by CF Frizzell
Coby nodded. “I wouldn’t be surprised either. Getting in on the actual development might be his thing.”
“Regardless, Shay,” Misty added, “I hope this leads to bigger things for you.”
“I guess I should have reservations.”
“Well, remember. Sorvini aside, Della’s top dog. Even though Slattery Enterprises employs a lot of folks, I doubt any of them actually likes what she represents, the high life, big money, projects that always seem to have problems. People don’t have lots of job choices around here, so they’re sort of stuck working for—”
“The Dragon Lady,” Coby finished.
Shay debated how much of herself she really should risk, how big a step she should take. “She’s that bad, huh?”
“She’s determined to develop the town, Shay,” Misty continued, “bring in commercial business, and townspeople are between a rock and a hard place, living with that, the jobs it could bring versus changes to everyone’s life and the town itself. Check out the Chronicle sometime.” She nodded toward the newspaper on the table. “You’ll see.”
*
Nana lowered the Chronicle and eyed Mel at the stove. “Helen talked my ear off at the salon once you went back to your office this morning.”
“Why do you let that old bag get to you, Nana?”
“Melissa, hush! Helen Carrington is my age.”
“But she’s an old bag, Nana. You’re a sweet grandma.”
“Well, I had no choice. I was getting shampooed when she popped in. Lissa, she just knows you and that grandson of hers, Sheridan, would make a lovely couple at the Harvest Ball, come September.”
Mel swung open the oven door and slid in the stuffed chicken. “Nana, you know better than to insist. I am not now and have never been interested in anything to do with Helen Carrington or her grandson or attending that damn ball.”
“Be reasonable. All of Tomson would love to see you there. You’re a celebrity in town, dear, the prettiest girl—”
“Nana, please.” Mel sipped her iced tea as she imagined attending on the arm of another woman. And why, of all women, that butch at the Exchange came to mind puzzled her. She shook her head at the reaction that would get. “You know, I always support their effort and they seem to overlook that. They get more free publicity from the Chronicle than I can afford as it is.”
“There you go again with the newspaper.”
“Need I remind you again this year of what that publicity is worth?”
“You need to socialize, Melissa. Get out more, have fun, like all the girls do.”
“Nana, come on. I’m twenty-nine and a businesswoman in town. Let all the ‘girls’ do as they please and leave me out of it.”
“Well, since you are so hopelessly, stubbornly committed to putting your lifelong happiness at the mercy of this newspaper, you might think on this: your father would be overjoyed to see a picture of you hobnobbing with the well-do-to for one evening. Especially with a handsome date at your side.”
There it was again, Mel thought, that infernal internal debate. Nana had a point, Dad had their agreement, and Mel had her pride. She could go alone, even though her father would probably call and chastise her for creating gossip that would linger till the next Harvest Ball. But his attitude and potential gossip aside, she’d spend the entire evening engaged in petty conversations with shallow women, and dancing with and then fending off drunken flirtatious men of assorted ages. She’d be bored to death, degraded, insulted, and probably mauled for the price of her one-hundred-dollar ticket. She doubted that her father’s satisfaction or a handful of advertising promises would make it money well spent.
“Why don’t you have your sweet photographer, Michael, take you?”
“Nana, you’ve been to enough of these over the years. You know how pompous, how superficial everyone is. It’s a fashion show for the women and an evening of eye candy for the men.”
Nana straightened. “Well, what’s wrong with that? It’s for a good—”
“We go through this every year, you and I.”
“Listen to me, Melissa Baker. You know your father will call as soon as that edition arrives in his mailbox. You should make the most of the Harvest Ball.” Nana tapped the Chronicle. “Besides, you publish many more editorials like this week’s, casting aspersions about development and big chain stores, and you could be begging for advertisers.”
Mel spun to face her. “I’m surprised at you, Nana. If Grampa still ran the paper, he would be keeping just as watchful an eye as I am about Tomson development.”
