I looked up at the large clock on the wall, which read 6:51, only nine minutes until the meeting would begin, but I was far too restless to sit. I neatly arranged my things and turned back towards the outer doors, intending to mingle if it killed me, when my heart stopped. It just plain stopped for the space of a regular heartbeat, and then surged to life as though delivered an electric charge.
Oh my God. Oh. My. God.
Don’t stare, don’t stare, don’t stare…
But it was already too late, and besides, he was staring right back at me, and though his face was not hidden in the shadow of a hat brim, it was just as unreadable as ever. No jeans and t-shirt in sight this evening. The man before me, the space of a room away, dozens of residents of Jalesville milling obliviously between us, was so formally, intimidatingly handsome that I felt kicked in the gut. His red-gold hair, trimmed close to his head, caught the lights, nearly throwing sparks.
He was clad in gray dress pants that fit him as well as his faded jeans, belted at his lean waist, a shirt of palest lavender tucked in beneath an open sport coat of the same shade as his trousers. His top collar button was undone and he was not wearing a tie, as though this would prove too much a concession to formalwear, and I almost smiled.
Before I realized I had taken a step, I was walking up to him. He watched me approach with no change of expression, his auburn eyes steady and totally inscrutable.
“Ms. Gordon,” he said in his deep voice then, as though our first names were too casual for this particular moment. Not that he’d yet spoken my first name, as I was one hundred percent aware. He was freshly shaved, his lips appearing full and soft above the strong lines of his chin. He had such a firm chin, marked with a narrow white scar that I had noticed before. His eyelashes were long, remarkably red-gold, creating a sharp contrast with his brown eyes. The freckles lightly sprinkled over his cheekbones were muted by the deep tan of his skin; I would bet money in the winter they were more visible.
Bowing to his lead, I responded formally, “Mr. Spicer. How are you this evening?”
You sound so breathless!
Snap out of it!
“Well, thank you,” he said. Just a hint of a smile lifted the side of his lips and suddenly I felt myself smile in response, radiantly. It came out of nowhere, my real smile, and he blinked once and seemed to draw a deep breath through his nose, taking me instantly back to the moment outside the bathroom at Camille’s wedding. I gained control of my face and swallowed hard. I could not think of one damn thing to say. Right at this moment Case seemed far removed from the person with whom I’d roasted marshmallows on Saturday night.
Thank God for Al, who came bustling through the door, eyebrows in perfect, worried arches over his faded-blue eyes. He caught sight of me and said, “Oh thank heavens, Tish, I’m glad to see you. I didn’t think you were here yet.”
“Al, are you all right?” I asked him, reaching to catch his elbow.
“Yes, yes, just fine,” he said, tucking my hand politely to his side, and then, “Case, good, you’re here too. People listen to you. Isn’t Clark coming? Oh, there he is, thank heavens. And there’s Hank…” he indicated the councilman, who was wearing a string tie and a pair of jeans along with his sport coat. “Tish, are you ready?”
Al was going to have a coronary. I said apologetically, my eyes flashing back up to Case’s, “We better sit…”
He nodded, still quietly studying me as though he was trying to read my thoughts, but Clark came near and commanded everyone’s attention. I was relieved to see him here, ready to talk sense into everyone, Garth and Marshall both on his heels. There was a shifting in the crowd as Hank Ryan moved towards the front of the room and then a rush of organized chaos as everyone attempted to find a seat. I led Al to the front, taller than him in my heels, and lost sight of Case until we were seated; it was only as I covertly turned in my seat to scan the murmuring crowd, some people fanning themselves with Capital Overland pamphlets, that I noticed he and the Rawleys were behind Al and me, three rows back.
