Bluegrass Blessings

They were talking about, of all things, the widening of a local road from one lane to two. A route that ran within a few blocks of “Cameronville” as he now called it in his head. Even though it sounded a bit too much like the infamous Pottersville from It’s a Wonderful Life, it still was easier to swallow than Lullaby Lane.

Sure, the name change seemed a minor detail, but it set the tone for any future projects he’d have in this town. In this region. One day he’d need zoning variances, or streets widened, or sewers expanded, or permission for unattached three-car garages. Change. This name thing would set the pace for all his future expansions, lay a precedent for all the future changes he’d bring. It was vital. He had to win.

That meant stacking the deck in his favor. Last night, he’d conducted an Internet search of half a dozen Web sites and produced a long list of musical terms. No sense making this first change harder by bucking Middleburg’s truly odd fascination with musical street names. But as one could expect from a town nearing the age of Middleburg, most of the good ones were taken.

So far, he’d come up with Fox Trot Lane, Tango Court, Cadenza Place, Prelude Circle and Sonata Avenue. Sure, most of them sounded more like they belonged on the billboards advertising ritzy suburban subdivisions he’d seen on tri-state turnpikes, but Cameron was too close to begging to be choosy. At this rate, anything that wasn’t gooey-sweet and wasn’t Lullaby Lane was on the table.

“Sidewalks?” Aunt Sandy asked peering above her sparkly reading glasses. “It costs that much to put in sidewalks? Aren’t we spending enough puttin’ in that second lane that we have to spring for sidewalks now?”

“Well,” said “Mac” MacCarthy, “it’s safer with the additional traffic. Kids walk to school along this route.” He had his office in the space below Cameron’s apartment and they’d had an intriguing conversation the other day about how Middleburg could be appropriately developed.

“All the more reason not to widen the road,” said a rather crusty old man peering so closely at his papers that his nose practically touched the table. “Who needs more cars?”

“People drive cars,” Gil Sorrent said wearily. Emily had introduced Cameron to Gil earlier this week, and Cameron had liked him instantly. “People who buy things and pay taxes and want to send their kids to good schools with adequate resources.”

People who’ll buy houses in Cameronville someday, Cameron rooted silently for Gil and Mac to succeed. They were trying—very hard—but from the looks of things, this road expansion plan had been on the table for months.

Great, Cameron thought to himself. I could be staring at Lullaby Lane until Labor Day. He was beginning to think his goal of locking in the name change by St. Patrick’s Day was a bit optimistic. It was, after all, the first week of January. Give me a break. I wanted a faster start than this.

“Lots of our streets already have sidewalks, Monty,” Emily addressed the crusty old man in a persuasive tone. “This isn’t anything new.”

“Well, it is expensive,” the man said. “Expensive-er with those sidewalks. Seems to me, we wouldn’t have to be putting in sidewalks if we wasn’t putting in those lanes.”

Cameron decided Cameronville would come with free sidewalks. And giant but tasteful signs that proclaimed “This isn’t anything new.” Well, except for the name. And the new houses. When did this get so complicated?

“Progress does cost money,” Gil said tensely.

“May I remind you, Gil and Emily,” Howard stated, “that one of you will have to step down off the council once you’ve married.”

A woman Cameron recognized from the town library immediately flipped open a massive notebook and began thumbing through pages. “Spouses may not both serve on the council simultaneously,” she read. “But we’ve never had council members marry while in office before.” She looked up warmly at Emily. “It’s rather sweet, if you ask me.”

“You’re all invited,” Emily said with that dreamy tone of voice Cameron’s cousin had used when discussing her impending wedding.

“You should come for the cake if nothing else,” Dinah whispered over Cameron’s shoulder. He’d been so intent on scouting out the town council that he hadn’t even noticed her slip into the seat behind him. “It’ll knock your socks off.”

Cameron grinned and shook his head. He hadn’t heard someone use that phrase since he was six.