“Now you’re being melodramatic. You’re letting the Chronicle go to your head.”
“Hardly—and you know it. Letting builders, officials, and residents jump up and down with their eyes closed is incredibly dangerous. It’s the epitome of bad municipal planning.”
“It’s not your job to fix the world, Lissa.”
“It’s the Chronicle’s job to provide the right information, to at least try. You saw how fast Slattery put up those two subdivisions some years back, and then those apartments, and you know the structural troubles they’ve had, the drainage and water issues. You know how high our tax rate has gone, how stretched our resources are, the schools, police…God forbid our fire department ever has two fires at the same time.”
“Calm down, young lady. I agree Della moves too fast sometimes, but we can only do so much without jobs and being able to afford things. We have to face facts.”
“The Chronicle is obligated to present them, even if they’re ugly, and I refuse to wear blinders, especially when a project this size could become another Tomson problem child. Advertisers are free to take their money elsewhere, but I have faith that differences in opinion won’t lead advertisers to alienate potential customers.”
Nana opened the paper to the full-page Fourth of July advertisement. “How much longer do you think Della will be advertising like this?” The Home Depot’s sales insert slid onto the table, and Nana pounced on it triumphantly. “Will this faith you laud so highly pay your salary, your printing bill, when these ads stop?”
“So, I shouldn’t pay attention to what’s going on? What happens if the Rohan gets ‘tweaked’ during site work? Or polluted by the same substandard drainage system Slattery managed to sneak in at the apartment complex? Or if the fishing hole by the train depot disappears under tons of excavated dirt? Della’s talked about building right there. Did you know that? By the tracks. So it’s all part of her master plan. What about Tomson’s master plan? Who watches out for that?”
“Lord, you get too worked up.” Nana turned away and picked up her knitting. “This watchdog crusade of yours will cost you, Lissa. We have to make sacrifices, compromises. That’s all there is to it.”
“Well, the Chronicle’s not going to compromise. It will continue to keep its eyes open and do what’s right for Tomson.”
Mel set her palms on the edge of the sink and took a breath. Families, ranchers, all count on the Chronicle. Advertisers need it, and aren’t likely to suddenly go silent. And yes, that Fourth of July ad money is short-term, but Slattery’s mammoth complex promises a mother lode of revenue by next summer. I’d be a sham of an editor to turn a blind eye to development. She gulped the rest of her iced tea. Staring hard out the window, she realized how emotional she’d become, how drained she now felt. Boy, do I need an alternative focus in my life.
Chapter Four
The roadside boundary of Jed Maclin’s ten-thousand-acre horse ranch with its idyllic pastoral vista always caught the attention of passing motorists, and Shay’s was no exception. Postcard pretty, she recalled Coby saying. Occasional flower boxes bursting with reds and yellows sparkled in the sunshine along snow-white rail fencing that framed acres of plush, rolling green. Coby had also said Maclin’s lower eighty, this portion she now saw as she rode along the straightaway, became Slattery land last month. Nicknamed “The Heights,” the setting was destined to be completely erased within a week or two.
; Ahead, the assortment of SUVs and pickup trucks along the road drew Shay’s curiosity, and she slowed the Harley as she passed. Dozens of people crowded around a Land Rover, and their angry voices rose over the Softail’s low rumble. Then the wild gesturing, the swinging of picketers’ placards began in earnest.
A woman darted between two parked trucks, and Shay jerked to a stop.
“Everyone needs to let them know!” the woman shouted at her. A girl ran out next, the sign she wielded decrying devastation of the land. “It’s her future at stake!” the woman railed, pointing to the girl.
A man charged toward them and yanked away the girl’s placard.
“I’ll take that! We’re just doing our goddamn job!” he screamed in her face. She threw herself at him, fists flying. The woman joined in. He heaved the girl to the ground, and Shay dismounted in a hurry. He then swung around to the woman. “We’re just the surveyors, y’stupid bitch!”