“Good evening, friends,” Hank Ryan said, tipping his hat brim. “I’d like to thank all of you for finding time to come out this evening. I know you all have questions and I would like to allow time for all of those.” He had a commanding voice, a deep tan, and wore cowboy boots that had been around a very dusty block. I sat a little straighter in my seat, feeling a trickle of sweat slip between my breasts. He went on, “Now, we all know each other well. I don’t know that I see an unfamiliar face in the crowd, with the exception of Albert’s new associate, whom I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting.” He looked directly at me and I lifted my chin, my heart throbbing. Hank Ryan continued, “Ms. Gordon, welcome. And I believe most of you know Mr. Yancy, who represents his father’s business dealings in Jalesville.”
To the left of Al and me, I saw Derrick shift in his chair and knew without a doubt that I was not wrong about the chip on the shoulder notion. His father’s interests – how subtly demeaning, as though he was a child dressed in daddy’s clothes, playing at business.
“My longtime friend Al Howe asked for this meeting, so we’ll leave it up to him how to begin.” Hank Ryan looked to Al, raising his eyebrows.
“Mr. Yancy may have the floor first,” Al said graciously, in his lawyer voice, different than his ordinary one. He may have looked like a kindly grandfather, but he was nobody’s fool; I suspected that people often underestimated him, but he used this to his advantage.
Derrick looked our way and nodded, rising smoothly to his feet and moving to shake Hank’s proffered hand. He then faced the crowd as Hank took a seat to the side.
“Good evening, folks,” Derrick said, smiling at the assembled faces. It was so quiet in the room that I could almost hear the ticking of the second hand on the wall clock above his head. The room was stuffier than ever with so many bodies packed into the space; a little kid giggled and then there was a sighing murmur through the crowd, displacing the tense silence. Derrick continued, in a tone meant to reassure, “I know that many of you have heard from me before now, have had a chance to read through the literature I’ve provided in the past few weeks. I know many of you by name. I have felt welcomed into this community, to be honest.” He sounded so sincere I nearly believed his ass. “I would like to maintain a positive relationship here, as I’ve said from the get-go. Highland Power closed its doors six months ago, leaving many of the residents of this area unemployed. I empathize. But admittedly, I see this as an opportunity. It’s win-win. You get money up front, the capability to then relocate to a place with greater employment opportunities.”
“What if we don’t want to move? We’ve lived here for three generations,” said a man from the back of the room.
Derrick clasped his hands, nodding as though he truly cared about this question. I noticed he had neglected to mention just how he would win in his little scenario. He said, trying for a reasonable tone, “I understand. I even empathize, as I said. But staying on land that will continue to drain your finances, with so many out of work as it is, will only hurt your family in the long run. I’ll purchase your land, pay you, and then you’ll have choices again. The ball is back in your court.”
Here goes.
“Mr. Yancy, I have a question,” I said then, and was proud of the way my voice emerged with a confident edge that in no way hinted that internally I was a mess of nerves.
His eyes flashed to me and he smiled charmingly, holding out a palm in open invitation. His entire posture suggested that I bring it on, that I dare.
“Explain your rationale for choosing this particular area of Rosebud County, if you would. Prior to this year, your land purchases have been primarily in south central Wyoming.”
“That’s quite true, counselor,” he said.
My notebook was open before me, though I had memorized all of the names and dates already, information swirling through my mind. I said, “Your first inquiry to purchase property was on January eleventh of this year, via email
, to Hoyt Church, who has since sold to your company. Interestingly, only three weeks prior, Highland Power closed its doors with no intent to reopen in the near future, leaving well over a third of the residents of Jalesville without employment.”
“My offers are even more a godsend then,” he said, without a flutter of discomposure.
“How fortunate for your company,” I said calmly. I let that sink in for a beat and then asked, “What is your intent for the property you are purchasing?”
“I can’t see how that’s your business, but our plans include resale,” he replied smoothly.
“What of the town itself?” I pressed.
“The town will be unchanged,” he said.
“Unchanged?” someone snapped from the crowd. “When more than half of our residents have moved away? It will be a ghost town.”
