But I had a good run, she reminded herself. And the only thing you can depend on in life is change. Emily tossed her scarf around her neck and lifted her chin. Time to get cracking on the flyer assignment. Willoughby’s should be an easy sell.
Molly Willoughby was family—her brother Sam was married to Jessica—and she greeted Emily with a hug. She had already heard of the open-space group and quickly agreed to hang the sign in the front window.
“Leave some at the counter. We’ll hand them out for you. The last thing this town needs is a bunch of ugly condos and big-box stores.” Molly had a way of cutting to the point that Emily loved.
“I know you’re the busiest person in the world, but it would help so much if you came to the meeting Monday night,” Emily said. “People listen to you and respect your opinion.”
Molly laughed. “You make it sound like I should run for mayor next. I have a million things to do, but if you think it’s important, I’ll try to come.”
“It is important. Your opinion would make a big impression on people, believe me.”
Emily went into the pharmacy next. She needed to pick up her mother’s medications. While Frank Dillard checked on the prescriptions, she showed him the flyer. “This is about the council meeting next Monday night, Frank. Can I hang it up on your bulletin board?”
“I’m sorry, Emily. Lost dogs and cats, people renting apartments, or selling cars—that sort of thing is fine. But we can’t take sides on political issues. We have to keep the store a welcoming environment for everyone.”
“I’m not asking you to take sides, Frank. It’s just information. Won’t you read it and then decide?”
He ignored the sheet and her question. “Here are your mother’s prescriptions. Give her my best.”
Emily thanked him and headed toward the Beanery, a coffee shop and café. They already had two flyers in their windows. No question what side Felicity Bean and her husband, Jonathan, were on. Emily dropped off extras to hand out.
Bowman Realty was next on the street. Emily’s longtime friend Betty Bowman had stepped away from her realty business years ago to become Molly Willoughby’s partner, finding the bakery and café more interesting than buying and selling houses. But she still held an interest in the firm that carried her name.
Fran Tulley, who had worked there for nearly twenty years, held the reins now. Emily liked Fran, but she knew the Tulleys were best friends with Charlie and Lucy Bates. She doubted the flyer would get far with Fran as gatekeeper.
Fran greeted her cheerfully and glanced at the notice, then put it aside on her desk. “Sure, you can leave it. I’ll read it later. How’s everything, Emily? How are you adjusting to civilian life?”
“It’s a change, but a good one. I’m keeping busy.”
Fran smiled. “Yes, I can see. You’re a busy bee, as usual. It’s hard to sit still and not get involved in things, I’ll bet.” Her smile was friendly but her tone held an ironic edge.
“Thanks, Fran,” Emily said, deciding to ignore any hidden meanings in Fran’s words. “I’ll see you around.”
“Busy bee, my foot,” she grumbled, heading to the next store, which was Krueger’s Hardware and Variety Store. Fran was a piece of cake next to George Krueger. A huge supporter of Charlie’s campaign, he still had a “Vote for Bates” poster in the window.
Are you really going in here? You must know it’s pointless.
Before she could decide, George Krueger walked up behind her. “Hello, Emily. Going in or coming out?”
She turned and met his glance. He was holding a brown paper bag, which she guessed was his lunch, from the Clam Box. “Just . . . window shopping.” She had been staring in the window, trying to decide, so that wasn’t a total lie.
“I’d be happy to help you inside. It’s a little chilly out today.”
“Yes, it is. I’d better get going. Have a good day.”
“You as well,” he replied with a curious look.
She continued down the street but was not too far away when she heard him call after her. “You dropped something, Emily.”
George Krueger held up one of the flyers and waved it, a sour expression on his face.
Emily turned but didn’t walk back. “You can keep that. It’s about the council meeting Monday night. Hang it in your window,” she suggested, knowing he would do no such thing.
“I know all about it. Thank you very much.”
His tone had been tart, but Emily acted as if she hadn’t noticed. “Good. See you then.”
