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“Rosie?”
“She works for him. Organized, efficient, asked questions about foot traffic and vendor relationships.” Pearl studied my face. “How bad is it?”
“He owns six buildings. Most of the commercial block. Can you watch the shop for five minutes?” I pulled one of the boxed Main Street ornaments from beneath the counter. I kept them for welcome gifts when a new business opened or a new neighbor arrived. Griffin qualified as a new neighbor, whether I liked it or not, and I was trying to be civilized.
“Of course.” Pearl looked from the ornament to me. “But you’re taking a welcome gift to the man who bought your building without telling you?”
“I’m giving civility five minutes.” I tucked the box beneath my arm and crossed the street before common sense could catch me. Griffin stood inside the empty storefront with his blueprints spread across the folding table. The bell over the door announced me with more cheer than the situation deserved.
He looked up. His gaze moved from my face to the box beneath my arm, and a line formed between his eyebrows.
“Nora Winters. I own Winters Wonderland across the street.” I held out the box. “I brought you something.”
His gaze dropped to it. “What is it?”
“It’s not a bomb, if that’s what you’re thinking.” His frown deepened. Apparently, that had not been what he was thinking. The box contained four ounces of hand-painted glass. I had no idea how much damage that could do if lobbed at his head at light speed, but my irritation seemed willing to conduct the experiment.
“I was trying to decide why my new tenant brought me a present.”
“You could open it and find out.”
He took the box, set it on his blueprints, and lifted the lid. Inside was a glass ornament painted with the storefronts of Main Street beneath a line of snow.
He turned it by the ribbon and studied the painted storefronts instead of the snow. “This is Main Street.”
“Yes. Welcome to it.” I nodded toward the front window. “That storefront has been dark for four years. I thought the first thing you put in it should be something that belonged here.”
He looked at the ornament a second longer, then returned it to the box with more care than I expected. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. You’re the one who bought my building.”
“Griffin Cole.” He offered his hand, as if an introduction might make buying half the block less alarming.
I ignored it. “I know. I spent my morning at the recorder’s office learning who owns the walls around my shop.”
He lowered his hand and gave me his full attention. “I own several buildings on this block.”
“I know. Cole Development LLC. Sole principal: Griffin Cole. No partners. No board. Nobody else gets a vote.”
His jaw tightened before his expression went smooth again. “What concerns you about my investment, Ms. Winters?”
“Everything. You bought six buildings without speaking to the people inside them. You scheduled an inspection of my roof before you told me you owned the building. Now you’re standing over blueprints as if you’re calculating how many trendy boutiques you can squeeze into spaces that have housed family businesses for generations.”
“I’m calculating how to make this block viable for the next decade.”
The answer came fast. I hated how calm he sounded while my pulse tried to climb out of my throat.
“At the current vacancy rate, this block won’t survive without major changes.”
“How lucky for us that you brought a tape measure and opinions.”
“Thirty percent of your neighboring businesses closed in the last five years. I’m not guessing.”
“Congratulations. Your spreadsheet can count empty windows.”
My voice rose. I had sat through too many investor presentations where developers promised revitalization and planned displacement. The script never changed. Only the letterhead did. “Your numbers can’t tell me anything I can’t see. Holly Creek is struggling. That doesn’t give you the right to waltz in and remake it according to some MBA playbook.”
“I don’t have an MBA.”