The girl jumped on his back and he slung her off. He cocked his fist at the woman, but Shay shoved him away from behind.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He spun around and teed off with the placard. The wood post caught Shay in her left temple, and she hit the pavement in a heap. She vaguely heard the stern tone of a police officer as her mind blurred, colors of clothing, vehicles, trees all dissolving to gray.
“Hey, man,” the deep voice barked, “you okay? Hey, you hear me?”
Shay forced herself up on one elbow and squinted up into the Ray-Bans. The side of her face felt wet. “Are you talking to me?”
The officer straightened and removed the sunglasses, his expression a bit chagrined.
“Oh—you hang on there, miss. Ambulance is on the way and they’ll take a look at that gash on your head.”
Shay sat up, and the palm she pressed to her temple came away bloody. “I’ll be all right.” She rose to one knee but wobbled. The officer set a heavy hand on her shoulder.
“You stay put. Hear me? We got a couple others to look at, but you’ll get checked out. Stay down.” He went to meet the ambulance and directed the technicians to a man with a suspected broken nose and a woman holding her wrist.
Shay squinted to focus and was relieved to see the Softail was as she’d left it. Nearby, a firefighter swept up windshield glass from the Land Rover.
“What the hell is this all about?” she asked.
He stopped in mid-sweep. “Shay Maguire?”
“Freddy?”
The Five Star carpenter crouched at her side, his volunteer firefighter’s coat pooling on the ground. She was glad to see him.
“Shit,” he said, studying the blood trailing down her neck. “You gotta have that checked. How the hell did you get mixed up in this?”
“Believe it or not,” Shay said, wincing, “I was just passing by. So much for being a Good Samaritan.”
“Well, damn.” He pulled a neatly pressed white handkerchief from his pants pocket and blotted at the blood that was reaching Shay’s collar. “Tomson’s temper is all riled up these days, and you sure picked the hot spot to cruise by. These are the surveyors Della hired, and, well, some folks are intent on stopping the job, no matter if they can’t, legally.”
“Just my luck.”
“You’re lookin’ pretty woozy.” He gave her the handkerchief. “Don’t think you ought to be driving your bike anywhere soon.”
“Yeah. Swell.” She reached to dab at her wound, and an approaching EMT told her to stop.
“I’ll let them see to you,” Freddy said, rising. “All right if I move the Harley off the road? I’ll take care that she’s stable on the stand.”
Shay assessed him cautiously, leery of anyone touching her prized machine.
“Honest,” he tried again. “I’ll be careful.”
“Okay,” she said finally, the EMT now in her face. “Thanks, Freddy.”
“Can you stand, miss? Walk with me to the ambulance?”
Accepting the guide to her feet, she winced at the pain slicing through her brain and let him lead her to the others gathered at the back of the vehicle.
A tall, slim man in jeans, a large satchel hanging from his shoulder, backed away to the edge of the gathering and raised his hands to his face. A photographer, Shay realized, and watched him flit to another spot and take more pictures.
The EMT gently tilted Shay’s head away, and firm fingers manipulated her scalp. Having so little hair to worry about must be a relief for him. She managed to keep her eyes open through the lancing pain even though, with her view limited to a nearby truck tire, there wasn’t much to see.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry to bother you folks.”
“Hey, Mel.”
“Thought you’d show up, Mel.”
“Hi, guys.”
Shay wanted to see the source of this smooth, confident voice, the woman everyone sounded pleased to see. The voice grew in volume, and Shay assumed the woman had turned toward the injured.
“I’m Melissa Baker from the Chronicle. Anyone want to share their story here? Exactly what happened? How did the demonstration end up this way?”
Great. We’ve made the news, Shay thought, frustrated she couldn’t move her head to face this woman.
“Not right now, Mel,” a man told her. “We’re almost done here and transporting one.”
“Jesus, John. It looks like a battle scene. What are the extent of the injuries?”
Shay almost shook her head. Everybody friggin’ knows everyone.
“Sprained wrist, lots of cuts and contusions, a head gash. The broken nose we’re taking.”
