Page 43 of A Cobbled Conspiracy
“I want to begin tonight by talking about friendship,” Adelaide continued, her voice growing more personal. “Paula and I have been friends for our entire lives. We met when we were just children, babies even, but became fast friends.”
Adelaide’s gaze found Paula in the front row, and her expression softened with genuine affection. “We’ve supported each other through marriages and divorces, celebrated each other’s children’s graduations, held each other up during losses that felt impossible to bear. We’ve disagreed on plenty of things over the years—ask anyone who’s seen us argue about flower arrangements for the Millcrest Spring Festival…”
Adelaide trailed off, allowing the laughter and murmuring from the crowd to die down before she continued, “but we’ve never stopped believing in this community and what it represents.”
Paula wiped her eyes with a tissue, and several women in the crowd were openly crying.
Blake leaned forward, wedging himself between me and Dominic. "Must say, the old battleaxe can work a crowd."
My elbow jabbed into his ribs as I narrowed my eyes. "Shh. Behave."
Behind me, Blake's soft laughter vibrated through the air. I caught Dominic's eye and found him fighting back a grin.
Did they suddenly turn into a pair of schoolboys the moment they walked through the door?
Dominic's arm slipped around my shoulders, his fingers finding the bare skin above the collar of my shirt. His fingertips brushed lightly over the raised skin where his teeth had marked me, sending a flush of warmth crawling up my neck.
His touch publicly declared me his for anyone who happened to in our direction.
My fingers closed around his, intending to push them away, but my gaze locked with his. Something in that intense stare made my resistance melt, my grip loosening around his hand. The corner of his lips curled upward in that half smile I was coming to recognize—a subtle, knowing expression that told me he was fully aware of the effect his touch had on me.
“Which is why,” Adelaide continued, her voice hardening with resolve, “I cannot and will not stand by while corporate bullies try to destroy the business that Paula’s family built over a hundred years ago. This isn’t just about one pharmacy. This is about whether we’re going to let outside interests dismantle everything our community has worked to preserve.”
The applause was immediate and sustained, with several people shouting agreement. I felt the energy in the room shift fromworried concern to focused anger, and I could see why Adelaide had been so successful in local politics. She knew exactly how to channel community sentiment into collective action.
“Paula’s great-grandfather opened Winslow’s Pharmacy in 1872,” Adelaide continued once the applause died down. “Through the Great Depression, when people couldn’t afford their medications, the Winslow family provided credit and payment plans. During World War II, when supplies were scarce, they found ways to fill prescriptions for essential medications. In the 1970s, when the federal government wanted to tear down our entire district for urban renewal, Paula’s father was one of the loudest voices fighting for historic preservation, even spearheading the pharmacy's renovations to maintain its historic character and rolling up his sleeves to help draft the very preservation guidelines that protect our district today.”
Each detail Adelaide shared drew nods of recognition from older residents who remembered some of the more recent events personally.
“And now,” Adelaide declared, her voice rising with indignation, “when Paula should be preparing to pass this legacy to the next generation, corporate developers are using bureaucratic manipulation and financial pressure to force her out. And they’re not just targeting the pharmacy—they’re systematically attacking every small business in our district.”
“Tell them about the inspections!” called out Mr. Gates from somewhere in the crowd.
Adelaide nodded grimly. “In the past two weeks, Gate's Hardware has been cited for three code violations that weren’t problems when they passed inspection last month. Tang’s Tea House received a surprise health department visit that was moreharassment than routine inspection. And Mrs. Henderson’s business license renewal has been ‘lost’ twice by the city clerk’s office. I could go on…”
The crowd’s energy was building, and I could feel the collective anger radiating from the people around me.
“What can we do about it?” shouted someone from the back of the room.
“Fight back,” someone else shouted.
“We organize,” Adelaide said simply. “We document every suspicious inspection, every lost permit application, every bureaucratic delay that seems designed to harass rather than regulate. We contact the media—let them know what’s happening here. We reach out to our state representatives and demand investigation into these coordinated attacks.”
Margaret Tang stood up in the middle section. “What about legal action? Can’t we sue them for harassment?”
I couldn't help but notice when Adelaide's eyes flicked toward our section, her gaze lingering thoughtfully on Blake. “We’re exploring all our options, including legal remedies. But lawsuits take time and money, and they know that small business owners can’t afford extended legal battles. That’s part of their strategy—exhaust our resources until we give up.”
“So we don’t give up,” declared Dani Kim, the bookstore owner. “We support each other. We pool our resources. We make it clear that attacking one of us means dealing with all of us.”
The crowd erupted in applause, and I felt a surge of pride in my community. These were people who understood that their individual survival depended on collective action.
“Exactly,” Adelaide agreed. “Which brings me to our immediate plans. Tomorrow morning, we’re organizing a peaceful demonstration. We want media coverage, we want public attention, and we want to send a clear message that this community won’t be intimidated.”
Several hands shot up with questions about timing and logistics. Adelaide fielded them with the efficiency of someone who’d been organizing community events for decades, but I noticed Paula hadn’t spoken a word. She sat in the front row looking increasingly overwhelmed as the energy in the room built around her.
“Mrs. Winslow,” called out Janet, a regular volunteer at the Historical Society, “what do you need from us? How can we support you through this?”
Paula slowly stood, accepting the microphone Adelaide offered. For a moment, she just held it without speaking, her eyes scanning the crowd of neighbors and friends who’d gathered to support her.