Derrick couldn’t quite contain a shrug. He said, “Consider that in a bigger city you’ll have so much more opportunity.”
“That’s an easy claim for you to make,” I said, leaning forward, over the table. Al was looking between Derrick and me, resembling a spectator at a tennis match. “Former residents of Parkton and Cedar Gap, Wyoming, which represent only two of the nine towns your company has purchased in the state of Wyoming since 2009, have not fared well since their relocations. Thirty-eight, and these represent only the families I was able to find since last week, have since declared bankruptcy.”
“Surely, as a lawyer, you can see the fallacy in that logic,” Derrick said. “As though you could prove that they wouldn’t have declared bankruptcy had they refused to sell to our company.”
“You’re right,” I agreed, as though conceding. “I couldn’t prove that unequivocally. But that’s not my point. The bottom line is, these people were relocated from acreages similar to the ones you’re attempting to buy here in Jalesville. Relocated from their homes. Many of them had lived on their property for generations, also similar to this area. And for what?” I was standing up before I realized I had moved. I braced my fingertips on the table, leaning forward in what was an unmistakably aggressive posture, though I maintained a level tone as I said, “You are failing to grasp the real issue here, Mr. Yancy. This place matters to the people gathered here tonight. To you, this place is a speck on a map, a potential for profit. But this is their home. Their community.”
There was a ripple of murmured commentary at my words. I felt a small spurt of pure righteousness and held Derrick’s increasingly less composed (though he veiled it well) gaze. His mouth compressed, a subtle flash of anger that he quickly submerged. I knew I had found a weak spot with the timing of the power plant’s closing and Capital Overland’s immediate presence in the area. There was more to it than I knew; I had seen how Derrick’s eyes tightened briefly at the mention of the January inquiry, but I couldn’t press this advantage until I learned more.
“But I need money now,” said someone else, in the void left after my words. “I can’t wait around for the plant to reopen.”
“What if I’ve already sold? Is it too late?” asked another.
“Capital Overland paid up front,” said a woman. “I’m happy to have the money.”
“As you should be,” Derrick said to this woman. “As should all of you.”
I sensed more than saw Case stand up, three rows behind me. Derrick’s hostile gaze moved at once to him. I turned to see Case, who stood with shoulders squared and eyes steady, direct. Not quite threatening, but close. The crowd quieted as Case spoke then, and I felt a swell of pure gladness; his act of standing seemed to suggest (at least to me) that I had his complete support.
“Mr. Yancy, where are you from?” Case asked, his deep voice calm. He sounded truly curious.
“Chicago,” Derrick snapped. “How that matters is hardly —”
“It is relevant,” Case interrupted. “Were you born there? Do you have roots there?”
Derrick remained stubbornly silent, regarding Case with an expression of arrogant distaste that suggested this wasn’t worth his time. After a tense silence, he said, “I was born in Manhattan. What of it?”
“Nothing, to you perhaps,” Case said, standing with his hands caught loosely on his narrow hips. My heart was wild in my chest at just the sight of him. Case went on, “I was born here. In this very town. My family has lived on our acreage since long before my grandfather was born. Since it was homesteaded in the late nineteenth century. I have roots here, that’s what of it. That land is all my brother and I have in the world and you would have to shoot me where I stand before it would be for sale.”
Without even glancing at Derrick, I had the horrible sense that he was even now plotting that very thing, more than willing to shoot Case where he stood. I couldn’t tear my eyes from Case, who held Derrick’s gaze unwaveringly, his face almost stern in its intensity. Despite everything, I felt a pulse low in my belly at the sight of this, the insistent pull of my raging attraction to him.
It’s all my brother and I have in the world, he had said.
Oh Case, oh God…
I wanted to tell him, You have me. You have me in the world.
But of course that was absurd. I knew it.
Clark, still sitting, said, “I agree with Case absolutely. I won’t agree to sell.”