The woman, Mel, didn’t respond, and Shay figured she was writing. Meanwhile, the EMT working on her moved her head again, but her vantage point didn’t change much. Damn, she wanted to see what was going on.
“Thanks,” the reporter said. “I’ll catch you back at the firehouse for names.”
“Miss?” It took an extra second, but Shay realized the EMT was speaking to her. She hadn’t noticed the work on her scalp had stopped, it was too numb. She looked up at last. The reporter was gone.
*
Mel paced herself in the summer-like heat and strolled across the supermarket parking lot. High above her, a workman secured a large poster for the Fourth of July celebration on a light pole and she noted that advance work for the festivities had begun in earnest. Della’s sparing no expense.
Hot work in a bucket truck for that poor guy, she thought. He wiped his brow, then scruffed the bandana over his bristly haircut, shiny with perspiration, and stuffed the cloth into a back pocket. In jeans that hung off nonexistent hips and a red sweat-darkened sleeveless T-shirt, he was lean and rugged with toned, glistening arms, and Mel wondered how many women—and men—noticed. A glimpse of his tanned face stopped Mel short as she neared the store’s entrance.
She dipped her sunglasses to the tip of her nose for a discerning look. The Exchange. So the player in leather works for Slattery? Unbelievable. Too bad.
The quick beep of a car horn made Mel jump.
“Hiya, Ms. Baker!” Three girls waved as their Corolla squeezed by her and headed out of the lot.
Mel hardly had time to return the wave when a frail hand cupped her elbow and urged her toward the store’s door.
“Sure picked the wrong spot to stand, Miss Baker.”
“You’re so right, Olin. Thank you.”
“Morning, Mel.”
The superintendent of schools and his wife approached, shopping cart filled with bags. The cordial expression on his long, haggard face seemed forced, and she had a good idea why.
“Hello, Hardin, Susan. Good to see you.”
He stopped his cart at Mel’s side and was about to raise a finger to make a point when his wife pushed it back down.
“Mel,” he began on a sigh. “Quite the editorial about Slattery this week. Can’t say we see eye to eye, however.”
“That so? I’d love to run a rebuttal, if you’d care to send one, Hardin. You know how people lo
ve to read letters to the editor.”
“Hmm.” He straightened and stared across the parking lot, his own internal debate quite obvious.
“That’s a wonderful idea,” Susan injected, tugging on his shirt for emphasis. “Hardin, if you really want to go through with supporting the Heights and Slattery, you should put all you’ve been saying in writing. Let other people see.”
“Absolutely,” Mel said.
“You know that project will help build our tax base, the school budget,” he reminded Mel. “I know you’re familiar with the high school’s expansion needs. Can’t for the life of me understand why you’d fight a cause that can do so much good.”
“All my points are in the editorial, Hardin. Tomson needs to keep a closer watch on things, not jump on the bandwagon for the here and now.” She glanced at his overflowing shopping cart and was thankful for an excuse to end what Hardin could extend for hours. “You need to head home, so I won’t keep you any longer, but please consider writing. Won’t you?”
Susan edged the shopping cart out of her husband’s hands. “I’ll talk him into it.”
Mel entered the supermarket and sighed heavily at both the relief from ending his debate and the air-conditioning. Pulling out a cart for herself, she spotted the postcard advertisement stuck to the far end of the wagon. More July Fourth promo. And her mind drifted back to the handsome woman in the bucket truck, a surprising addition to the Slattery payroll.
As much as she wanted to dwell on that topic, she concentrated on completing her shopping mission promptly, and managed to be back behind her desk within the hour. The editorial half-written in her mind wouldn’t wait.
Two hours at the keyboard proved useless, however. She ran both hands through her hair, frustrated by words that wouldn’t come.
“You’ve been swearing at that tube all afternoon,” Mike said, passing her desk. “None of it’s printable.”
“Be quiet. I can’t help it. I refuse to suggest a truce of any kind.”