She glanced over her shoulder, and he caught her eye, crunching the flyer into a ball before going inside his store.
* * *
Charlie had shut off the ringer on his cell phone, but it buzzed insistently. He glanced at the screen to check the number. It wasn’t Zoey or Trudy with some diner disaster to report. Just George Krueger, down at the hardware store. What did he want? Charlie let voice mail pick up and turned his attention back to the weekly Friday meeting. His new staff circled the table in the conference room that adjoined his office in Village Hall. They all looked grim and nervous.
The pressure was on with Monday’s council meeting only three days away now. They didn’t seem to understand how crucial this meeting was for him. Or were they just pretending that they didn’t?
“So you’re telling me you can’t get a complete budget for the roadwork project ready by Monday, Ed? Or you just don’t want to?” Charlie stared at Ed Shaw, head of the town’s public works department. Ed was a young man, in his early thirties, with an engineering degree and plenty of other certifications. What Charlie called “college smart”—no common sense and as slow as molasses in January.
“I don’t drag my heels,” Ed said evenly. “This report takes time to research and cost out.”
“I’m not asking for a price down to the penny. Can’t you even estimate?” Charlie pressed him. “How long does it take to crunch a bunch of numbers on a calculator?”
“Pull a figure out of thin air, you mean? That would be bogus and irresponsible. We haven’t inspected half the roads yet.”
“I don’t know why not. You’ve known since the first day I walked into this office that road repair is a top priority—at the top of the agenda for the council meeting Monday night. You have the whole weekend to work on it. I need a budget for roadwork, snow removal, and a new contract with K&B Carting. Is that a surprise to all of you?”
A small voice in Charlie’s head—Lucy’s, maybe?—reminded him that raising his voice was a bad idea. But he couldn’t stop himself, and he quickly noticed he was shouting at a circle of stunned faces.
Ed Shaw came to his feet. “I’m not a waiter in your diner, Charlie. I don’t know what you think goes into compiling a budget for a project like this, but it’s not like a customer asking for his check.”
“It’s not brain surgery, either,” Charlie told him. “If you walk out of this meeting, consider yourself fired. And don’t expect any recommendations out of me, either.”
The others shifted uneasily in their seats.
“You can’t fire me. I resign. Mayor Warwick was always happy with my work. I can get a recommendation from her, no problem.” Ed picked up his laptop. “It was certainly different when she was in charge,” he added, marching out of the meeting room.
Charlie watched his staff exchange glances. Was this the beginning of a mutiny? Were they all still loyal to Emily Warwick and just waiting to walk out? Or maybe they were dragging their heels, trying to make him look like an incompetent fool?
Well, he was not about to back down. “Anyone else feels that way, there’s the door. Things are different now. I’m the no-excuses mayor, and we’re going to run this town on a lean, mean budget. Not like your old boss.”
Joe Newland, a building inspector, cleared his throat. But no one made a motion to leave. Charlie felt relieved. Then hi
s secretary, Miriam, stood up.
“I’d better go, too. I’m sorry, but this isn’t working out for me,” she said. “I tried, but . . . I’m really sorry.” Head down, clutching a yellow legal pad to her chest, she scurried out the open door.
Charlie heard muffled laughter. He wasn’t laughing, not one bit. He could find another secretary sooner or later, but he needed Shaw to work over the weekend and get the figures ready for the meeting. What a time to walk out on him.
Florence Simpson, the newly elected town clerk who had run on his ticket, opened her own pad to a fresh page. “I’ll take the minutes, Charlie. Why don’t we continue? We have a lot more to cover.”
“That’s right. We do. Back to work. We need to figure out those trash collectors. What’s the latest, Karl?” he asked, turning the floor over to the town attorney, Karl Nelson, who had been negotiating with the company.
