed by how thoroughly and carefully I’ve choreographed the event. It will be playacting at its finest. Verisimilitude and good fun. We’re taking Blue Plum’s worn-out skit and giving it the life it should be living. We’re giving Blue Plum’s history the voice and resonance it was meant to have. Believe me when I say this will take your festival weekend to the next level. Blue Plum Preserves is going to be on the map and on every heritage tourist’s itinerary. The result will be more visitors, more fun, and more money in the merchants’ pockets. Win-win-win. And here’s something else that will interest you. If I’m not mistaken, one of the originators of the festival, a founding mother, if you will, was a knitter just like you.”
“Are you talking about Ivy McClellan?”
“Possibly.” He nodded. “Yes. Ivy. That could be the name I read. I see you know your local history. That’s wonderful. I think she might be the one who dabbled on the original skit, too. The records aren’t entirely clear on that.”
“Ivy McClellan was my grandmother.”
“You’re kidding. Is she still…”
“She died four months ago. This was her shop. She and a couple of friends wrote the skit based on their research.”
“I am so sorry for your loss.” He gave his sorrow half a beat. “But then, this will be especially wonderful. It could hardly be more appropriate for the shop to have a role in this year’s celebration. You will be honoring your grandmother’s memory and her vision by letting part of the action take place here. And that win-win-win I mentioned? It will go for you and the Weaver’s Cat, too. You’ll see. People eat this stuff up.” He smacked his lips and smiled. “Frankly, I’m surprised you aren’t already aware of the reenvisioning of what I believe is a cornerstone activity of Blue Plum Preserves.”
I opened my mouth—but to say what? That I’d been busy planning the shop’s own festival booth and related activities? Maybe. To tell him my life had been upended and my mind otherwise occupied since Granny died? Probably not, but it didn’t matter, anyway. He was primed and ready and got in ahead of whatever I might have said.
“Also, if you stop and think, I feel sure you’ll realize that your focus is on the wrong component of the event.” He shook his head with a sad cluck of his tongue. “It happens, though. You aren’t the first by any means. You only have to mention guns and there are people who will misinterpret what you’re trying to do. But I think that, like the others, you’re missing the educational importance of this kind of event. You’re focusing on a small part of our toolset and missing the bigger picture of our message.”
“I could be.” I nodded, trying to give him the benefit of a snapless judgment. He was right. I was having trouble getting past the guns. Guns in the streets of Blue Plum. Guns fired out my second-floor windows. Guns in a little skit about a minor land squabble and wandering livestock. I gave myself a shake to jar my focus somewhere other than guns….
“And you can trust me on the gun issue,” he said. “The reenactors will not be just a bunch of good old boys playing with fantasies and popguns.” He grinned, showing me his ivories and also showing me that he could laugh at a stereotype as easily as the next good old boy. “So, Miss Rutledge—Kath—I know this is short notice, but may we have your blessing and permission to stage part of the Blue Plum Piglet War from the upstairs windows of your charming place of business next weekend?”
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