by Sandra Hill
Just then, the mayor straggled in, thank God! Her lateness was what had been holding up the meeting. “Sorry, sorry,” she apologized. “I got a last-minute phone call that I had to take.”
More like a shoe customer, I bet. Wanting to buy a pair of three-hundred-dollar high heels with a name like Man-hole-ah or Jimmy Choose.
“That’s all right, Reenie,” the suck-up Baxter cooed. Everyone knew the old fart had the hots for the mayor. If Ethan had wanted to be mean, he would comment on Baxter’s comb-over, a recent practice designed to entice the merry widow, he guessed. Actually, it wasn’t so much a comb-over as a comb-forward. With bangs! He knew what bangs were because he had a eleven-year-old daughter who cared about such things. In a good wind, Baxter would look like a lightbulb with a fur collar.
“Don’t worry. It’s no big deal,” the others said.
Ethan said nothing.
The mayor plopped a pile of papers onto the table, which he hoped wasn’t an agenda. If they had an agenda, it would mean hours. Exhaling whooshily as if she carried the weight of the world, or at least Bell Cove, on her shoulders, Doreen sank down into a chair and smiled at each of them. That’s when he noticed her appearance.
Doreen, who was a few years younger than his grandmother’s seventy-two, was sporting the most godawful hairdo today, probably thanks to her daughter, Francine, who owned the only beauty parlor in town, Styles & Smiles. It was what his mother used to call a bouffant. In other words, a big gray bush. It was the kind of thing you couldn’t stop looking at. But it was nothing compared to the deep, orangish color of her skin. He’d heard that Francine had started offering spray tans in her shop, but holy cow! If this was the result, there were going to be a whole lot of dingbat women around Bell Cove looking like yams.
Besides that, Doreen was wearing a Christmas sweater, fluorescent lime green, with two Rudolphs. She probably didn’t realize that the red noses were directly over her breasts which were lifted higher than nature ever intended, probably a purchase from that new boutique on the square, Monique’s Boutique.
Baxter’s beady eyes about popped out.
Despite himself, a smile tugged at Ethan’s lips.
“Oh, my God!” Laura whispered beside him.
“Could we get this show on the road, Doreen?” Ethan asked. “What’s so urgent that we needed a special council meeting?”
“Yeah,” said Tony Bonfatto, owner of the Cracked Crab. “What’s the emergency? I have a holiday buffet for the Ocracoke Divers Club at nine-thirty.”
“A little crabby tonight, are you, Tony?” Ethan asked his friend with mock sweetness.
Ethan was pretty sure the words Tony mouthed at him were, “Bite me!”
Doreen scowled at all three of them and began to pass out some folders. Ethan opened his and groaned. Yep, an agenda. He would bet his left nut that up next would be new committees. He hated committees almost as much as he hated agendas.
Quickly, he scanned the sheet.
—Factory closing.
—Christmas streetlight malfunctions.
—Town square tree.
—Fund-raiser.
“Jeremy will give us the report on Bell Forge,” Doreen said.
Jeremy Mateer, owner of The Cove, a sort of old-time general store that sold everything from groceries to neoprene diving suits, came from a long line of Mateers who started with a “mercantile” back during the Depression. Jeremy, who was wearing a red vest over a green turtleneck and a Santa hat—yes, he was that kind of a dork—pulled out his own folder.
Death by folder! Ethan groaned inwardly.
“Gabriel Conti, owner of Bell Forge since old man Conti died last year, is coming to town next week. Mr. Conti is an architect from up in Durham, and he has no interest in the factory,” Jeremy announced and waited a moment for that news to sink in. “Bell Forge has been declining for years, as we all well know. The workforce is down to twenty now. In its heyday, they employed seventy-five to a hundred. We’ve all been waiting for the axe to drop for some time now.”
Ethan remembered Gabe. They were about the same age, and although Gabe had been sent to ritzy boarding schools by his jet-set parents, he had come to Bell Cove on occasion to visit with his grandparents, both of whom were now off to the great bell cathedral in the sky.