Dinah leaned both elbows over the seat back beside him. “Hadn’t even thought about the town council seat thing,” she said quietly. “Man, that’ll be a fight. Hope they don’t ask my opinion. I like ’em both, but Emily’s my pal. She’s all about keeping things the way they are and Gil’s all about progress. But really, they’re Middleburg’s biggest dilemma wrapped up in one adorable romance. Preservation versus progress. Look out, mister, you might have to choose sides.”

“So, instead of asking ‘Are you with the bride or the groom?’ the ushers will ask ‘Are you on the side of progress or preservation?’”

Dinah grinned. She had a wide, infectious smile to match those big brown eyes. “You’re funny. But if I were you, I wouldn’t mention that polling method to Mayor Epson.”

I might as well be developing real estate on Mars, Cameron thought to himself. This place is a whole other planet from New York.

“Newcomer’s curiosity for town politics?” Dinah asked him as they filed out of the town hall after the meeting.

Cameron stared at her. It was a look she was coming to recognize—a searching, analytical sort of stare that told her Middleburg and its citizens baffled him. The kind of look she’d give dough that wouldn’t rise despite a perfect adherence to the recipe and ideal conditions. It was a full ten seconds before she realized he wasn’t really staring at her; he was staring at her feet.

Oh, great, here we go again. As if a creative choice in footwear was the oddest thing this guy’d ever seen. Granted, it was cold, damp and January. The morning’s rain had only barely avoided being slush and she had to pick her way around a frigid puddle or two, but it wasn’t as if she’d sprouted a third arm or turned purple or anything. Certainly flip-flops in winter—however unconventional—didn’t come near warranting the expression he bore.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked as he shifted his thick notebook to his other arm. He’d been taking notes all evening, but she hadn’t been so brash as to lean over his shoulder far enough to read them. “I mean, aren’t your feet cold?”

Now that was a rather laughable question, wasn’t it? Dinah was an intelligent woman, perfectly capable of reaching into a bureau drawer and extracting a pair of socks should she find her feet cold. They were not in the farthest reaches of Africa—several very good clothing stores were within four blocks of her house. The answer to that question should be obvious. “I do own socks, you know. Several pairs. I even know what they’re for. If my feet were cold, I’d put them on.”

“How can your feet not be cold?” He looked around them, as if the elements of the Kentucky winter would somehow back up his argument.

“How can you be so concerned with the state of my feet?” She pointed to the cashmere paisley monstrosity around his neck. It looked ridiculously stuffy with the casual navy pea coat he was wearing. “I could tell you I think your scarf makes about as much sense as my shoes, but some of us have better manners than that. Y’all must not put much stake in tolerance up there in New York.” She threw the “y’all” in there just because the wince it produced in him was so much fun. The problem with this guy was that he was just so easy to tease. He seemed to come pre-loaded with irresistible things to make fun of—and he got so out of joint when she did.

Lord, remind me to go easy on him. I was once a newcomer, too, and look at the home You’ve given me here. It’s not fair to pick on people when they’re down, I know that. “Okay, the scarf’s a bit fancy for this part of the world, but it’s not so bad. And you still haven’t told me why you went to the meeting.”

“Reconnaissance.”

Dinah stopped as they turned the corner onto Ballad Road and looked at him. “You been here all of—what? One week?—and already you’re at war?”

“No.” He looked annoyed, as if his combat-like behavior was perfectly normal. “I just like to know all I can about who I have to do business with. And not just town council, but half those people in there are on the zoning committee, right?”

Dinah ticked down the list of town council members in her head. “True.”

“Those are the people I have to convince if I want to rename Lullaby Lane, or change an ordinance, or do something so benign as put in sidewalks, evidently. I need to know the players.”

It made sense. It was just the way he said it—all ferocious and mogul-like. Reconnaissance? Players? He acted as if there were some grand and omniscient moral principle at stake instead of one dumb old street name. One silly street name, granted, but Dinah would never put Lullaby Lane’s name on a list of things worth so much time and energy. “So what do you do with your free time, Cameron? I mean when you’re not studying for that test or scoping out the enemy?”