Page 4

4

Union Hill

J ulie Mason blocked out the rumble of engines and screech of metal and brick as the bucket truck gathered debris. She had a long checklist to run through with the crew supervisor, and unwavering focus would make this go faster. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could get away from the noise, dust, and chaos of the demolition site.

Some developers reveled in slapping on a hard hat, rolling up their sleeves, and showing up at their active sites. She was not one. Julie didn’t enjoy developing projects, she enjoyed having developed projects. It wasn’t the act of creation that sparked her passion, but the result. She could be overcome by a wave of joy when sitting at a table at the bistro, the coffee shop, or the wine bar or while taking an exercise class or a pottery class and knowing she made this place possible. When she strode through the lobby of one of her apartment buildings or office buildings, a shiver of pride ran through her body.

This part—the dirt, the cacophony, and the endless details—was the price she paid for that feeling. So she gritted her teeth and muscled her way through it. She turned attention back to Sam.

He took a breath and launched into what promised to be a long-winded story about a delay in getting one of the permits. She held up a hand, and he stopped droning.

“When do we need the permit? The absolute drop-dead date?”

Sam frowned. “Tomorrow. Day after tomorrow at the latest. We need to be able to close the bridge for a few hours to bring in the cement mixer after we get the foundation dug.”

“You’ll have the foundation ready to pour that soon?” That seemed awfully quick to her.

He scratched his neck and shifted his gaze away from her face to a point over her shoulder. “They don’t want to commit the mixer to the project unless we already have the permit. Seems back-assward to me, but …”

She got it. Sam wouldn’t say it aloud, but the equipment company scheduler and the clerk in the permit office had an arrangement. They both wanted her to grease their palms to keep the project moving. There was a time when she’d have railed against the corruption, gone to the county council to complain, dug in her heels and refused to pay a bribe. But Julie hadn’t clawed her way through the old-boys’ network to become the most successful developer along the GAP by playing by the rules.

“Make it happen. Use the slush fund.”

He nodded and they moved on to the next item on her list. Before she could ask about overtime hours, she felt a light tap on her left shoulder. Now what? She suppressed a sigh and turned.

Kim Rush blinked at her and twisted an obviously handmade yellow scarf around her neck in a nervous gesture. Julie tamped down her irritation at the interruption. Kim owned Tangled Skeins. That made her a tenant.

Julie smoothed her expression into one of friendly concern. “Is something the matter, Kim? I hope the noise and mess won’t impact your foot traffic too much, but if it does, we can work something out about your rent during the construction. And I guarantee the short-term pain will pay off beautifully for you once the building is open. Think of all the new customers.” She was sympathetic to the disruption her projects caused but made sure to remind Kim of the long-term benefits.

“Oh. That’s very … thank you, Julie.” Kim squared her shoulders and seemed to force the next words out. “But, I’m actually here about Lydia.”

“Who?”

“Lydia. You know, Hudson?” She jerked her chin toward the demolished house. “That’s her—that was her house. I ran into her on my way to my car. And, well, is she going to be okay? Does she have somewhere to go?”

Ah. That’s what this was. Kim was just like everyone else. She wanted the benefit of revitalization without having to bear any of the guilt.

“Of course, Lydia Hudson. I offered Mrs. Hudson a generous price for her home.”

This was true, but because Mrs. Hudson chose not to negotiate she ended up having her home taken through the eminent domain process at pennies on the dollar. It was unfortunate and short-sighted on Lydia's part, because Julie would have gone above her initial offer if the woman had countered. But a businesswoman didn't negotiate against herself, and once Lydia made it clear she wouldn't come to the table Julie pursued other avenues to get what she wanted.

“But, she didn’t sell, did she?” Kim looked confused.

“I can’t get into the specifics. I’m sure you understand. But Mrs. Hudson was compensated.”

At this, Sam inserted himself into the conversation. “I hear she’s moving to Maryland to live with her daughter.”

“See?” Julie smiled. “She’ll be just fine.”

Kim frowned, apparently unconvinced, but Julie was losing patience with this conversation.

“Is there anything else?” She asked, looking pointedly at the Rado watch she’d bought herself after closing her first big deal.

“I ... I guess not,” the woman stammered, her cheeks red.

As Julie watched Kim hurry across the street to her car, she was reminded, as she often was, of Vera Coking. A homeowner in Atlantic City, New Jersey, Ms. Coking refused all offers for her tiny home, sandwiched between casino hotels, and successfully fought off an eminent domain proceeding through a years-long court battle. People loved pointing to the elderly widow as an example of strength and courage for the stand she took. Julie had a different takeaway from that story: Her victory was a failure of creativity on the developer’s part. Julie did everything she could to get the community emotionally invested in her projects. She was generous and helpful to a fault.

So when the rare holdout like Lydia Hudson dug in to oppose her, it was Julie, not the homeowner, who garnered public sympathy. Julie understood that perception was everything.