“We got a heads-up about Mr. Conti’s visit because a commercial developer, that shark Benson from Nags Head, was stalking the grounds last week with some surveyors,” Doreen told them. “You know what that means. A high-rise hotel. Beaches loaded with tourists. Motorboats and water skiers.” She shivered as she added, “McDonald’s.”
“There’ll be a McDonald’s over my dead body,” Abe Bernstein of The Deli proclaimed. Abe prided himself on everything in his shop being fresh, never frozen. The Food Network’s Diners, Drive-ins and Dives had once done a segment on his Reuben sandwiches, declaring them “Reuben’s Greatest Masterpieces.”
Baxter, on the other hand, chimed in with his often-voiced opinion on the town and tourism, “I don’t understand why everyone fights the inevitable. Look at all the customers we would get if they tore that building down and added some popular attractions. Our businesses would double or triple profits.”
The hiss of outrage heard around the table shut him down immediately. By the look of scorn on Doreen’s face, it was clear that Baxter wasn’t putting his overpriced loafers, which he’d probably bought at the em-por-i-um, under her bed anytime soon.
Blushing, and it was not a pretty picture, ol’ Bax slunk down in his chair and muttered, “I’m just sayin’.”
Ethan wasn’t surprised about the factory closing. It had been mismanaged for a long time, ever since old man Conti had been in and out of nursing homes, and there being no resident owner on site since his death last year. His son and daughter-in-law much preferred living in Italy and mixing with the international crowd. Thus, the place had been left to the grandson, Gabe.
Practically the only thing Bell Forge made these days were bells for church choirs and high-priced wind chimes. But Ethan had hoped the company would be sold to some other company interested in keeping up the tradition. A pipe dream, he supposed. Look at that famous Whitechapel company in London, which had made both the Liberty Bell and Big Ben. It closed last year after five hundred years in business. Bell Forge had been operating for a mere one hundred. “Is it a done deal?” Ethan asked.
“No. Not at all,” Jeremy said. “That’s where we—the council—come in. I contacted Mr. Conti at his architectural firm, and he agreed to meet with us after he looks over the plant and its books, but before he meets with the Benson folks.”
So, there was a chance.
“We need a committee to meet with Mr. Conti,” Doreen said. “Who wants to head that committee? Jeremy can’t do it because he’s having root canal surgery that day.”
I knew it, I knew it. A committee. “Don’t look at me,” Ethan said. “This is the busiest time of year for me.”
Doreen narrowed her eyes and gave him “The Look,” the one that said, “Stop being a prick, Ethan. I knew you when you ran around the tree farm in nothing but a droopy diaper.”
He narrowed his eyes right back at her, not about to be intimidated by an orange yam with a bush on its head.
Which, of course, gave Doreen the opening to ask, “By the way, did you call Natalie?”
“Natalie . . . who?”
Doreen made a tsk-ing noise at him. “Natalie Forsyth, the nurse over at Southern General Hospital. My second cousin’s daughter who was recently divorced. Remember?”
“I haven’t had time.”
“Make time. That daughter of yours needs a mommy. Beth Anne has been gone for three years now. You’re starting to act like an old man.”
“Oh, good Lord! This is a council meeting. Not Bell Cove Matchmakers,” he protested.
“Forget about it, Doreen,” Abe said. “I fixed him up with my niece, a very nice schoolteacher who was visiting here last month, and he canceled at the
last minute.”
“I had the flu.”
“A likely story,” Tony, whom he had considered a friend, up till now, inserted with a grin. “Women are all over him, like Sunday sauce on homemade pasta, when he stops by the bar, and he ignores them all.”
“Maybe he’s turned . . .” Baxter started to say.
“That will be enough,” Doreen said before her suitor said what they all knew he was about to say and Ethan jumped over the table to knock the smirk off Baxter’s face. “My point, Ethan, was that we’re all busy. Besides, you have as much, if not more, to lose than any of us with all that acreage devoted to your island tree farm. You know darn well the vultures will be salivating over the prospects of forcing you out. A perfect place for a strip mall, I’m guessing.” She paused when Baxter raised his hand and said, “No, Frank, you are not serving on the damn committee. That would defeat the whole purpose.”
