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Sure, she was retiring, anyway, but the focus was about her views on a developer coming in to tear down the place where she’s watched Polson Falls’ children grow for over three decades, selling yarn to grandmothers knitting blankets, vibrant cottons to be crafted into costumes, and silks worn down aisles at weddings. Colin also managed to blame the craft chain store across town—and, by extension, HG, who built and owns the building—for her need to close her doors five years sooner than she’d once expected.
The emotional piece was capped off with two pictures—one of the first day Yvonne opened, and another of her last week, a sweet little grandmotherly lady with a sad look in her gray eyes, even when she’s smiling.
“Hey, I had nothing to do with that.” But I’ll give it to Shirley for knowing how to pull puppet strings. Colin seems to chase a story in any direction she points him in.
“Why don’t I believe you? Oh right, because these articles reference a bunch of information that no one outside the project group knew about—except you.” Despite the accusation, there’s no hint of anger in Garrett’s voice.
“I guess you shouldn’t have blabbed, then.” Curious where this verbal sparring match might lead, I saunter over, huddling against the cold. Todd’s truck is gone, so I don’t have to worry about an awkward run-in with him. “I may have opened the gate, but I have no control over which wily beast pops out.” And this wily beast despises condominiums.
Garrett shrugs. “Whatever. It’s a fluff piece, nothing more.”
“Really? Because it seems to me like more than a few people aren’t on board with the way you want to revive Main Street.” According to Shirley’s contacts, the mayor’s office has been flooded with calls.
“A small group who will move on soon enough. No big deal. I’ve seen it all before.”
“In your extensive years of property development?”
He smirks. “In the end, it won’t make a difference. This week, it’s this.” He holds up the paper before tossing it onto his dash. “Next week, the paper’ll be singing the project’s praises.”
Not if Shirley has anything to do with it. “The heritage commissioner will demand a stay on any demolition until the building’s significance can be determined.” Shirley’s confirmed that Michelle sees the merit and conversations are in the works.
“You think an illegal business and a quadruple homicide is grounds for landmark designation?”
“Prohibition era is quite the buzzword. Can you imagine a speakeasy in that basement?”
He snorts. “Have you seen that basement? Besides, the town can’t support a business like that. Not yet.” Garrett slides out of his seat, a faint waft of that smoky citrus cologne swirling in my nostrils.
“You have to admit, the JFK sandwich is pretty important.”
“Right, of course. There’s your clincher. Speaking of sandwiches.” He leans in to grab a paper bag.
“Nice car.” I can’t help but admire the tan leather interior and the fully loaded everything.
“A perk with the job.” He smirks. “Even as a baby developer.”
“You get a fancy ride, but not a hotel room?”
“I don’t see any hotels around here, do you?”
“There’s one out on the interstate. Only thirty minutes away.”
“The one with cameras in the smoke alarms?”
“Oh, a Garrett peepshow. Fun. But I thought you weren’t picky.” My smile is wide and fake. “I guess you’ll just have to build a hotel, then.”
“Maybe I will.” He towers over me, standing too close, his dinner nudging my thigh. It’s distracting. “You going to try to stop that too?”
“Depends. Did you find more elderly people to hustle out of their land?”
He snorts but doesn’t have an answer.
Headlights shine across the back of Murphy’s as Dean maneuvers his truck to back into the loading dock. “As thrilling as this time spent with you has been, I have better things to do. Enjoy your stay. Hope you like death metal.” I saunter back to Murphy’s as Dean throws his truck into park.
He slides out, pulling on work gloves. “Who’s that?” He nods toward Garrett.
“The pretentious asshole who’s trying to tear down the building.” I say it loud enough to carry.
He frowns. “What’s he doing here?”
I steal a look to see Garrett hauling a duffel bag out of his back seat. He slings the strap over his shoulder and heads for the stairs to the apartments. “Crashing. Can you believe that? Harvard grad rolls up in a luxury SUV to squat in an empty apartment.”
Dean drops his tailgate. “All any guy needs is a mattress and a fridge.”
“I know he has the fridge.” I hope it breaks down. I watch Garrett balance his meal in one hand while struggling to unlock the door to the apartment above Todd’s shop. Finally, he gets it and disappears inside. Dim lights fill the room through the window, illuminating old kitchen cupboards.
What on earth does this guy think he’s doing? Just drive the two hours back to New York. Or rent a room in Philly. It’s only an hour away, and there are plenty of hotels to house his pampered ass there.
