by Jacquie Gee
He swallows, reaches up and rearranges his bangs. “It’s not what you think, Becca—”
“Then what is it? You had someone cut the underside of my family’s bridge for what reason, Jebson?”
“That bridge is rotting. It had nothing to do with me.”
“Just like my mother’s property required all new wiring out of nowhere, right, Jebson? And she owes on some so-called back taxes.”
He bites his bottom lip.
“I’ve checked the books. We’re all paid up. Whatever you're cooking is not going to hold. And when I find out exactly what’s going on here, I’ll see to it you go down in flames!” I turn on my heel and storm from his office, my feet clashing hard with the floorboards. Fury fuels me out the door and through the hallway all the way to the top of the staircase, where I turn back, spewing my final words. “I’m sure your supporters up in Ottawa would love to know what kind of a conniving, two-faced, piece of garbage you really are—down here making decisions on behalf of them, threatening constituents, stealing their land, killing them if you have to, to get what you need!"
"I've killed no one. I could sue you for that accusation."
"Oh, right, I forgot. It was a heart attack." I narrow my gaze.
“You don’t have proof. No proof of any wrong doing!"
“Oh, don’t I?” I smile. "You'd better hope not." I flash my eyes and finished descending the staircase.
I haven’t, yet. But, so help me, I will. Because I can tell by the look in his eyes, I’m hot on the trail of being right.
"You're too late, Becca!" Jebson shouts down over the railing at me, as I trundle down the last of the steps. “It’s too late. The deal is done. I gave you and your Mom a chance, but you wouldn’t take it! The bridge is coming down. And there’s nothing you can do about it!” He voices echoes off the marble walls.
I jerk to a stop and dash back up the steps. “What are you talking about?”
“The Ministry inked the deal today.” He smiles wryly. “I announce demolition tomorrow. Turns out, we didn’t need your permission to take over the bridge. Your father signed it over in the early seventies when he agreed to allow the municipality to join it up to the road. It’s been a part of their property ever since.”
“That’s a lie, and you know it.”
“Not according to the papers I found.”
My lips part. I can’t get air. I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“The court will be serving you soon with a quit on the hearing. We don’t need to have it anymore. I don’t need your mother’s permission for anything.”
“You touch that bridge, and I swear—"
“What? You’ll sue me?” He laughs. “It’s over, Becca. You need to give up. Like I said in the beginning, this is all your father's doing. It's his signature on the documents."
I turn and race down the steps, a billion questions burning in my head. What is he talking about? How can that be true? My mother holds the deed to that property. I’m sure of it.
“Even if by some miracle, you and your townspeople pull off your little festival, you won’t have a bridge to fix, because it won’t be there!”
I swing around the newel post at the bottom and out the door, my fists hitting the glass bar, hard. Out on the street, I burst into a breathless foot race for my car, trying my best not to cry.
Chapter 40
“What are you doing out here? Aren’t you freezing?” Trent jogs up onto the widow’s walk of the bridge, joining me. He’s coming from the opposite side of town, grocery bags in hand. He’s right; the temperature’s dropped like crazy since I first came out here.
I’m leaning over the rail, staring down at my rain-dripped reflection in the water. My hair is soaked, and my shoes are uncomfortably wet. The rain outside has stopped, but it still drizzles off my hair down the back of my neck.
He pulls up beside me, drops his bags of groceries and hands me his jacket. “Thanks,” I say, looping it around my shoulders.
“What’s the matter?” He looks to me.
But I can’t look at him. “Have you ever wanted to change something so badly, you would die for it? But then, you find out, even if you gave up your life you still couldn’t have it.”
“Sounds pretty serious. What the heck’s gone on?”
“I have reason to believe, Jebson’s found a way to steal my mother’s property out from under her.”
“Well, that’s not possible.”
“Well, it is. He’s inked a deal with the Ministry to bring the bridge down. He’s announcing it tomorrow.”
“Well, how can he do that? He doesn’t own the place.”
“Apparently, neither does my Mother.”
Trent frowns. “That can’t be true. Everybody knows you own this land.”