Case looked around at all of the people he certainly knew by name, saying earnestly, “We have to see this through. This town means something to all of you, I know it does. I know it to the bottom of my heart. Think how you’d feel if it was gone, bulldozed for some fancy goddamn vacation homes. Can you imagine never seeing each other again? What of that?”
There were a few grudging laughs, and a man said, “That might not be a totally terrible thing. I mean, my ex-wife does still live in town…”
More laughter, but then someone else said, “Spicer is right. We can’t give up on our homes. I can’t imagine relocating. It’s the last thing I want.”
Al faced the crowd and said, mildly, “The sales don’t have to be final, people. We call that in the business the ‘weasel clause.’ I can help to rescind the agreements, if you’re willing.”
There was a burst of startled chatter and Derrick Yancy had turned a pale shade of red.
“Folks,” said Hank Ryan, lifting his hands into the air in a call for attention. “Let’s come back together.”
“You people are buying into something that doesn’t exist,” Derrick said, having tentatively regained his cool. “Money is what you need, not romantic nonsense. It’s the modern era. Text, instant message, keep in touch on Twitter. It’s not as though you can’t make a phone call. What you can’t make is your next mortgage payment.”
There was a sobering slack in the chatter. Sensing his advantage, Derrick pressed, “Don’t mismanage your money. Save it, invest it, move to a place where you can find work.”
“Such as?” I asked him. “Name us all a place where there’s work, at this moment.”
“Do I look like the chamber of commerce webpage for the state of Montana?” Derrick snarled at me. There was so much anger in his tone that I felt as though he’d struck my face; three rows behind me, Case’s shoulders squared even more and I sensed that he intensely disliked the way Derrick had just spoken to me. Derrick looked out at the crowd and said next, “I have roots here, indirectly, more than you could know. An ancestor of mine was cheated of land here, long ago.”
This was interesting. I made a mental note to add that to my file of information as the crowd grew noisy with chatter at this news. I looked back over my shoulder then, directly at Case, who happened to be looking right at me. I experienced the nearly-overpowering urge to elbow people from between us and run straight to him. Would he collect me close against his chest, if I dared to do such a thing? He sent me the briefest hint of a smile; was that admiration on his face?
The official meeting disbanded shortly thereafter; I tried to be patient, talking with Al and the people who flooded around us to ask questions. I kept tabs on where Case was, without appe
aring obvious, taking note of his position in the room. Nearly a half hour passed before the room began emptying. Derrick had left five minutes ago. Hank Ryan chatted with me for quite a while.
“You’re not still considering selling out, are you, Ryan?” Al asked him.
“I’ve been on the goddamn fence,” Hank said. “But shit, where else would I go? The city isn’t for these bones.”
“You keep reminding yourself of that,” Al said.
“Tish, you did a great job tonight,” Clark said then, coming up beside me. He shook Al’s hand.
“Thank you,” I told him, trying not to be impolite and let my gaze rove past him, desperate to see if Case was leaving. Would he avoid me? Where was he? Then I saw him, near the side of the room, talking with Garth and Marsh.
“We’re homeward bound. Have you had supper?” Clark asked.
“Yes,” I said, and it was mostly true. If you counted a handful of saltine crackers. I meant to eat a little better when I got home.
“We’ll plan to see you Friday then,” Clark said.
“Yes, for sure,” I told him. “I’m glad you were here tonight.”
Clark winked at me and then headed out. The room was slowly emptying of residents. On the far side of the room, it appeared that Case was planning to take his leave as well. In a frantic rush of need, I scraped my things together, stuffing notes and pencils.
“Al, I’ll see you tomorrow!” I said, and then forced myself to walk.
“Great job tonight!” he called after me.
There was a jam in the flow of people and I tried not to look as concerned as I felt, that Case would leave without saying good-bye. I couldn’t see him now and sweat misted all along my skin. A notebook slipped out of the side of my partially-unzipped briefcase, sliding to the floor.
The First Law of Love Page 14