remember to stress that we’ll all benefit from this,” said Charley, whom she’d filled in on their way to the meeting. “We need to figure out how to make Icicle Falls a tourist destination all year long, snow or no snow.”
Samantha nodded and pushed her plate away. What little she’d eaten of her Belgian waffle was lying in her stomach like a brick.
Another fifteen minutes of small talk and Ed brought the meeting to order. There was much to discuss, like how to encourage everyone to put out hanging baskets and window boxes full of flowers come spring so they could keep their Alpine village theme consistent throughout town.
During this discussion several of the women present cast scornful frowns in the direction of Todd Black, whose sports bar, the Man Cave, camped at the edge of town—rather like the embarrassing relative everyone at the family picnic wishes would just go away. His concession to the requisite Bavarian look they were going for had been to add the carved wooden overhang to his roofline and commission one of his buddies to paint a Neanderthal in lederhosen holding a club on the front of the building. Many thought it in poor taste. Rather like the brawls that often took place there on a Saturday night.
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