Damage

by Mark Feggeler

  "Would you ladies mind if I took your picture for the Citizen-Gazette?"

  To his surprise, Mimi perked up and loudly declared it a wonderful idea. Correen eyed him suspiciously. He directed them to stand in front of an easel holding a poster-size architectural rendering of the new community's clubhouse. Neither woman touched the other. Both affected insincere smiles. Ray snapped several shots, then asked them how to correctly spell their names.

  "You can't be serious," exclaimed Mimi when Ray asked for Correen's last name. "She is the wife of Evan Wallace, the man responsible for this entire development, and her father has been a pillar of this community for the last fifty years. I would think you should know who she is without having to ask. Oh, Correen, look! Isn't that Evan just coming in now?"

  Correen craned her neck to see around Mimi. Ray turned to see the man of the hour enter the tent and make a beeline for chamber president Jared Upton. He stood about six foot three and had the lean, strong build of a tennis player. He took long strides, gliding effortlessly across the short cut grass. Waves of light brown hair framed a ridiculously handsome face. Correen stood and began to excuse herself.

  "I'll come with you, Corrie," Mimi imposed. "I have a bone to pick with your husband."

  "I'm sorry," Ray interrupted. "I just need to get the spelling of your last name for the Citizen-Gazette."

  As he delayed Mimi by asking her three times how to spell McGinnis, Correen Wallace slipped away to join her husband. Within minutes, they were seated next to each other at the head table on the riser.

  Carrie Gallagher from radio station WCBT sat next to Ray during the ceremony with her padfolio on the table and pen in hand. Ray rested his small spiral notebook on his knee and twirled a blue click pen like a miniature baton from finger to finger, dropping it several times. When it came time for Evan Wallace to speak, Ray copied down only one quote, something about "overcoming many logistical and legal hurdles to take this development from a dream to a reality. I am thrilled to finally be able to say we have reached the construction phase."

  Satisfied the quote was good enough to lead the short article that would accompany the photos in Monday's edition of the Citizen-Gazette, Ray picked up the camera and began snapping pictures of Evan Wallace and the other people seated at the head table. A majority of the shots focused solely on Correen Wallace. Either she glanced at Ray by chance, or she noticed the attention he was paying her. Whatever the reason, she turned to look at him. He lowered the camera. She gave him a blushing, broad smile, and turned back to watch her husband finish his speech.

  Sunday, Part III

  Seven years earlier, when Ray began his career as a print journalist at the Citizen-Gazette, he would wait patiently while whomever he needed to photograph shuffled and repositioned themselves into a chaotic cluster. He didn't yet understand one basic rule of photography, which is that most people want the photographer to take charge. Even Chamber of Commerce President Upton came to readily defer to Ray's guidance as he turned the four men and one woman just so, got each to place a foot on a shovel, and snapped several quick shots.

  Upton handed Ray a fact sheet about the proposed Lonesome Pines Country Club that provided much of the details needed for his article. He offered canned responses to the few questions Ray asked, and tried to bring each answer back around to the community's impact on local real estate and sales tax revenues.

  Evan Wallace, whom Ray had met many times at meetings of the Tramway County Commissioner back when Wallace served as county manager, greeted him warmly. The man towered over Ray, his tailored gray suit with matching tie and pressed white shirt striking a sharp contrast to Ray's business casual attire.

  "How'd I do?" Wallace asked about the speech he gave during the ceremony.

  "Fantastic," Ray lied. "You're a natural."

  "Excellent!" Wallace seemed oblivious to the sarcasm. Then again Ray never had considered him the sharpest tool in the shed. It always amazed Ray how far good looks and straight white teeth could carry a simpleton. "I haven't had to do much public speaking since entering the private sector. I was afraid I might have gotten rusty."

  "Not at all," Ray assured him. "Evan, tell me about the land for Lonesome Pines? Was it a single large land grab, or a series of smaller purchases?"

  Wallace laughed, making him even more wretchedly handsome.