“Apparently, she doesn’t anymore.” I turn to him.
“Who told you this? That piece of shite, I wouldn't believe a word that came out of his mouth."
"Normally, I wouldn't either. But I saw something at Aunt Penny's that supports what he says. A site plan of the property around the bridge. Aunt Penny told me it dated back to when the government joined the roadway up to the bridge. Perhaps my parents didn't realize what it meant at the time, the total impact of it." I turn sad eyes on Trent. "I think they might have given up ownership of the bridge when that happened."
“That can’t be. Your mother’s been paying taxes on it for years. If that were true, they would have ended."
“Your right.” I turn and stare again at the water. “At the very least, they owe her that whopping sum of money back. But still, something's not right here. Jebson claims to have control. They had a meeting, with government officials. I saw them. He has a signed order."
"So, are you giving up? Is that what I hear in your voice?”
"What else can I do. I don't know how to fight him?" Helplessness bites in my gut.
"Look, I don't mean to sound like a bear, but you can't give up now. We’ve come too far. You can't let that little turd win." Trent reaches out and takes me by the hands, staring comfortingly into my eyes. "I'd bet you dimes to dollars that it's a fraud. Just like the man who's touting it. If you'd like, I'll help you try to check it out." Trent looks at me with gentle, concerned eyes, and I wonder how I got so lucky to have this guy come into my life.
Exactly when I needed him.
"But right now, we’ve got an International Potato Festival to run, and money to raise for a bridge—"
"But Jebson said—”
“I don't care what Jebson Jefferies said,” Trent snaps.
“But he's signed the deal with officials to demolish the bridge." I look up at him, tears in my eyes. "How will we ever fight then, we don't have enough money."
"We will after the twentieth,” Trent says. “Look,” he takes my hands. “If push comes to shove, I can promise you this, we'll take the proceeds and hire ourselves the smartest, highest-falutin lawyers in the land and kick that boy's lily-lying arse!”
I smile.
"So, are we back to business as usual, then?” He looks deeply at me. “Are you up for the fight?"
My wobbly lips part. ”Let's do it." I backhand away the tear that sneaks from my eye.
“Atta girl!” Trent's face lights up. “How long before the calendar shoot?”
"Monday. Sunrise on the bridge. I confirmed with Vera, last night."
“Have you told the others?”
"Yes.”
“So, we're all set, then.” Trent’s grin becomes award-winning. He snap-curls his groceries up into his arms and starts to walk away, backward off the bridge. "The sooner we get those calendars done and out in circulation the better off we'll be!" he shouts. "Well, the cause, at least." He laughs and toggles his head. "I tell you, girl, Jebson Jefferies is gonna rue the day he ever messed with this mate!" He slaps his chest. "Now, go home and get yourself dry, before your mother locks you out. We reconvene in the morning. My place. Coffee. Eggs. And quinoa pancakes." He wheels around.
"We'll figure the rest of this out then."
He jogs away, then circles back around. "Oh, and Becca, not a word of this to anyone." He presses a firm finger to his lips. "We don’t want the likes of Mrs. Williams getting hold of this.” He wobbles wary brows up and down. “No sense killing the positive buzz you've created."
Positive buzz, me? "I have, haven't I?" I say, weakly, astonished at myself.
“That you have.” Trent tosses me a confident power-look over his shoulder as he ascends the porch steps. "Not bad for a skeptical non-starter,” he adds with a laugh, and for the first time today, I’m laughing too.
Chapter 41
"A little to the left, Sal." I coach from the sidelines, as a very reluctant Vera William's adjusts her camera lens for like, the twentieth time in just as many minutes. I've never seen a woman stall something out so badly. We decide to shoot at sunrise, before the whole town wakes up, to cut down on the gawkers and interruptions. Also, to try and keep it a secret, though that's a difficult feat in Heartland. The gorgeous magenta and orange colors of Heartland Cove's sunrise make for a striking background at the moment, but if we don't hurry up, we're gonna have ten guys with variations of sunrise backgrounds and the last two without. The sun is burning vibrant now over the bay, but soon it’ll just be daylight. Vera keeps warning us, yet still, she continues stalling. I swear the woman is the anti-Christ in disguise.
