Because of Sydney

by T. A. Foster

  “Good luck finding your story.” I continued toward my car.

  She trailed behind a few paces, trying to keep up in her heels. “And you aren’t going to tell me who you are? Which company do you work for? You must be a part of the development deal.”

  “There you go again interpreting.” I used the remote to unlock the door.

  “You’re driving a sports car in a trailer park, wearing nice clothes. A suit. You don’t know anyone here, and you’re not visiting. This piece of land is in the midst of a bidding war. I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume you might be a part of that.”

  I opened the car door. “Looks like you might be on to something. Very Nancy Drew of you.”

  “Would you like to comment on the land development? Do you know how many families are going to be displaced because of this?”

  I rolled down the window. “I never said I was a part of your story, Miss Paige.”

  She huffed. “I’m not that green.”

  “How green would you say you are?” I shoved the key in the ignition. “You know on a scale of zero to ten. Maybe a two?” I pressed the center of my sunglasses between my eyes.

  My question seemed to irritate her more. “I graduated in May from Longmire University at the top of my class. I have plenty of experience as a reporter.”

  “Good school. And you ended up down here? Sorry about that.” I cranked the radio to drown out the rest of her questions. “Nice meeting you. Good luck with your story.” I put the car in drive.

  “Wait. What’s your name?” She walked next to me as I circled an open spot to turn around.

  I pretended not to hear her and pulled out of the gravel lot. She grew smaller in the mirror. Her face furrowed in frustration. Her hair still unmanageable. One of my policies was never talk to the press. It was a damn shame though, because that member of the press was possibly the most gorgeous reporter I had ever met.

  This was fucking awesome. I was standing in a trailer park, bits of dust and sand clouding the air around me. That guy was a part of this. Sexy smile or not, I knew he had some sort of angle.

  I had met his type before. Smug. Arrogant. Rich. Athletic as hell. Bad. Very bad.

  I turned to face the cluster of campers in front of me. Arnie Cratchett was somewhere in this maze.

  I felt a trickle of perspiration roll down my neck as I knocked on the next door. I had already canvassed one row of homes.

  There was a pink stroller parked next to the stairs along with a set of plastic sand buckets and shovels.

  A woman cracked the door. “Yes?” She was wearing a white T-shirt with the Pancake House logo scrawled across the front. Her light brown eyes matched her hair.

  “Hi. I’m looking for Arnie Cratchett. Does he live here?”

  “Arnie’s next door.” She pointed to the trailer one over. A little girl, probably five years old peeked between her mother’s legs.

  “Hi.” I waved.

  She started to giggle.

  “Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ve knocked on all these doors.”

  “No problem. Hey, are you that reporter he’s been talking about?”

  “I guess so.” I realized Arnie could have talked to multiple reporters.

  “Well, I’d like to say that whoever the assholes are,” she stopped and covered her daughter’s ears with her palms. “The ones tearing this place down should be ashamed of themselves for what they’re doing. Where are we supposed to go?”

  I pulled my reporter’s pad from my bag. “Would it be ok if I asked you a few questions about the development?”

  “Sure. Let me get Lindy settled with a snack. Hold on.”

  I waited in the front yard of the camper. I didn’t know how long I could stand being outside in the sun, but it wasn’t as if I could invite myself in.

  A few minutes later the mom stepped outside. “She’s set up watching a Mickey Mouse show. We have exactly twenty minutes.”

  I smiled. “She’s cute. She reminds me of my niece.” I pushed down the knot that formed whenever I thought about my sister and Gracie.

  “Yeah, but a handful. I don’t even want to think what moving is going to do to her.”

  She cranked the handle on a beach umbrella and propped up two chairs. I slid into the seat next to her, grateful for the slivers of shade.

  “I’m Shawna Douglas.” She reached a hand toward me.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Sydney Paige with the News & Record. How long have you and Lindy been here?”

  “Since she was born. My parents left me this place. It was our summer vacation spot when I was a kid, but I live here year-round now with Lindy. It’s not much, but it works for us.”

  I noticed her left hand was bare. “Is it only you two?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, her father has never been in the picture. He left as soon as he found out I was pregnant. I had to drop out of college to support us. If it wasn’t for this place I don’t know how we’d have a roof over our heads.”

  I scribbled the quote on my notepad while she continued to talk. There were portions of her story that were familiar to me. It was an eerie familiar. I forced myself to focus on Shawna. This wasn’t about Hailey. Not this time.

  “All I have to pay is the rent for the land and a few utilities. It’s a good deal for me. I work at the Pancake House. It’s all I can afford. I should have known something this good could never last.”

  “What is your plan when the development starts?”

  She pulled on the side of the chair, tugging at a piece of vinyl that had come loose. “Is it a done deal? Do you know for sure it’s going to be sold?”

  I shook my head. “I only know that the land is for sale for the first time in eighty years. There are multiple bidders who have been invited to participate in a closed auction. It hasn’t sold yet, but it looks like there are plenty of interested parties.”

  “Bastards,” she muttered.