  "Don't you sit at the county clerk's office and read through real estate transactions and court records anymore? I recall not long ago when you were rather obsessed with the public's right to know every last detail of everyone else's business."

  Ray's head bobbed slowly. Back when he was County Manager, Wallace had unsuccessfully tried to keep the Citizen-Gazette from gaining access to court records after the paper printed news of a local politician's conviction for drunk driving. The politician was friends with Avery Lowson, chairman of the Tramway County Board of Commissioners and leader of the county's Republican Party. Wallace must already have been courting Lowson's daughter at the time, so Wallace was likely trying to score points with his future father-in-law by trying to block the newspaper's access to public court records. The matter was dropped after the Citizen-Gazette threatened to run a series of articles on the importance of government transparency.

  "I'm just giving you a hard time," Wallace said playfully, thumping Ray lightly on the arm to prove his lightheartedness. Then he puffed his chest out again as though he were back behind the podium. "The land on which we stand was handed down through my wife's side of the family over the course of many generations. It's part of almost nine thousand acres granted to the family by King Charles II of England in the 1670s. Over the centuries it's supported livestock, tobacco, corn, and orchards of various kinds. Three major Civil War battles were fought on these lands."

  "You sound like you memorized a brochure," Ray said.

  "When you marry into the Lowson family," he said, leaning in and lowering his voice, "you learn the heritage if you want to survive family gatherings."

  "Understood. So, now the land's being converted into a golf course and luxury homes for the rich," Ray said.

  "Actually, the reason we chose this particular area is because it was once home to the very first golf course in Tramway County. It was quite famous among the elite from up north in the late eighteen hundreds. The Lowson family abandoned it during the Great Depression. It's all overgrown, of course, but the bones are still there. That fact alone should knock an entire year off the typical construction time."

  "I recall some of the locals objecting to the development at one of the planning and zoning board meetings."

  "A few of our new neighbors were concerned about construction noise, water runoff, truck traffic, that sort of thing," Wallace said, smiling at Ray the way he must have smiled when defending his development at the meeting. "Once we assured them a minimum amount of disruption, we were able to move ahead with the development rather quickly."

  Wallace's attention was caught by Jared Upton. Upton was seated at one of the vacated round tables with the golf course designer and two men Ray didn't know.

  "Now," Wallace said. "If you have everything you need for your article, I need to speak with some people."

  Most of the attendees had abandoned the massive tent, with more preparing to follow. Several centerpieces were toppled and the white table linens were spattered with spills and smears of unknown origin. Servers had long since stopped replenishing the buffet. What remained no longer appeared edible due to the unseasonably warm temperature. Ray was fairly certain no cheese should ever be that particular shade of dark orange. In one of the corners, an elderly couple held the band captive by stubbornly waltzing barefoot in the grass to whatever tune it played.

  Ray wandered over to one of the makeshift bar stations only to find the servers had boxed up the leftover beer and corked the open wine bottles. He peeked around the back of the bar to try and locate anything they might have overlooked.

  "There's nothing worse than a guest who doesn't know
when to leave," said a voice behind him. Correen Wallace, shoes in hand, strikingly charming in her simple red dress, smiled when a startled Ray spun around to face her. "Didn't you get enough to drink?"

  "No," Ray said, recovering. "In fact, I didn't get anything to drink."

  "That is a shame," she responded, and stepped around Ray to reach behind the bar. She took inventory and came up with a half-full bottle of Chardonnay. "Are you a wine drinker?"

  "Too sweet," he said. "And not at all manly."

  "That leaves beer, then," Correen said. "Are you too masculine for light beer? It's all they seem to have left."

  She plucked two dripping bottles from a plastic bin and wrapped napkins around them, placing them atop the bar. As he reached for one, she pointed at the cocktail glass serving as a tip jar. It had already been emptied. Ray reached in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of singles. He peeled one away and dropped it in the glass.

  "Big spender," Correen complained.

