Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95264 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
“Development that your town craved and sorely needed,” Garrett responds. “Not everyone who inherits a farm wishes to keep it running.”
“And how did those deals happen? Did you put on overalls and drive up their lane on your John Deere, flirt with the farmer’s daughter, and tell them you’ve always wanted to herd cattle?”
The corners of Garrett’s lips twitch, but his tone remains even, unruffled. “All of these landowners were paid handsomely, and now all those new families have moved into the area, both their tax dollars and disposable income supporting the local economy.”
Morgan’s bright blue eyes flicker between the two of us. She must be able to sense the cloying tension in the space, that I am not a prospective buyer she’ll be able to entice. Without a word, she slips back to her desk to feign acute focus on her computer screen.
Designs for what I assume is this Project Revive sit on easels—various schematics showing the building from different angles, both interior and exterior.
“So?” Garrett settles beside me. “What do you think?”
I’ll admit, the new building looks nice, albeit almost double the footprint of the current. It’s not the concrete block that Shirley was worried about, the exterior a mixture of brick and stonework and decorative cornices. The storefronts are all sleek and black, and uniform. Sketches of the condos show modern one- and two-bedroom residences with high ceilings and upgraded fixtures.
I would live in one of these places.
But that’s also beside the point.
“Oh look. A tree!” I tap the single oak sketch.
“Yes, where there wasn’t one before.” Garrett’s brow furrows. “You have a thing against trees too?”
“Let me guess, you’re going to market it as ‘added green space.’” I air-quote. “All you guys love that big catchphrase. Throw in a patch of grass in the boulevard for Fido to pee on and suddenly, you’re environmentally friendly.”
Garrett’s exasperated sigh ricochets off the crisp white walls. “Something tells me nothing will impress you. If you don’t mind, we have a lot to prep before tomorrow’s opening.”
“It’s tomorrow, huh?”
“Yeah.” His eyes narrow. “Why?”
“No reason. I’ll let you get back to it. Great to meet you, Morgan! Good luck working with this one.” I cast a wave on my way out.
She answers with a tentative smile. She’s dying for details.
I slide my phone free and punch out a text to Shirley.
Justine: Operation Goliath is a go for tomorrow.
“They sure know how to arrive in style.” Ned and I watch as the oversized steel-gray van with the Bonny Acres’ logo pulls into the parking spot in front of Murphy’s. First Shirley, then Vicki ease out with the help of the center’s driver, a burly man with a big smile. Vicki finds us in the window and waves, her smile zeroed in on Ned.
He squints as he offers a hesitant wave in return. “Is that Vicki Morley?”
“It’s Vicki. I don’t know her last name.”
“Gosh, I haven’t seen her in … how long has it been?” he muses, scratching his chin. “Fifty-five years? She and I went out on a date once. Lovely gal. I heard she married Gus Sullivan.”
“He died a few years ago. She lives at Bonny Acres now.” All information I learned during our Sunday arts and crafts session. “You should come with me one Friday. I’ll bet you have a few friends there to catch up with.”
He waves off my offer. “More people to miss when they’re gone.”
Six other residents from Bonny Acres pile out, all bundled in winter gear. Shirley spares me a chin jut before marching to the back of the van, instructing the driver to open it with a wag of her finger. All business, that one.
“It’s cold for this, isn’t it?”
“Nah, they’re prepared. It’ll only be for an hour or so.” Long enough for Shirley to hatch her plan. “You gonna join us?”
“Someone needs to hold down the fort here, but I’ll pull up a chair and cheer you on from the window.”
“I thought as much. Wait here a minute. I’ve got something for you.” I tug on my mittens.
“Save our small town! Protect our history!” My voice joins the fray as our little band of protesters marches back and forth in front of HG’s sales office, the signs we made on Sunday held high for passersby to see as they ease along Main Street.
But it’s not just me and the Bonny Acres clan. Shirley put the call out last night, and locals have answered. The sidewalk in front of the storefront is packed with business owners, family, and friends. Two officers from the police detachment arrived to “keep the peace”—one of them, Shirley has known since he was toddling around in his parents’ backyard, buck naked, a fact she made sure to announce before giving him a hug.
I pause for a moment, gripping my “Stop Greedy Developers” sign, and take it all in, and smile. The turnout is better than I ever could’ve expected.