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My awesome blonde councilwoman asks why Ms. Burns can’t buy other land now, and she says, “I can’t find anything that works. Now is the time I’m looking to buy.”
She talks about how she’ll put up a new building or two to the right of the Haywood house, on the opposite side from where I am, and prattles on about how she’ll hire a staff of “only” ten or twenty.
“This is such a beautiful area,” she croons. “And you guys, let me tell you, my clients are the quiet type. They want to relax. They are educated people. They are respectful of the environment and would be more than happy to be located next door to an animal preserve. If it helps, I even know a woman who works in the environment board’s office. Based on what I hear from her, I genuinely believe Miss White is wrong. She’s nervous, maybe, and I get that, but we would be a very conscientious neighbor.”
The discussion drags on, with the commission members squabbling over local precedent, then over what’s the “right thing” to do since Mr. Haywood “so kindly” did away with his own plans to make his home next door into a B&B to help “a new person in the community” bring the sanctuary here.
“He did that out of the goodness of his heart,” says Mr. Jacobs, an influential African-American realtor who is a friend of Mr. Haywood. “Now he’s asking for the same thing. You know his wife died there. Owning the property is painful for him.”
I’m contemplating the look on Mr. Jacobs’ face after catching one of my jump-front kicks right between his legs when the male TV news reporter with the camera appears in front of me and asks if he can see me outside the room.
“We’re using a clip of your speech on the ten o’clock news,” he tells me when we’re in the hall. “I think it’s inspiring, that story you told. Would you want to do an interview with us? To raise awareness? I saw that movie you did… End of Night?”
It’s End of Day. Middle of Knight released last year; another redhead played my part.
I can feel my pulse pound in my tight throat. “Thanks for asking, but I don’t think so.”
He spends the next five minutes trying to sell me on it. I can’t help notice, he doesn’t once check out my tits or ass. His eyes avoid them just as they avoid my mouth. It’s how a lot of guys act toward me now.
I hear the meeting room shush and lean in through the doorway just in time to see the vote. I see several hands raised in favor, but I can’t see the blonde woman’s, so I’m not sure in favor of what exactly. Then her hand raises, along with another man’s. My chest aches.
“The county votes to re-zone the Haywood property ‘limited business,’ as well as write a special petition to the state enviro board on behalf of Bear Hugs. In the event that the sanctuary should be required to relocate, the developer may offer to buy Miss White’s land and the council will do everything it can to help Miss White resettle elsewhere.”
Tears well in my eyes. My throat tightens so much, I’m worried I might choke.
A few heads turn to me. I see a woman lean behind her program, whispering to the lady beside her.
Beside me, the TV news reporter looks impassive. He doesn’t give a shit about my fate.
I suck a big breath back, then hurry toward the stairs. I manage to keep my face impassive until I round the Dolly Parton statue randomly positioned in front of the court house. Tears glitter in my eyes as I crank Anderson, but I don’t let them fall. I don’t cry until I’m home. Until I’m in my quiet house under the blankets on my couch. I cry for half an hour, then text Jamie, Mom, and my brother Rett.
That night, for the first time in many months, I dream of snow.
TWO
GWENNA
I’m sipping Absinthe in a scalding bubble bath, reading from the book of Job via the Bible app on my iPhone, when the thing rings.
“Ooh!” I almost drop it in the mounds of bubbles all around me. Such is my coordination at the moment. I get a split-second glimpse of the screen-saver clock—3:48 p.m.—before a name flashes across the screen: THE HAYWOODS.
“Well, well…”
Do I answer it?
Hell no.
I’m not speaking to that asshole Haywood. He can go sit on a rusty nail. I look down on my iPhone as it stops ringing.
“I dare you to leave a voice mail, monkey fucker.”
The phone beeps, just to spite me.
I dry my hand, take a small sip of my drink, and hit the “voicemail” symbol. I have to bring the towel to my ear before I put the iPhone to it.
Despite my heavy Absinthe cloak, I feel my heart throb in the second before Haywood’s voice fills my ear.
“This morning,” he rumbles, “I accepted an offer on the house. A residential offer. It was for twenty-thousand dollars less than asking price.” He pauses briefly, as if to let that sink in. Then his crisp, New Yorker voice continues: “I always cared about your situation, Gwenna. I’m pleased it worked out this way, and I wish you all the best.”