  She handed one beer to Ray and kept the other for herself as she led him to a nearby table. Both sat facing the almost vacant interior of the tent. It struck Ray that he typically would have bolted for home by now, especially since it was Sunday, but he found Correen a pleasant diversion from a day spent folding laundry and wishing away the month of March so he could witness the start of the baseball season. He couldn't pin an age on her. She had mentioned children when talking to the sheriff's daughter, Mimi. He was fairly certain he could recall hearing about Evan Wallace getting married shortly after leaving his post as county manager. Five years ago? Maybe six? If she had married young, Correen might be in her mid thirties. She certainly couldn't be any older than forty. Ray's train of thought derailed when she caught him staring at her. She pretended not to notice and pointed her beer bottle at the opposite corner of the tent.

  "They're solving the world's problems over there," she said.

  Evan Wallace sat at a table with Jared Upton and two men in suits Ray hadn't noticed earlier. From a distance, their conversation appeared businesslike and boring.

  "Looks like it," Ray said. "Who are those men?"

  "Investors," Correen answered disinterestedly.

  "Shouldn't you be over there with them?"

  "Good Lord, no!" she said. "This is all Evan's baby."

  "But isn't this your land?"

  "Not any more," she said. "Now it belongs to LPCC Development, the parent company of Lonesome Pines. Selling off land is how my family has made its money for over a hundred years. If it worked for my ancestors, it's good enough for me. The most important provision for me in this entire transaction was that Evan agree to keep the business dealings to himself and not drag me into them."

  "So you won't have to sacrifice time spent with your horses," Ray said. "Right?"

  Correen shot Ray a puzzled look. "How do you know about my horses?"

  "Mimi McGinnis mentioned them earlier when she pounced on you," he said.

  "What an awful woman," Correen said, wrinkling her nose at the mention of Mimi's name. "I never did thank you for rescuing me from her."

  "My pleasure to be of service," Ray said. "By the way she approached you, one might think the two of you are old friends."

  "Only when it's convenient for her," she said. "Her father worked for my father years ago. She seems to think that makes us family. You heard the crack she made about sitting with my father at St. Thomas tonight? She'll probably spend the whole evening trying to convince him how horrible a daughter I am for not showing up to dine with him at family night."

  "Speaking of Avery," Ray interjected, "what does he think of Lonesome Pines? If I recall correctly, your father wasn't exactly warm to the idea of relying on tourist dollars to support our local economy. I quoted him several times on that subject back when he was still chairman of the county commissioners."

  Correen pulled herself to full height in her seat. What she lacked in size she compensated for with her demeanor. She tilted her head forward slightly and her eyes adopted the same steely glint Ray had witnessed in her father's eyes so many times during the years he'd covered county commissioner meetings for the Citizen-Gazette.

  "Lonesome Pines isn't a golf course for tourists," she declared. "It will be a private course for residents and guests only."

  "Nine months," Ray said.

  "What?"

  "That's how long I give before you start selling associate memberships to non-residents," he said. "In fact, I'll bet it doesn't even take that long. Evan said in his little speech that the course should be ready for play in fourteen months, which puts opening day some time around May of next year. I'll wager the course is open to the general public by that Thanksgiving."

  "Why Thanksgiving?" Correen asked. She had drooped back into her seat again, clearly amused by Ray's conjectures.

  "Thanksgiving gives you a solid six months to realize you're losing money hand over fist," Ray said. "And it gives you just enough time to sell rounds of golf to the locals as Christmas stocking stuffers."

  Correen locked eyes with Ray. The corners of her mouth twitched into a flickering smirk.

  "I'll take that bet," she said at last. "What do I win if you're wrong?"

  Ray thought about what he could offer up. Money was out of the question. A man who has to stretch a single box of macaroni and cheese through two dinners shouldn't bet money he can't afford to lose. He opted instead for the only thing a newspaper reporter ever really has to offer anyone: free publicity.

  "If I'm wrong, you'll get a full-page spread on the astounding success of Lonesome Pines Country Club," he said. "I'll even throw in a feature article on your horse farm for the sports section. But what do I get if I'm right?"