“There are a lot of folks in this town who’d agree with me,” Baxter argued, but then, realizing the hole he was digging, romance-wise, added, “Not that I don’t value your opinion, Reenie. You’re the most—”
“Stuff it, Frank,” Doreen said.
“I’ll serve on the damn committee, but I’m not heading it,” Ethan agreed grudgingly.
“How about you, Tony? You would get along with Mr. Conti really well,” Doreen suggested.
“Why? Because we’re both Italian?”
“Oh, please. Talk about thin skin!” Doreen said. Tony had developed a sore spot regarding ethnicity ever since that reality show, The Mob, became popular. “I meant, because you’re both graduates of Duke University.”
“Oh. All right. Dammit.”
“I’ll serve on the committee, too,” Laura said, which surprised Ethan, but then she probably figured she’d get a news story out of it. “Listen, folks, we’re forgetting something here. Bell Forge is the cornerstone of this town. It was founded by the Conti brothers when they immigrated here in 1902. I know because I looked it up this morning. They were fine craftsmen who were known throughout the world for their bells. In its heyday Bell Forge produced bells for some of the most renowned cathedrals and clock towers. Orchestras would settle only for Conti bells for their choirs.
“Are we really going to let that heritage go? I think we need to think about ways to keep the bell factory, not retrofit it for some other purpose, and definitely not tear it down to turn this town into yet another Myrtle Beach.”
Ethan felt a twinge of guilt then at having questioned Laura’s motives for volunteering to be on the committee.
“Good thinking,” Doreen praised Laura. “Okay, so, Tony, Ethan, and Laura will serve on that committee and will call on any of the rest of us, if need be. Is that settled?”
They all nodded. Ethan grumbled.
“Moving on,” Doreen said. “The Christmas street lighting in this town is now a clear and present danger. Matthew couldn’t be here tonight, but he asked me to convey how dangerous the situation is. We’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
The Matthew that Doreen referred to was Matt Holter, Ethan’s best friend and the town’s attorney/treasurer. It was Matt who’d volunteered him to serve on the town council, initially. Ethan was always reminding his pal that he owed him. Now, more than ever.
“I don’t even have a light in front of my store anymore,” Baxter complained.
“And the one on my corner keeps flickering on and off,” Jeremy said.
“The things are almost a hundred years old. What do you expect?” Doreen said. “The state inspector gave a report yesterday. The entire street lighting system needs to be overhauled, but the immediate concern is the Christmas lighting, which must be fixed, or shut down.”
“What? At this time of year? Does that mean no Christmas tree lighting on the square, either?” Laura asked, appalled. “What about the Christmas Eve Carol Walk? What about the church concerts? And the Festival of the Bells?”
“Exactly,” Doreen said dolefully.
“How much?” Ethan asked.
“Twenty-five thousand dollars. Initially.”
Silence followed, because they all knew there wasn’t an extra twenty-five thousand in their treasury, not since the sewer project that was completed last summer.
“I’ve already ordered the work to begin Monday morning. We’re short at least fourteen thousand. We can borrow that amount, but we’ll have to find a way to repay quickly, or else—”
Ethan could give them that amount, easily, or lend it to them. But he knew they wouldn’t accept. Small-town pride and all that.
“You can’t raise taxes. We’re already sky high. No way!” said Sally Dawson, speaking up for the first time. Sally ran the bakery/ice cream parlor and struggled as a single parent to raise three sons since her husband died in Afghanistan.
“I’d have to double the price of my trees,” Ethan mused aloud, though he wasn’t really complaining about taxes.
Baxter didn’t take it that way, though. “Your trees cost too much already.”
“You should talk! You’d think your shovels were gold-plated,” Ethan countered.
“Customers are already complaining about the price of my Crab Imperial,” Tony inserted to the grumble fest.
The complaints came fast and furious then.
“What will Mr. Conti think about keeping the factory going if the town looks so downtrodden we can’t even afford proper street lamps?”
“This stinks.”