  “Do you know where you and Lindy will move?” The question wasn’t for the story. I wanted to know where she would go with her curly-headed daughter.

  “I’ll figure something out. I always do. But she’s supposed to start school in Port Isabel in the fall, and I don’t want that to change. Her life shouldn’t be uprooted because of greed. That’s what this is you know? Greed.”

  It wasn’t my place to comment on the story. I was here to find the facts, or in this case present the human interest side of facts. I doubted Shawn’s story would make a bit of difference to the family selling the land. I rose, feeling the beads of sweat sticking behind my knees.

  “Thank you for answering my questions. I might be back before this is all over.” I smiled weakly. “Would it be ok if I stopped by again?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  The camper door opened and Lindy poked her head outside. “Mama, I’m still hungry.”

  Shawna turned toward her daughter. “Well, let’s get something else for you to eat.”

  I watched as she shuttled her inside and wondered what would happen to them when the construction crew rolled in here to level this place.

  I bet the developer never thought about people like Shawna. People who worked hard just to put a roof over their child’s head. People who had made memories in this campground. First steps. First loves. It was all going to be plowed under.

  Arnie Cratchett was waiting for me on his front stoop. He was wearing a pair of leather boots, dark denim jeans and a plaid shirt that looked like if it went through the washing machine one more time it would lose the last traces of color.

  “I’ve been waiting for a reporter to get down here for two weeks. Two weeks.” He spit into a cup from the side of his mouth. His lower lip protruded with a heaping wad of tobacco.

  “Hi, Mr. Cratchett. Nice to meet you. We spoke on the phone a few days ago. I’m Sydney.”

  “Come on in. It’s too hot to sit outside.” He held the screen door for me.

  I was relieved this interview would be inside. I was all for r
oughing the elements to get a story, but I was willing to try that on a cooler day.

  Inside I could hear the air conditioner humming, and I stepped closer to feel the cold air blow from the ceiling vents. Arnie’s camper was neat and sparse. A pot of coffee was the only thing on the kitchen counter.

  He scratched the patch of silver hair above his ears. “Why don’t you sit?”

  “Thank you.” I sat in the chair closest to the vent. “I appreciate that you want to discuss the land development of Beach Combers Cove—”

  “They are crooked crooks. A bunch of money hungry, unscrupulous, nasty, lying, selfish—”

  It was my turn to interrupt him. I couldn’t report slanderous comments in a story. “Mr. Cratchett, I was hoping you could tell me a little bit about how long you’ve lived here.”

  He waved his hand in the air. “No one wants to hear about that. What they need to know is about underhanded business deals happening in their own back yards.”

  “I think our readers would like to hear your story.” I could tell this interview was going to be a struggle. “How did you organize the anti-development rally?”

  “What they need to know is this island is being destroyed. Pretty soon the only piece of sand that’s going to be left is from what the wind blows in here. They’re tearing down the whole place.” His cheeks turned a deep crimson color. “This land is nothing like what it used to be.”

  I tried to smile. “How many people would you say are a part of your organization?” I clicked the tip of my pen, waiting for his response.

  He touched the plastic cup to his lips and I tried not to make a face when I heard him spit.

  “I don’t keep track. Whoever is mad as hell like I am can join us.”

  “But, Mr. Cratchett, you said you were going to organize a march through the island all the way to City Hall. Surely you have some idea if people are going to show up.”

  “The problem here is greed. The filthy rich are doing what they always do.”

  I sighed. Arnie rambled on about the atrocities of big business, never stopping to actually answer my questions.

  After thirty minutes of listening to him explain how corrupt the developers were, I made an excuse of needing to return to the office to meet my deadline. There was a tiny bit of truth there.

  I sat in my car, letting the air blow directly on my face. I was never going to get used to this kind of heat. I fished my phone out of my bag and called the office.

  “Hey, Hannah. Is Alice in?”

  The News & Record receptionist patched me through without responding.

  “Alice,” my editor answered quickly.

  “It’s Sydney. The development story isn’t really panning out. Mr. Cratchett is a cranky lunatic. We can’t use him. There’s no set date for a rally or march to City Hall.”

  She huffed, “Then find another angle. Your deadline is coming up.”

  I chewed on my lip. “I don’t know if there is a story here. I don’t know who the developers are yet. Maybe I should wait until the deal goes through, and then I could write about that.”

  “You are the reporter. Find out who is making the bids. Talk to some of the developers. We need both sides of this. Go get the story.”

  “Right. Ok, I’m on it.”

  “Good. Don’t come back in the office until you have something. Your deadline is five. Today.”

  “Got it. Don’t worry, Alice. I’ll bring in something we can use.” I hung up and looked at the phone in my hand. Instead of getting guidance, the conversation bordered on a lecture from my new boss.

  It wasn’t anything like working for the Longmire Daily. There we supported each other. Helped each other find sources. We even brainstormed story ideas. Granted, we did eat too much pizza. At the Record it was a fend-for-yourself kind of newsroom.