Charlie forced himself to focus on the attorney’s report. The bitter taste of Shaw quitting and Miriam deserting the ship, too, lingered. For goodness’ sake, wasn’t this job hard enough without having to deal with all these touchy personalities? In time, he would weed out the deadwood and get his own people in here. Right now, you have to make do, he reminded himself. You have to pull this group together, and look sharp by Monday night. Even if you have to camp out in this office all weekend to do it.
* * *
After her little run-in with George Krueger, Emily stopped at the Bramble and had a far more encouraging chat with Grace Hegman, who owned the antiques shop. Grace had a quiet but reassuring way about her and gave Emily a cup of hot tea that took the chill off. Browsing the lovely shop, Emily even found a few Christmas gifts. Though it felt odd to be shopping so early . . . early for her.
Grace’s father, Digger, came down from their apartment upstairs and chatted with her, too. As Emily had expected, the old seaman was strongly opposed to more building, or altering the village in any way.
“I’m coming to the next meeting. I want a front-row seat. Gracie says the excitement is bad for my heart, but what’s the sense of having a heart if you don’t listen when it speaks to you?”
“Very true. I’m going to remember that,” Emily agreed.
Digger—who had often claimed he could hear clams whispering under the sand and could communicate with fish beneath the waves of the sea—had a poetic way of expressing himself, one that went straight to the core of things, Emily always thought.
The Bramble marked the end of the shops on that side of the street, and Emily crossed to visit an art gallery and a toy store. Her last stops, she decided. It was getting late, and she had to pick up Janie soon.
As she headed for the Firefly Gallery, the distinct aroma of burgers and French fries wafted toward her. The Clam Box. How could she have forgotten? It was right next to the toy shop. The idea of offering her flyers there made her smile. She imagined being chased out with a broom—or something worse.
Lost in the amusing, imagined scene, she nearly missed Charlie Bates, headed straight toward her. Head down, hands deep in his jacket pockets, his expression was grim as he marched briskly along.
Had he noticed her? She wasn’t sure. He was staring at the sidewalk, deep in thought. She could have easily passed by, but that seemed churlish, as if she held a grudge. Which she didn’t.
“Hello, Charlie. How’s it going?”
He looked up, his expression friendly at first, then sour when he realized it was her. “Just fine. Like a well-oiled machine. How about you? How’s civilian life, Emily?”
“So far, so good. I enjoy being a private citizen again.”
He looked surprised. “Really? That’s not what I hear. I hear you’re going door-to-door stirring up trouble for me.”
Emily wasn’t surprised. Somebody—probably George Krueger—had alerted Charlie to her walk down Main Street.
“You want to derail my meeting Monday night, don’t you? You just can’t stand to see someone else run the show. Well, it’s not going to happen. No way, no how.”
Emily held on to her temper, though it wasn’t easy. Charlie was misinformed—and a bit paranoid, as usual.
“That’s not my intention at all. I campaigned on this side of the question, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Guess what?” Charlie replied. “The election is over. I don’t have to debate with you anymore. The voters picked me. Maybe you’ve forgotten that.” Charlie smiled at her smugly, then turned to go. But someone called out to him and he turned around again.
“What’s with the trash collectors, Charlie? Any progress on that yet?”
Nina Barnes, the owner of the Toy Barn, emerged from her shop and walked toward them, black trash bags dangling from each hand. “The truck only stopped once last week. I’m tired of driving to the dump.”
“I know it’s been tough, Nina. I’m in the same boat at the diner,” he reminded her. “But they’re asking too much. I can bargain them down, but it’s going to take time. We’re hiring some outside help. They’re starting on Monday,” he promised.
“All right. But don’t take too long.”
“I understand completely.”
“Do you? Christmas is coming, Charlie. I don’t have time for this, too.”
“No worries. I’ll get it straightened out,” Charlie promised.
Nina nodded and glanced at Emily. “Nice to see you, Emily. Stop by sometime. We can catch up.”
“I’d like that.” Emily was itching to hand Nina a flyer. She had a feeling the toy shop owner would side with the open-space group. But she decided not to start that conversation in front of Charlie.
