Page 7 of The Forever Christmas Tree

“Yeah,” said Tony Bonfatto, owner of the Cracked Crab. “What’s the emergency? I have a holiday buffet for the Ocracoke Divers Club at nine-thirty.”

“A little crabby tonight, are you, Tony?” Ethan asked his friend with mock sweetness.

Ethan was pretty sure the words Tony mouthed at him were, “Bite me!”

Doreen scowled at all three of them and began to pass out some folders. Ethan opened his and groaned. Yep, an agenda. He would bet his left nut that up next would be new committees. He hated committees almost as much as he hated agendas.

Quickly, he scanned the sheet.

—Factory closing.

—Christmas streetlight malfunctions.

—Town square tree.

—Fund-raiser.

“Jeremy will give us the report on Bell Forge,” Doreen said.

Jeremy Mateer, owner of The Cove, a sort of old-time general store that sold everything from groceries to neoprene diving suits, came from a long line of Mateers who started with a “mercantile” back during the Depression. Jeremy, who was wearing a red vest over a green turtleneck and a Santa hat—yes, he was that kind of a dork—pulled out his own folder.

Death by folder! Ethan groaned inwardly.

“Gabriel Conti, owner of Bell Forge since old man Conti died last year, is coming to town next week. Mr. Conti is an architect from up in Durham, and he has no interest in the factory,” Jeremy announced and waited a moment for that news to sink in. “Bell Forge has been declining for years, as we all well know. The workforce is down to twenty now. In its heyday, they employed seventy-five to a hundred. We’ve all been waiting for the axe to drop for some time now.”

Ethan remembered Gabe. They were about the same age, and although Gabe had been sent to ritzy boarding schools by his jet-set parents, he had come to Bell Cove on occasion to visit with his grandparents, both of whom were now off to the great bell cathedral in the sky.

“We got a heads-up about Mr. Conti’s visit because a commercial developer, that shark Benson from Nags Head, was stalking the grounds last week with some surveyors,” Doreen told them. “You know what that means. A high-rise hotel. Beaches loaded with tourists. Motorboats and water skiers.” She shivered as she added, “McDonald’s.”

“There’ll be a McDonald’s over my dead body,” Abe Bernstein of The Deli proclaimed. Abe prided himself on everything in his shop being fresh, never frozen. The Food Network’s Diners, Drive-ins and Dives had once done a segment on his Reuben sandwiches, declaring them “Reuben’s Greatest Masterpieces.”

Baxter, on the other hand, chimed in with his often-voiced opinion on the town and tourism, “I don’t understand why everyone fights the inevitable. Look at all the customers we would get if they tore that building down and added some popular attractions. Our businesses would double or triple profits.”

The hiss of outrage heard around the table shut him down immediately. By the look of scorn on Doreen’s face, it was clear that Baxter wasn’t putting his overpriced loafers, which he’d probably bought at the em-por-i-um, under her bed anytime soon.

Blushing, and it was not a pretty picture, ol’ Bax slunk down in his chair and muttered, “I’m just sayin’.”

Ethan wasn’t surprised about the factory closing. It had been mismanaged for a long time, ever since old man Conti had been in and out of nursing homes, and there being no resident owner on site since his death last year. His son and daughter-in-law much preferred living in Italy and mixing with the international crowd. Thus, the place had been left to the grandson, Gabe.

Practically the only thing Bell Forge made these days were bells for church choirs and high-priced wind chimes. But Ethan had hoped the company would be sold to some other company interested in keeping up the tradition. A pipe dream, he supposed. Look at that famous Whitechapel company in London, which had made both the Liberty Bell and Big Ben. It closed last year after five hundred years in business. Bell Forge had been operating for a mere one hundred. “Is it a done deal?” Ethan asked.

“No. Not at all,” Jeremy said. “That’s where we—the council—come in. I contacted Mr. Conti at his architectural firm, and he agreed to meet with us after he looks over the plant and its books, but before he meets with the Benson folks.”

So, there was a chance.

“We need a committee to meet with Mr. Conti,” Doreen said. “Who wants to head that committee? Jeremy can’t do it because he’s having root canal surgery that day.”

I knew it, I knew it. A committee. “Don’t look at me,” Ethan said. “This is the busiest time of year for me.”

Doreen narrowed her eyes and gave him “The Look,” the one that said, “Stop being a prick, Ethan. I knew you when you ran around the tree farm in nothing but a droopy diaper.”

He narrowed his eyes right back at her, not about to be intimidated by an orange yam with a bush on its head.

Which, of course, gave Doreen the opening to ask, “By the way, did you call Natalie?”

“Natalie . . . who?”

Doreen made a tsk-ing noise at him. “Natalie Forsyth, the nurse over at Southern General Hospital. My second cousin’s daughter who was recently divorced. Remember?”