  Arnie Cratchett was supposed to be the ringleader for the anti-development supporters. I didn’t have a single quote from him I could use that wouldn’t put the story at risk. I could incorporate Shawna’s story, but she didn’t have the background or the leadership information I needed to explain the two positions. Her struggle would make a great feature down the road, but right now I needed facts. I needed something newsworthy.

  I pulled out of the trailer park with little information I could use for a story and a deadline I had to meet by tonight. My stomach growled, and I knew before I could do anything I had to eat lunch.

  I looked at my watch again. It was Italian, handcrafted after my trip to Milan in the spring. The leather was soft but strong. The hands were thin blades of platinum that kept perfect time with the gears. It didn’t matter where the damn thing came from—he was late. I didn’t like waiting for anyone. Commissioner or CEO—I didn’t wait.

  I motioned to the waitress to refill my iced tea. I would give him five more minutes.

  “Anything else I can get you while you wait?” she asked. I looked over her shoulder and saw that cute little reporter at the hostess stand. For a split second I wondered if she had followed me here.

  “No, I think I’m good.” I smiled.

  The reporter followed the hostess through a maze of tables. I watched her navigate on those high heels. Her legs were long and slender. Still gorgeous. Still a reporter.

  As they approached she shoved her sunglasses on her head.

  “What are you doing here?” She looked startled.

  “I have a lunch meeting. What about you, Miss Paige?”

  She turned toward the hostess. “I’ll find my table in a second.”

  “I’m having a lunch. I like this part of the beach. The view is nice here don’t you think?”

  “It is. Very pretty. Dining alone?”

  “I am. I’m working on a story. Who is your meeting with?”

  I pushed the menu to the edge of the table. “Why? Thinking about writing about my lunch habits?”

  “Since I don’t know your name that’s going to be difficult.” She lowered herself in the seat across from me, her eyes set in determination.

  “I have a meeting.” I pointed to where she sat. “You’re in someone’s seat.”

  “Why don’t I keep you company until he or she shows up? Maybe you could tell me what your involvement is in the Beach Combers Cove development while we wait.”

  I laughed. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen. I don’t mix business and pleasure.”

  She squirmed slightly in her seat. “I thought you said you had a meeting.”

  “I do. That is purely business.” I leaned forward. “You are the pleasure part.” The words had the effect I wanted. Her face flushed, and she twisted those pouty lips together.

  She ruffled through her bag and withdrew a small pad of paper and a pen. She clicked the end. “I’d like to ask you a few questions. If you purchase the Beach Combers land, what do you plan to do with it?”

  It was always the first question any reporter asked me. What was I going to do with the precious piece of land that held so much history or so many memories? I had heard it a hundred times.

  What people didn’t seem to understand is that there was never going to be new land for me to harvest. Land didn’t materialize out of thin air, and I hadn’t figured out how to create an island yet. I had to find what was already out there. Sometimes it meant tearing down a hundred year old house. Sometimes it was destroying a rat-infested apartment slum. Some projects people welcomed, but it was the ones like this. The ones like the Palm Palace, places that people were sentimental about, that caused the most problems.

  “You know what I think, Miss Paige?”

  She stopped clicking her pen and looked at me. “What?”

  “People are too attached.”

  “Attached? What do you mean?” She stopped clicking her pen. The flecks in her hazel eyes darkened.

  “They get caught up in ghosts. Why hold on to something that is old and falling apart when you could make it new and full of value again?”

  “Because some people find value in th
e past.”

  I tapped my fingers on the table. “Too much I think.”

  “So will you at least admit that you are interested in the land deal? It’s going to be public record soon enough. This is your opportunity to tell the developer’s side of the story—before anyone else gets their spin on it.”

  The sunlight from the window caught her hair, turning the strands almost a honey color. It was distracting; she was distracting.

  “Look, Miss Paige, I’m afraid I’m going to have to cut our interview short.”

  I spotted Carlos Hernandez making his way to the table.

  “Sorry I’m late, Mason.” His dark mustache had a way of twitching when he spoke.

  I stood to shake his hand. “Not a problem, Carlos.” I cleared my throat. “Maybe you know Miss Paige.”

  She wiggled out of the chair and stood. “Mr. Hernandez, we met at the last city council meeting. Sydney Paige from the News & Record.”

  I could tell he recognized her. “Of course. You were the one asking all of the rezoning questions.”

  “That was me.”

  “Nice to see you again.”

  She collected her bag and slid it on her shoulder. “I hope you two enjoy your lunch, Mason.” She winked and hurried to her table at the other end of the restaurant.

  “Talking to the press, already?” Carlos eyed me.

  “No, she was at the site this morning interviewing some of the residents. We just ran into each other. Do you know her well?”

  Carlos picked up the menu I had folded. “I try to make it my business to know as many of the local reporters as I can. It has its benefits, especially around election time.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “She’s new. I’ve only seen her at a few of the council meetings.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Doesn’t mean she can’t stir up trouble for us.” He smiled as the waitress approached ready to take his drink order.

  “You think there is going to be a lot of local resistance to the project?” I took a sip of the tea refill.

  “I’ll have an iced tea and a grilled steak sandwich,” he instructed our server.