Free A Promise at Bluebell Hill by Emma Cane Page B

typed set of notes, then thanking them all for coming. She briefly went over the mammoth dig again, and their original plan for a party to present the archaeology to the public, make it fun for kids, and in general, get the population enthused.
    â€œThat’s the problem—­­people aren’t too enthused anymore,” Mrs. Palmer said with a sigh. “After the dig at Snowmass, ­people feel they’ve given enough money to support fossils. And one little mammoth seems trivial compared to the thousands of bones found down there. We’ve been to town-­council meetin’s, we’ve met with the museum, and with the spa—­although they say they’re done talkin’.”
    It was almost hard to concentrate on her serious words when Mrs. Palmer had a fake dog bone stuck in her blond wig, like Pebbles from the old Flintstones cartoon. Monica loved that about her. She wanted to be her when she was an old lady.
    â€œThen perhaps we should just stop at the party,” Monica suggested.
    Everyone turned frowns on her.
    â€œAll right, let me say my piece, then you can shoot me down. Yes, this is a presidential wedding, and perhaps making President Torres aware of the dig might do . . . something.”
    â€œIt’s more about making the media aware of the dig,” Mrs. Ludlow said patiently.
    Monica turned a serious gaze on her. “But it’s your granddaughter’s wedding weekend. Do you want to mar her memories?”
    She almost expected Mrs. Ludlow to stiffen, offended, but she just gave Monica a kind smile.
    â€œI would never permit that to happen, my dear.”
    â€œOf course you wouldn’t intend to, but—­”
    â€œAnd we would have our demonstration on Friday, before the rehearsal dinner or anything else related to the wedding.”
    â€œBut won’t the Mammoth Party bring just as much attention to our cause?” Monica continued.
    â€œNo, it won’t,” Brenda Hutcheson said firmly. “The posters have been up for a week. When I ask, no one has even read them. We’ll get parents and kids. That’s it. We need more attention than that.”
    All around the table, heads bobbed in agreement.
    Monica had to make one last attempt. “You don’t think ­people holding signs will be ignored? Especially when everyone’s trying to get a look at the president herself?”
    â€œThat’s why we can’t have our usual demonstration,” Mrs. Palmer said with satisfaction, as if Monica had made her point for her.
    With a sigh, Monica sat back and admitted defeat. Her last desperate strategy would be to curb their more insane impulses.
    â€œWhat’s the ‘usual’?” Matt, new to the group, asked.
    Monica ticked off each point on her fingers. “Picketing, camping out in the way of . . . whatever, organizing an e-­mail barrage, chaining themselves to buildings—­”
    Janet interrupted. “And let’s not forget national exposure in what some might term ‘offensive’ photos.” She patted her daughter’s hand.
    Theresa and Matt exchanged an amused glance.
    Monica rolled her eyes. “I’m not saying I’ve haven’t been side by side with you all. But if you’re going to do this, I want you to be reasonable about it.”
    â€œThe wedding weekend will probably be our last chance,” Mrs. Thalberg said earnestly. “The spa is even discussing moving up the construction date.”
    Solemn looks were exchanged.
    â€œIt’s hard to be both original and tame,” Monica pointed out. “But . . . I have an idea.”
    They listened politely, and before Monica knew it, the widows had gone beyond her original idea with an over-­the-­top one of their own. Much laughter and discussion filled the next hour as they began to work, even as Monica promised herself she would steer the group away from anything that