“What’s the biggest economic asset of a place like West River? I don’t think we want heavy industry—certainly I doubt anyone here wants to become another mining center like Sudbury or Timmins. We’re too far off the beaten track for the service industries, and transportation costs are prohibitive for most other industries. So that leaves us with tourism, which has treated us very nicely for the last few years.
“And the heart of West River’s tourism industry is Haverford Castle’s artist’s colony!” Paul declared. “Where do you think the tourists will go if all they get to see is the razor wire on the top of fences with signs saying, ‘Keep Out - Unless You’re Super Rich’?”
“They’ll stay away from here!” someone in the crowd bellowed, and was treated to a smattering of applause.
Roger Wellman stood up as Paul returned to his seat. He waited for the chatter and scraping of chairs to die down before he began speaking. A big, unruly looking man who gave the impression—correctly—that he could handle his big, meaty fists well in a fight, Roger was used to people listening when he spoke, and he never needed to raise his voice.
“I’ve lived and farmed here all my life, and my father, and his father, well, the Wellmans are known around here in many ways,” he said, capturing his audience with a knowing wink that evoked catcalls and titters from around the hall.
“Five years ago we fought to have a part of this forest recognized as environmentally sensitive. Just about everybody in this room signed that petition and most of you took an active part in the campaign.” Roger didn’t have to remind them that it was a campaign he’d led. His own interest in wildlife and the environment had blossomed into something close to fascination and each winter, in snow and ice, he drove the thirty miles to the nearest college where he taught environmental studies.
“We won that recognition, and for very good reasons. Now they want to pull the rug out from under all our good work by closing off a huge portion of the land we’ve all enjoyed—courtesy of the good Mrs. Lloyd—and shutting down the one thing West River has which makes us different from all the other cash-starved penny-ante towns along the shores of Lake Ontario! I say Avalon Bloody Hospitality—and the mighty Rush Co., too—can take their fancy health spa and shove it!”
As Roger sat down many of the residents rose to their feet, stomping and whistling their approval for his battle cry, the sounds bouncing deafeningly off the hall’s high ceiling.
Through the melee, Lauren’s eyes were drawn as if by magnetic force to the stranger in the back of the room, and she felt a tiny shock race through her as she saw the tight, angry look on his face. For a second she thought he might spring to his feet, but then he settled his long, lean body back against the hard chair in a semblance of relaxation.
Moments later as the noise died down, another man, heftier even than Roger Wellman, lumbered to his feet from a seat in the middle of the hall. Harry Turner, village reeve and owner of the community’s only gas station and auto repair shop, cleared his throat and began to speak in his slow, thoughtful way.
“I think myself that you’re chasing butterflies. I’ve spoken briefly to these Rush Co. people and they have assured me that there will be full disclosure—full disclosure, now - once the project is properly decided. They might not even pick West River.” He raised a massive, callused hand to quell the clapping and catcalls, which flooded over his remarks.
“Now, how many of you haven’t worked in the past six months? How many more depend on the occasional or seasonal jobs to earn enough stamps to draw pogey all winter? This community, like so many others in the province, is in trouble, folks. Economic trouble—you all know that. Farming barely supports the farmers, and there’re no jobs for hired hands. Logging’s gone, and so have the paper mills.
“There’s nothing here, anymore, but tourism. And the trouble with tourism is it’s not reliable. You can’t do your planning on it. Oh, I know there have been a few good years; there are lots of artsy-fartsy types coming in to gawk at the artists-at-work and to take part in the festivals. But what we want is to get noticed by some proper industry.”
“And you call a glorified fat farm a proper industry?” snarled Roger Wellman.
“No, but you know and I know that Rush Co. has the dollars, has the industrial variety, to come up with something more, something nitty-gritty, jobs we can get our teeth into. Not summer jobs and namby-pamby stuff for the tourists from the city that leave us out of work half the year. Real jobs, folks, regular pay packets and plenty of them. No more drawing government dole all winter and seeing our young ‘uns take off to Toronto or Vancouver or Calgary.
“Yet here we all are, wanting to throw jobs away, industrial taxes and extra customers and everything that goes with it, wanting to throw them all away as if we were Toronto and didn’t need the work or the money. Well, you must all be mad. A little co-operation here could mean work, neighbors: construction jobs, cleaning jobs, maintenance jobs. I say this proposal is good for West River and we should welcome Rush Co. with open arms.”
Turner turned and walked out of the hall, slamming the heavy old church door behind him. Off to the side Lauren heard Roger mutter, “That old bastard always knew how to make a dramatic exit”.
An excited buzz started among the people in the audience. Finally, a woman on the front row stood up.
“Harry’s right, you know. It’s not just us. There are our kids, too. They need jobs. My Peter’s already talking about moving away to look for work, and he’s not even out of grade eleven.” There were grunts of sympathy and approval from around her.
“Has anyone actually suggested that Rush Co. would put something more our way if the luxury holiday place goes ahead?” asked another woman from the front row.
Lauren was on her feet then, propelled by anger before even the smattering of applause had died down. Her deep, clear voice reached easily through the hall.