“No not your chef’s hat. The…hamburger bun.” I quickly coax Bernie to help Sal to shift his prop. I’d help out myself but…obvious reasons. He hands him the bun, the biggest I could find, and immediately I see we have a problem. “Okay, now, slightly to the left, to cover more of, his…omigosh.” I close my eyes, cringing as I peek through my fingers. “Things seems to be a little more generous in person than originally indicated,” I hear Vera gasp beneath her photographer’s blanket. I don’t think she needs one, I think she’s just embarrassed and hiding under it. Or, she is hiding from the general public, in case anyone sees her because, as she’s said several times today…I don’t take these kinds of pictures.
Sal, on the other hand, is loving this.
“Maybe we should swap that bun out for a frying pan," I offer. "A small one." He shifts the bun, one last ditch effort, and something else appears. Definitely a little too much glory.
“Oh, wee.” Trudy snaps her back toward the scene.
“You mean, weenie,” Bernie snorts, and I cuff him.
“Whoops!” Sal giggles and shifts the bun left, and things appear right. For a man who originally didn’t want anything to do with this idea, he sure is enjoying himself. Trent walks up, swaps the bun out for an eight-inch fry pan, and we’re in finally in business. Mrs. William’s groans beneath the blanket.
“It’s safe to turn around.” I nod to Trudy, and she cues the music. We borrowed an old ghetto blaster from Aunt Penny, which I must say, pumps the music out. We have it propped up on the railing, next to the dancers, close enough for Vera to continuously complain about how loud it is. Trudy deploys the music arsenal then averts her tender eyes away. I don’t blame her. If I didn’t have to look, I wouldn’t either. Between the bad dance moves and the occasional unexpected breeze, this is visually dangerous work. “That’s it, Sal, feel that music,” I shout. This is good practice for their stage moves later, too, though so far, they are pretty atrocious.
Trent turns his back and laughs behind his hand. “Oh, so, funny, eh? Wait ’till it’s your turn,” I snap.
“Not worried,” he shoots back.
"Funny, you were when I first signed you up."
His lips curl and he shoots me a nu-uhh smile.
“How many shots do I have to take?” Vera barks from under the blanket. Her shutter clicks continuously.
“As many as you need to get a good shot.”
“I’m shooting Sal,” she complains.
“Work with it,” I say.
She signs exaggeratedly, and I furrow my brow. “Just take a variety of poses, will you please?”
“I’m not feeling it,” she hisses through her teeth. She throws back her photographer’s blanket, a piece of dyed black sheet, and keeps clicking her camera, not looking, as Sal flings himself around inside the entrance to the bridge, next to Bernie’s Bait, dancing to Sharp Dressed Man, ZZ Top. His work boots clomp the bridge boards, the only thing he’s wearing other than the fry pan. “Sure hope the women like hair.” I swat at her. Trudy braves it, sweeps in and saves the day, switching Sharp Dressed Man to I’m Too Sexy, and miraculously Sal finds his groove.
“Yeah! There we go!” Trent, Bernie, and the guys cheer him on from the side. Vera dives back under her camera blanket. Trudy and I giggle as Sal turns from Stompin’ Tom Connors to John Travolta, all of a sudden, strutting about the planks as if he owns them.
“If I weren’t seeing this right now,” Trudy snickers, “I’d never believe it!”
“Me either.” I laugh, bending over, and she tucks up next to me snorting uncontrollably behind her hand. “If someone had told me this is what I’d be doing this summer, I’d have told them they were insane.”
“Next!” Vera shouts, snapping out from under her photograph blanket, ending the calamity.
“You’re sure you captured the shot,” Sal says. “’Cause I’m really feeling it now.” He wags his hips.
“Got it,” Vera snarls, her mouth a hard line.
“That woman wouldn’t know how to have fun if it jumped up and bit her in the rump,” I whisper to Trudy.
Vera’s gaze shifts from Sal to the final candidate. “Centerfold man, you’re up.”
