Page 106 of The Cul-de-Sac War

“We could do their toasts at their wedding.”

“Oh, we’d have to.”

They both held each other’s eyes for one long moment.

“Well, I should get going,” Chip said, though his eyes weren’t checking his watch for the time.

“Yeah. Me too.” Bree held his eyes while popping open her car door. “Good luck, Chip. May you get everything you dream of.”

He blinked, and his smile lingered on her eyes, her lips. “You too.”

Chapter 23

Chip

He hadn’t wanted to get in his truck and drive to the Barter.

Not with the way she had stood there on the other side of the line, her hair in that thick, high bun, her cheeks highlighted by the rising sun. Her eyes had been like flashing emeralds, beckoning him closer even as he said he had to go.

He didn’t want to go.

He wanted to drop his bag right then and stride over and—

“Mr. McBride. You’re just in time.”

Mr. Richardson held open the Barter door as though he were an usher for an evening play. “I was just about to close the doors.”

Chip blinked away images of green sweaters and dancing eyes.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, ducking inside.

Chip felt the slap on his back as Mr. Richardson spoke. “I was hoping you’d make it.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

As he followed him past the theatre lobby, he spotted several five-gallon paint buckets and his smile faltered. “Starting to go ahead on some work?”

“Oh no,” Mr. Richardson replied, turning at the hallway. “No, I’ve just been thinking about colors lately. And some new ideas have come to mind.”

“Different from the sunset ceiling?”

“Oh, absolutely not. Well, perhaps. If this new idea works.”

“But if the bid—” Chip began to say.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Mr. Richardson said and directed him past several closed doors. “Nothing but a slight change of vision. I have no choice, after all. I’m but a slave to my inspirations.” He tapped his temple with a wink. “I’m sure an artist like yourself knows this only too well.”

He gave a hearty laugh. Chip mustered a small one.

“Right in here,” he said, motioning to the one open door. Its brass sign read Conference Room in bold letters.

Chip took a breath.

There was an oblong table in the center of the room. Sturdy. Walnut. And filling up the seats surrounding it were seven men he’d come to recognize over the years as representatives of competitive construction companies. Most important among them: his brother Pete and his father.

Chip had been to enough bid meetings in his life to know the way it was. The competing companies took their seats, and whenever the bidding facilitator was absent, the competition made small talk about the quality of the Styrofoam coffee or how the Abingdon High football team had done the previous Friday. Sometimes, rarely, someone ventured to ask how someone’s son was doing on his Eagle Scout project, or whether someone’s daughter had picked a major in college, but mostly the group pretended they barely knew each other. And at all costs, they avoided talking about the numbers on the papers in their hands.

“This tastes like Folgers to me.”