A Small-Town Homecoming

“Are you talking about the businesses, or the building of them?”

“We both know what I’m talking about.”

She picked up her tea and sipped. “Then this will be a very short conversation.”

“You can’t get your way all the time, Geneva.”

“You’re right, of course, Howard,” she said with a thin smile. “I’d be a fool to expect that. And I’m not a fool.”

“That’s right. That’s why you should seriously consider backing off this Tidewaters project while there’s still time. It’s the right thing to do, and you know it.”

“If I thought it was the right thing to do, I would have quit before I started. And certainly before investing so much Chandler money in the development phase.”

For months she’d poured funds into the pockets of marine biologists, geologists and engineers. She’d battled federal agencies, the state’s coastal concerns, the city’s commissions and committees and codes and several local environmental activist groups. But for too many environmentalists, the objective scientific evidence didn’t outweigh their emotions. And for too many politicians, the promise of community benefits didn’t compensate for the possible loss of their constituents’ support.

Cobb’s complexion darkened. “The harm this project will cause to the environment will far outweigh any possible economic benefits.”

“That’s a strange comment, even for you.” Geneva took another sip of her tea. “And particularly strange considering that the environmental impact report and the city’s financial analysis indicate precisely the opposite.”

“Studies bought and paid for,” Howard said as he stabbed a beefy finger at the table. “By you.”

“Which doesn’t make them wrong. Merely purchased. Another part of the cost benefit noted in that financial analysis.”

“Some folks might say that smacks of corruption.”

“And some might wonder about the conflict of interest for a city councilman who is involved in the construction of a similar commercial building in a different part of town. A building that may soon be in competition with mine for tenants.”

Missy hovered near the table, her order pad in her hand. Howard glared at Geneva as he pushed to the side and exited the booth. “This isn’t over.”

“Oh, I think it will be, in about nine months,” Geneva said pleasantly. “When Tidewaters opens its doors amid a buzz of community curiosity and to the delight of its retail tenants. Tenants who may prefer waterfront views and the benefits of tourist foot traffic.”

“We’ll see about that.” He turned and stalked out of the inn, dropping a few bills on his table as he passed it.

“Nasty man,” whispered Missy.

“But a good tipper, from the looks of it,” Geneva said. “I’m sure he means well.”

“Everyone means well when they’re trying to get their way.”

“Why, Missy,” Geneva said as she raised her glass, “may I quote you on that?”

“Only if it’s off the record.” The waitress shook her head. “I don’t want any of that guilty-by-association stuff.”

Geneva sipped her tea in silence, feeling wonderfully guilt-free. It seemed there were, after all, a few benefits to having time pass so quickly.

CHAPTER FOUR

QUINN WAS in a foul mood on Monday morning as he headed toward the Tidewaters site. An early-morning conference with Rosie’s teacher had left him frazzled and frustrated and a bit shaky. Mrs. Thao had told him his daughter wasn’t working up to her potential. When he’d examined samples of Rosie’s classwork, he’d discovered she wasn’t working much at all. Half-finished math papers, half-assed compositions.

Turning down Front Street, he muttered a curse. He could check her homework for completion; he couldn’t monitor what she did in the classroom. And he couldn’t expect Mrs. Thao to fuss over Rosie, one-on-one. Rosie would have to quit her game of slow-motion sabotage or risk failing the year. He’d have to lay down the law, arrange to check in with her teacher on a regular basis, show his daughter he could be damn stubborn when it came to succeeding at something that mattered.

Just what they both needed: more tension at home.

He’d hoped Rosie would have begun to settle down, to resign herself to the situation and the fact she’d be staying with him for a while. Quite a while, if he could make it stick. But it seemed she’d decided to shut down in addition to shutting him out. And he didn’t know how to reach her.

Maybe he needed some help. Maybe that was what they both needed.

Too bad the idea tangled his gut and yanked on the knots. His morning coffee nearly bored a hole in his stomach lining at the thought of seeing a counselor. Rosie might shift tactics to open rebellion. Nancy would probably use it as a weapon in a custody battle. And he damn well didn’t want to dredge up all the bitter mistakes of his own past, just when he was able to focus on the future.

He swung into the job site, ready to sweep aside the mess of his personal life and concentrate on work he knew how to do, with tools he knew how to wield. Ready to make tangible progress to offset his failures.

He expected to see Rusty, one of his crew members, digging footings with Quinn Construction’s brand-new backhoe while Trap and Wylie Lundgren cleared the rest of the site with their excavating equipment. Instead, he saw the Lundgrens standing with his own men near the backhoe. Rusty trudged toward Quinn’s truck, a frown on his face and worry in his eyes.

With another muttered curse, Quinn grabbed his tool belt and hard hat, stepped out and slammed the truck door. “Problem?”

Rusty’s cheek bulged as he shifted his habitual wad of gum. “Yep. With the backhoe.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Best have a look for yourself.”

Quinn followed him toward the equipment, nodding at the wiry, grizzled Lundgren brothers as he passed. “Morning, Trap. Wylie.”

Trap answered with a scowl. “Too bad it’s such a pisser.”

Quinn strapped on his belt and stared at the men loitering around the equipment, wasting valuable time. “What’s going on here?”

“Take a look,” Rusty said again.

Quinn leaned in to peer at the engine. Grains of sand lay scattered over the engine block. “What the hell?”

“It seized up a few seconds after I switched on the ignition. Figure the bastard poured sand in the oil filter.” Easygoing Rusty had murder in his eyes. “He didn’t have to look too far. We’re standing in a yard full of the stuff.”

Sand in the oil filter meant sand spreading through the engine—scoring the pistons, ruining the chambers and turning the entire engine into a worthless hunk of metal.

An expensive hunk of metal. Quinn began running the figures in his head, estimating the costs of delays on the site, the time lost on paperwork and the added expense of a rental to replace this piece. The long-range damage to his insurance rates. Fury surged through him as he slowly straightened and scanned the rest of the equipment on the site. “Anything else wrecked?”

“Nope.” Wylie lifted the rim of his gimme cap to scratch at his forehead with grimy fingers. “Everything else seems okay. And we aim to keep it that way.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means we’re going to be trailering our equipment off-site every evening. We can’t afford to lose one of our machines to some crazy dude who thinks dumping sand in an engine is an evening’s entertainment.”

Trailering fees hadn’t been included in the Lund-grens’ subcontracting bid for the excavations. Quinn figured they’d tack on the added expense when they sent the bill. He nodded, his gut on fire as he took another hit. “All right, then.”

He glanced at the operators. “Let’s get going here. Rusty, Jim, get a cable hooked to the backhoe and haul it up on that trailer. I want the rest of the building site cleared for the footings by the end of the day.”

He waited while Trap and Wylie moved off to their excavator and bulldozer and the rest of the men got back to work. And then he trudged over to his office trailer, jogged up the steps and shut the door behind him. He pulled his cell phone from a pocket and paused, pinching the bridge of his nose. A headache was coming on, riding a wave of anxiety.