  Correen hesitated and looked around the tent for inspiration. "Oh, I know! A year of free golf at Lonesome Pines. Do you play?"

  "I've never even played miniature golf," Ray said.

  "Then I'll throw in free lessons from whatever golf pro Evan hires," she added.

  "Deal," he said.

  They clinked their bottles together to make it official.

  Sunday, Part IV

  Time melted away. The hour Ray told himself it would take to get the basics before ditching the groundbreaking turned into three, in part because he always underestimated the amount of time he would spend at events, and also because he was enjoying his chat with Correen Wallace. His happy distraction ended when the meeting of the minds across the tent broke up and Evan Wallace came to collect his wife.

  "What have you two troublemakers been up to over here?" he asked. The question seemed a lighthearted one, but Wallace appeared genuinely interested in knowing what they had been discussing. His wife dismissed his piqued curiosity with a wry smile and a wave of her hand.

  "I've arranged for a full page article to be printed about Lonesome Pines Country Club in the Citizen-Gazette," Correen told her husband, whose face lit up at the prospect. "However, we will have to wait until Christmas of next year."

  "Thanksgiving," Ray corrected.

  "Yes, that's right," she agreed. "Thanksgiving."

  Evan Wallace furrowed his brow and glanced at the empty beer bottles on the table behind them. "Exactly how much have the two you had to drink while the rest of us were hard at work?"

  "Nowhere near enough," Correen said. She stood and stretched to kiss her husband on the cheek. "Now, you owe me an anniversary dinner."

  Ray waved them off, Correen barefoot with her red flats in her hand, Evan stick-straight and just as picture perfect as when he had entered the tent. They made a handsome couple.

  The band had long since packed up and gone. Ray finished his beer as servers gathered soiled linens and divided the remaining food and table centerpieces amongst themselves. Watching half empty trays of jumbo shrimp, crab cakes and grilled asparagus being squirreled away by the hired help reminded Ray he was hungry. He checked his cell phone. It was almost five o'clock. If he hustled, he stood a good chance of meeting up with a few of his coworkers who f
requented a pub not far from his apartment.

  The idea of the Sunday get-together at the pub didn't usually appeal to Ray. Not only did he see enough of the people from the Citizen-Gazette during working hours, he never seemed to have the same quantity of expendable income as everyone else. A ten dollar entree and a couple of three dollar beers tonight at The Bump & Run Pub would mean bagged peanut butter lunches for the next two days. This evening, however, either because the one beer already in his veins wanted company, or because of his desire to continue the kind of friendly banter he had shared with Correen Wallace, he decided a night at the pub was worth the extravagance.

  The peeling paint on the cinderblock building was complimented nicely by the gravel parking lot that hadn't seen new stone in at least a decade. Wide ruts of bare dirt and clay matched the mottled brown color of Ray's aging car. He bounced it through the lot to an open area where he parked next to the only car he recognized, a pristine yellow Volkswagen Beetle.

  Unlike many of the golf-themed restaurants and shops that served tourists along the streets of Glen Meadows, The Bump & Run Pub was an unsightly dive. The menu listed basic bar fare and the tables were coated with years of grease. On bad days, the pungent odor of unchanged mop water permeated the pub. Those were the days Ray would refuse to stay, regardless if it meant eating alone elsewhere while the rest of the Citizen-Gazette crew happily risked food poisoning.

  He spotted Becky across the dim interior once his eyes adjusted. He passed the only other guests, a pierced and tattooed couple sharing nachos, on his way to the bar.

  "What's up, boss?" he asked, taking a seat beside her and looking around the pub. "Where is everybody?"

  A mass of kinky, light brown hair turned to reveal the pale moon-face of Becky Hussey, managing editor of the Citizen-Gazette and Ray's immediate supervisor.

  "It's about time one of you showed up," she griped. Her head tilted slightly and a question showed in her narrow brown eyes. "Aren't you supposed to be covering the groundbreaking at Lonesome Pines?"