“You can’t block the aisle,” Rowan told her.
“It’s a table now,” she answered.
“It was an aisle ten minutes ago.”
“Then plans change.”
She taped a handwritten sign to a post: SHORELINE OWNERS SATURDAY – PRIVATE EVENT. A second strip of tape secured the bottom. She stepped back and admired it.
“There. Now nobody’s confused.”
Lorna watched the sign flutter. She remembered seeing Candace write it at the kitchen table earlier that morning, while the coffee brewed. The association had no annual permit, no claim to the pavilion, and no contract with Parks. Lorna knew this. She had been the treasurer until the bookkeeping grew complicated and Candace began handling the papers herself.
“Shouldn’t we check with someone before putting that up?” Lorna asked.
“We have used this spot for twenty years. That’s checking enough.”
“The town could object.”
“The town doesn’t object to people who pay its bills.”
It was said lightly, but Lorna had begun to notice how often Candace made the same claim. She called it a joke when she was challenged. She called it a fact when nobody challenged her.
Meanwhile, Bethany moved slowly among the guests, greeting people, thanking them, and keeping an eye on the clock. She had promised Alma she would dress by four. There was time, though not as much as she wanted. Quentin would need to retrieve the ceremonial case from Lieutenant Radford around three-fifteen. The honor guard would come at five. The ceremony would begin at five-thirty. She repeated the schedule like a quiet prayer.
At two-fifteen, Marcus Doyle from Parks returned. He stood beside the new private-event sign, examined the tape, and frowned. Bethany saw him talking to Candace. She walked over in time to hear his calm voice.
“Mrs. Wadsworth, the Parks booking is for this wedding.”
Candace placed her hands on her hips. “Marcus, don’t be difficult. We’ve always done Saturdays here.”
“You can apply for a reservation like anyone else. Today is reserved.”
“Do you want to create a problem for the people who support your department?”
“My department?” Marcus glanced at his Parks uniform. “I repair trash cans.”
“And who supports Parks?”
“Taxpayers,” he said. “All of them.”
Candace’s eyes narrowed. She had expected him to be grateful that she remembered his name. She was annoyed to find that he did not treat that as a favor.
“I’ll speak to your director Monday.”
“You can,” Marcus replied. “You should also take the sign down.”
He reached toward the tape. Candace stepped between him and the post.
“Do not touch association property.”
Marcus let his hand drop. He had worked with Hiram Tisdale and knew when a minor disagreement was being engineered into a public scene. He took a photograph of the sign and the temporary city booking notice and returned to his truck to make a note for the department.
Bethany watched him go. There was no authority vacuum. The town had confirmed their reservation. Yet Candace behaved as though a refusal to surrender was itself misconduct.
“We have enough for the ceremony,” Rowan said quietly beside her. “If we move six chairs, I can still make the aisle work.”
“We shouldn’t have to.”
“I know. But it’s your day.”
She stared at the sign. “I’m trying to remember that.”
Across the grass, Candace began a livestream. Her voice changed the instant the phone faced her: brighter, livelier, full of false concern.
“Hello, neighbors. Welcome to Shoreline Watch. I’ve got a little update from the lake.”
Bethany heard the first sentence. She had dealt with angry callers and cameras before. But something about the cheerful word *little* told her this was about to become much bigger than an argument over chairs.