“I know how hard it is for the young people—how hard it’s always been. How many of you have friends who moved away for jobs—in fact, how many moved away and never came back? But welcome Rush Co. with open arms? I say we should tell them where to get off.
“How many people from this community will get jobs at this facility? A few cleaners, maybe, and groundskeepers, the odd maintenance job. Maybe there’ll be work contracting for renovations and alterations, but how long will that last? A few months? One good year? And then what? If you’re lucky, a few minimum wage jobs, cleaning rooms and cottages and cutting brush. Other than that, nothing. No tourists, no seasonal work, not even a safe place to fish for your supper or catch a rabbit or two.”
“But the paper said they’d employ fifty people, full time,” the woman replied.
“And how many people here are qualified in this very rarefied branch of the hospitality industry? This isn’t a bed-and-breakfast set up, you know. They want nutrition experts, masseuses, physiotherapists, exercise therapists—all that kind of thing. Is your son a qualified sports psychologist? How many people here have these qualifications?” Lauren shot back. Her question met with silence. “That’s right, no one. And that’s how many will get good permanent jobs at the site.”
“It’s all right for you, Miss Stephens; you don’t have a problem with jobs like the rest of us. No matter what happens, you can still paint your pictures,” a man called from the back of the hall.
Lauren smiled. “What would I paint? There’s not much of a market for scenes of tall privacy fences or No Trespass signs in the wild. Of course, maybe I could resort to hiding in bushes, like the paparazzi, and paint the beautiful people in their mud treatments…” Her remark brought laughter and helped defuse the steadily mounting tension in the small hall. Her cheeks flushed, she stood up straight, brushing the auburn hair from her eyes.
“I say we set up a committee now to stop Rush Co., and to show I’ll put my money where my mouth is, I’ll donate my latest completed work for auction by that committee. That’s publicity and fund-raising. There’s a five
thousand-dollar price tag on that picture now in the Luke Gallery, and the rights to the prints are worth a few thousand more. Let’s get this show on the road!”
Her heart pounding savagely, she sat down, uncomfortably aware of the blinding glare of the television camera light focused directly on her. But at that moment the meeting broke up and groups of people gathered in an arguing, gesticulating mass, the anger and bewilderment they’d felt earlier finally galvanized into a solid direction.
Looking around at her friends and neighbors, Lauren noted with a twinge of sadness that some people had unobtrusively left the hall, their silent departure speaking volumes. But there was no question now about how the majority felt.
Rush Co. had a fight on its hands.
* * *
He was standing on the road across from the hall entrance, his long body lounging against a rugged four-wheel drive vehicle, when Lauren, the first of the committee members to leave, came out of the hall. She’d tried successfully to make good her escape before the news camera team cornered her with the other reporters in hot pursuit. They’d apparently decided that the pretty local artist was a good angle for their story, but Lauren had evaded them with a wave, desperate to get out into the crisp air and away from the noise, the bustle, and the emotional tension that lingered from the meeting.
So when she came out, pulling her parka tightly around her and gasping a little at the sudden chill, he was the first person she saw, leaning against his vehicle and gazing at the stars. For a moment, she thought he was talking to himself, then realized he was using a cell phone. She moved to pass him as quickly and unobtrusively as possible.
Even in the dull light, Jon recognized the woman who had drawn his eye time and time again during the meeting, the woman whose rich, feminine voice had soothed his frazzled senses even as her words had aroused him to anger. Seeing her now, he impulsively wanted to detain her for a moment, puzzled by his own reaction even as he spoke.
And when he said softly: “It’s really a beautiful night, isn’t it?” she returned his greeting with a smile.
He saw that smile in the diamond clear starlight of the bitterly cold country night, and experienced a response so rich, so soft and warm with longing that he was momentarily shocked by the sudden realization of his own need and loneliness. That an unknown woman could move him so, out here on a dirt road on one of the coldest nights of the year, took his breath away.
And he knew, as if the knowledge had always been there, that he had to find out more about her, to know if this was a starry wild illusion, or if that smile really had the power to make his heart pound and his breath ragged.
Suddenly, the head of Rush Co. felt like a schoolboy again, tapping the toe of his expensive leather boots in the frozen grit of the road and wondering what on earth he could say to hold her near.
* * *
Although she couldn’t know of his struggle, Lauren was also experiencing a sudden burst of feelings and desires she’d thought were long buried in the past. No, damn it, she thought, even in high school I don’t remember this kind of instant attraction. Maybe I have been living in the country too long.
Unfortunately, there is a price to be paid for preoccupation when walking in snow and ice at night, and Lauren paid it. Normally she had an instinctive, almost unconscious ability to walk in all kinds of terrain— an ability honed by her frequent all-weather forays into the woods with her camera. But tonight, with her mind still on the man behind her, she trod unwarily on a patch of ice left-over from the previous day’s ice-storm. Her feet went from under her and she landed with a sickening, breath-destroying slam on her back on the road.
The fall did little more than wind her, but it certainly hurt her pride and her cheeks were red as, in a few long strides, the blond stranger was at her side and gently helping her to her feet.