As Nina tossed the bags in her car and pulled away, Charlie’s smile melted. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got two businesses to run now,” he added, as if to say, You have none. “Enjoy the rest of your walk, Emily.”
“Thanks. I will.”
She crossed the street again and headed for her car, instantly regretting her sarcastic tone. How had their conversation gone so sour so quickly?
That wasn’t at all what I intended. I could help him with K&B Carting. I know how difficult they can be, and I know a few tricks for getting around them. But of course, he won’t take my advice.
Do I really want to stir up trouble against Charlie? Am I fooling myself, thinking I’m just concerned about this issue and it has nothing to do with losing the election?
Emily hated to face it, but suddenly she wasn’t sure if her motives in this fight were so lily white after all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Charlie swept into the diner and headed straight for the kitchen. He pulled off his jacket and slipped on an apron in one efficient, well-practiced motion. Trading barbs with Emily Warwick on the street had been bad enough. But did she have to hang around and gloat while Nina Barnes griped about the trash problem? Just his luck to have some unhappy shopkeeper read him the riot act in front of Her Highness. That must have made her day.
Meanwhile, his day was going from bad to worse to a complete crash-and-burn scenario. At least people listened to him at the diner. He didn’t have to deal with a lot of back talk.
Tim, the lunch shift cook, was eager to go and had texted twice. So was Trudy, who sat at a back table, counting her tips. He spotted Zoey at a table by the window, taking an order, but she tagged after him and caught up just past the swinging doors.
“Hey, Dad. I thought you were coming back at two.”
“Got held up in the office. But it looks like you’ve been holding down the fort today. It takes a load off my mind to know you’re down here watching over things, Zoey. You know I always say it, but it’s true.”
Zoey clipped her order on the wheel, then gave him that smile, like she didn’t really believe him. “You don’t always say it, Dad. You hardly say it at all.”
“I don’t? Well, I’m thinking it. All the time. What do you kids say? You’r
e the bomb?”
Zoey rolled her eyes. “Thanks. By the way, nobody says that anymore,” she added in a fake whisper.
He nodded, checking the prep area, the stainless steel tubs of garnish the waitstaff added to the dishes before they went out. “Low on pickle spears, honey, and lemon wedges. Some more red onion wouldn’t hurt, either.”
Zoey made a face. “I hate red onion. I bet it destroys the ozone layer. Red onion is contributing to global warming.”
Charlie laughed. “I don’t think so. Just keep the wrapping over it. Life isn’t a rose garden, you know.”
“I know, Dad.” Her singsong tone amused him today for some reason.
“Hey, before you do that, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. Which do you want first?”
Zoey eyed him warily. “Good news, I guess.”
“I hired a new busboy. He starts tomorrow. And we still have Lyle on the schedule,” he said, mentioning another staffer who bussed and helped in the kitchen.
“That is good news.” She looked genuinely happy, and Charlie felt relieved.
“What’s the bad news?” She winced, as if bracing herself. Charlie felt guilty already.
“Come on now, honey, it’s not that bad. It’s just that I can’t stay here late tonight, like I thought. I have to get back to Village Hall for another meeting tonight—about that stalled contract. So I need you to close up.”
Before he could say more, Zoey’s high-pitched squeal made him raise his hands to cover his ears. How in the world did teenage girls do that?
“Da-a-d! You’ve got to be kidding! I can’t stay tonight. I have a date. I told you this morning, remember?”
Charlie didn’t doubt it. She probably had told him, but it had gone in one ear and out the other. He had so many more important things on his mind right now.
“I’m sorry. It must have slipped my mind. I’ll make it up to you, honey, I will. But this is really important. It’s crucial. I have the big council meeting on Monday night. My first time on the chopping block—the whole town will be there. I can’t go in without good news about the contract. I just can’t.”
Thomas Kinkade's Cape Light Page 12