“What next? Street excavation for new water lines?”
“And if it snows?”
“It hardly ever snows.”
“It does sometimes. Remember that blizzard back when we were kids?”
“If we’re going to spend money on streetlights, I want something done about the sand dunes piling up on my side of town. You can’t hardly see the ocean for the dunes anymore.”
“Forget lights and sand dunes, I want the sidewalks repaired.”
Doreen pounded the table with her gavel, which was actually a small lady’s hammer, probably a gift from Baxter. “Enough! And before I forget, Ethan, isn’t it about time you let us have that blue spruce for the town square gazebo this year? It’s already too big for an indoor tree.”
“You’ve kept it trimmed to a perfect shape,” Sally complimented him.
“It is beautiful, at least twenty feet now, I’m guessing,” Abe remarked.
It was actually eighteen and one quarter, a star in the midst of a litter of runts on the local Rutledge Tree Farm. The blue spruce had been a pet project of Ethan’s which he’d nursed meticulously for many years, succeeding where his father and grandfather had failed: to grow a perfect Outer Banks Christmas tree, especially a type so out of place for barrier island development, even more so than other species. It had only cost about five thousand dollars so far in fertilizer, wind and sun screens, and time, making it commercially unacceptable. But that was beside the point.
“Think about how impressed Mr. Conti would be,” Laura said, knowing exactly why he would never cut down that particular tree.
Really, they’d gone too far this time. He had refused to cut that tree down every single year when they’d started asking, once it became apparent that this was the one Christmas tree that had managed to flourish here on the island. He didn’t mind donating a tree, even one of the pricey ones from over on the mountain, but not that one. All he said was “No!” but he said it with such finality that no one argued, just indulged in a lot of under-the-breath griping.
The Catholic church bells began to toll, nine times. Followed by the Presbyterian church. Followed by the town hall clock. Ethan put his face in his hands and counted to ten, then twenty.
“I have never seen such a bunch of grinches in all my life!” Doreen said then. “I swear, Dr. Seuss must have modeled his book on you yahoos. What we need is some ideas here, not complaints.”
“Ooh, ooh, ooh! I have an idea for a fund-raiser,” Laura said.
Ethan raised his head to stare at her
. He didn’t like the tone of her voice, way too gleeful. And she was looking at him.
“A Grinch contest. Around the town, we could place posters with nominees for the grinchiest person in town. People would vote five dollars a shot for their choice, or they could add a nominee. The money could be collected in Mason jars. You would donate those, right, Bax?”
Baxter was too stunned to answer.
“Isn’t that kind of mean?” Sally asked.
“Nah! It could be fun. All in the spirit of Christmas giving,” Laura contended. “We’ll probably be able to pay for the Christmas streetlight project in no time, and have money left over. I’ll put a running total in the window of The Bell every night. Maybe we could even have a crowning of Mr. Grinch at the concert on Christmas Eve. Or Ms. Grinch. Oh, there are so many possibilities. Bell Cove Grinch of the Year. I love it!”
I’d like to crown someone. “Have you lost your mind? I’m not putting one of those posters and a begging jar in the Christmas shop,” Ethan asserted.
“Wanna bet your grandmother will?” Doreen challenged, narrowing her eyes at him, again. “It’s just the kind of thing she would like for her shoppie.”
Ethan cringed at the word.
“I know who I’m gonna nominate first.” Baxter slapped a ten-dollar bill on the table and stared at Ethan.
Ethan one-upped him with a twenty and gave Baxter an equal glower back.
“See, it’s already working. Two people have been grinched, and we don’t even have the posters made up yet. I’m going to nominate my circulation manager, Zeke Abrams. He’s the grouchiest man alive,” Laura said.
And on it went.
It was the craziest, most asinine thing Ethan had ever heard of. They would be the laughingstock of the state, maybe the country. He wouldn’t be surprised to see one of the network TV crews land on their doorstep for a morning segment, titled something like, “The Crazy-Ass Things People Do for Christmas.” It would be right up there with those nutcases who decorate their houses and yards with a fifty-million-watt light show every year.