“Thank you, thank you—no, I’m all right, really,” she assured him in answer to his worried query. “I guess that’s what happens when you’re not paying attention. My mind was elsewhere and then my feet went their own way, too.” Lauren smiled up at him, hoping she didn’t sound quite as foolish as she suspected she did.
* * *
But Jon Rush, looking down at her, hearing her rich, low voice, surprisingly deep for a woman, and feeling the warmth and womanly strength of her through the thick parka, could think of nothing but that he’d like her to go on talking, like to go on standing there listening to her, for quite some time.
Then he realized that he was still holding her even though she was obviously steady on her feet again and the time to do so courteously had long past, and he quickly let go, turning practical to cover his own embarrassed confusion.
“Look, it really is slippery, and you must be tired from the meeting. Why don’t I give you a ride home?”
He saw her hesitate, knowing that such a suggestion from a stranger was enough to make many women run a mile these days—and that too often, their fears were justified. Then she looked right into his eyes, smiled that star bright smile again, and nodded.
But, as she settled herself beside him in the big vehicle, she seemed to wonder if she wasn’t making the classic mistake. “My mother always told me not to accept rides from strangers,” she told him, half-joking but also testing his reaction.
“My name’s Jon. You’re Lauren—I remember from the meeting. Now that we’re not strangers, do you feel more comfortable? Your mother was right about strange men, but I promise you, my intentions are entirely honorable,” he said, even though his body was telling him otherwise with great insistence.
“Okay, Jon, pleased to meet you. That’s my turn, right there, it’s a back laneway into the Haverford Castle grounds, then it’s the first cottage on the left.” Her half-smile seemed to reach deep inside him.
Moments later, the Jeep passed through ornate stone gateposts and Jon pulled to a stop in front of Lauren’s small restored farm laborer’s cottage. They sat in silence for a moment until Lauren, lost for anything else to say, thanked him for helping her after the fall and for the ride home, then moved to get out of the Jeep.
* * *
She was a little startled when he also got out and came around to help her, but somehow his firm hand on her arm seemed so natural that she happily let him escort her to the big oak front door.
The snow scrunched beneath their feet, and the world around them glittered in the late evening frost that silvered the bush round the road and turned the ground into brittle ridges. He took her arm again with natural ease to help her over a particularly icy patch, so naturally that Lauren didn’t find it at all odd that he was still holding her when they arrived at her door.
In the glimmer from the heavy brass carriage lamp set into the rough stone lintel, she got a better view of her companion. A few years older than her own 28 years, she guessed, and her early impression of height and breadth of shoulder were confirmed as she stood beside him.
A serious face, its fine-boned structure eased by the suggestion of laugh lines around his mouth and eyes, those wonderful shadowed eyes, which now regarded her intently. His gaze seemed to drink her in, searching her face as if he expected to find...what? Then he lowered his mouth to hers, and Lauren felt herself floating up to meet his gentle touch, a kiss that started like swallow wings against her mouth.
Within moments, they were lost in the taste of each other, drowning in the heady, intoxicating feel of firm, warm bodies striving to get closer and closer...then the telephone inside her cottage shrilled.
“Saved by the bell,” Jon said wryly, pulling away from her embrace with obvious reluctance. Lauren covered her confusion by rummaging through her pockets for the door key, which she kept on an antique gold fob-watch chain fastened to a button sewn to the waistband of her jeans.
The insistent burring of the phone, and her own heightened awareness of the chemistry which still lurked between her and this almost-stranger like a wild animal waiting its time to pounce once again, made Lauren clumsy and it took her severa
l attempts to get the door open. Leaving it swinging wide on big brass hinges, Lauren rushed inside to pick up the phone, heart in her mouth over the ever-present anxiety that Lucy’s illness held over her.
What if the evening had been too strenuous? As if to confirm her worst fears, she heard Paul Howard’s voice, filled with tension, flowing through the line.
“I just wanted to check that you were okay—someone saw you leave with that guy.”
Lauren reacted with uncharacteristic anger.
“I’m a big girl now, you know. I can judge strangers pretty well, and I’m home safe and sound,” Lauren knew her temper was unjustified, but the call had interrupted a scene that she longed to play again, to see how it would end.
“Do you know who he is? I knew I’d seen that face somewhere before—it was in a newspaper article about Rush Co. The guy you drove home with is none other than Jon Rush, company president!” Paul’s voice carried a stain of anger.
Looking towards the door, she frowned. Jon hadn’t followed her inside as she’d expected. When she heard Paul’s words, she couldn’t help but think it was probably as well. After all, she thought, blood can stain and it would be a shame to have wrecked that lovely hand-ragged rug with Jon Rush’s blood!
“Lauren! Are you still there?” Paul’s voice interrupted her thoughts of delightful vengeance. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you at the meeting, but Rush’s executive secretary phoned earlier to say that the big man himself and several department heads would be in West River tomorrow to visit the site, and have agreed to a meeting.
“We’re going to get together with them at the hall again, but before that we’re going to stage a protest by blocking the road into the Castle. The TV crews who were at the meeting tonight were dead keen on the idea, and if they’re coming, then the other media will, too. It’s a great opportunity for publicity.”
Judgement By Fire Page 3