“She’s been waiting for this,” I hiss at Trudy.
“We all have,” she whispers back.
I scowl and swat her shoulders.
Vera resumes her position beneath her blanket, to hide her delight, no doubt.
“Trent, that’s you,” I say, and my cheeks involuntarily, embarrassingly, bloom. I’ve saved him for last, for obvious reasons—selfish reasons. Truth be known, I’m not sure I could have made it through the whole shoot if I’d seen him naked three hours ago. And don’t think I positioned Sal right before him for nothing.
“Me?” Trent points to himself. He’s playing along, grinning like a silly fiend, leaning, cross-legged against the side of the bridge in his bathrobe.
“Well, you are Mr. Centerfold Pic, aren’t you?”
Bernie Bates snickers.
Trent’s cheeks flush a crimson shade of red. Suddenly all his cheekiness is gone.
“What? Do you need the rest of us to turn away while you disrobe or something?” Bernie teases.
"It might help, yes," Trent turns, eyeing me hard over his back, as if to say, please, get out of here. By the sound of his rattling breath, I don't think he wants anyone in attendance.
I don't know how he'll get through his Magic Michael routine.
He opens his duffle bag and pulls out his prop, letting the rest of the bag hit the deck—it's an egg flipper, a solid one, and a large one at that.
The biggest I could find, upon his request.
“Where the hay did you find that monster?" Sal teases, trying to swipe the flipper away from Trent. "Looks like you could flip a plate with that thing."
"Ah, ah, ah!" Trent shoos him away. "It's an Aussie special. Just like me." He winks, holding the flipper up to admire it. "We grow 'em big where I come from,” he winks, again. “Don't want anything makin’ any unexpected appearances.”
"Ha!" Trudy snorts, then wilts back behind her hand. "I can't believe he just said that,” she whispers to me.
“Shhh!” I manage, still laughing.
Trent turns his back and drops his robe down over his arms, and I must admit my heartbeat jumps.
"I don't think I can watch." Trudy melts.
I'm not sure I can either. What a set of shoulders that man has…
"My heart be still," Vera murmurs from under her cloth. I kick at her, as Trent positions his egg flipper just so, and whirls around, completely di
spensing with his robe. "All right. Let's go.”
For a moment, I just stand there stunned.
He signals for Trudy to start the music, which shyly she does, shifting sideways, pushing the button, semi-hiding behind her hand.
He’s chosen Thunderstruck as his strut music today.
Right away, I’m in laughter.
“Look away, if you can’t handle it!” Trent shouts over his shoulder.
“No. No, I’m good.” I wave a hand.
The lead guitarists wail out the intro. “Raaaahh-raaaaah- Raaaahh-raaaaah-ahhhhwaaaah!” Trent’s head bobs intently along with the beat, then his knee starts. I know this ’cause I’m cheating, looking.
Trudy gasps, clutching her heart, as Trent whirls around and breaks out his moves, stomping about the bridge, stopping to pose, his head bobbing to the music as he imitates the prowess of the original lead singer, strumming his egg flipper like an air guitar. He drags a sweeping finger out over the water, slowly left to right like he’s a rockstar pointing to his fans and I about die laughing. Thunder! Thunder! The lead singer and Trent both wail. He looks like a bronzed god in ketchup-stained jackboots and a grease-splattered ball cap, and well-placed egg flipper, giving it all he's got!
“He is brilliant, isn’t he?" Trudy whispers.
I swing around.
"Amazing." Vera breathes, as Trudy bites her knuckle.
Okay, so, maybe this wasn't a good idea. "Enough," I snap them. "Let's try to be professional, shall we?"
"Right!" they say, together.
It's true though, I don't think I've ever seen such a good-looking man in my life before. And would you look at the size of that flipper? It's a good thing I had Trent go last. I don't think the rest would have wanted to go after him.
His muscles pump, flex, and ripple. His pecs go taut then relax again. Each is jumping and bumping in perfect sync with the music, and oh, my... that six pack.
I feel like I should head to confession after this.
