Page 36 of Skating and Fake Dating (Love in Maple Falls #4)
CARSON
T urning my attention back to Bailey and the task at hand, I key in on a yellowed newspaper clipping from the time capsule. “Look at this. ‘Town Unites to Save Historic District.’ It’s about how the community raised funds to preserve these buildings in the nineteen-fifties.”
Bailey’s eyes widen. “No way. That’s exactly what we’re facing now.”
“And here’s what looks like a deed, complete with a wax seal.”
She carefully flips through the documents. “I think it’s a property agreement.”
“I’m not fluent in legalese, but maybe it could protect Main Street. We should probably open it with the mayor.”
“Wherever he is,” she mutters. “But even if Alexander MacDonald rightfully owns the land bordering town, maybe we can stop him from tearing down this block.”
Sliding my chair closer to her, I lean in, our shoulders touching as we move on and examine a black and white photograph.
It shows this very pizza place—The Rustic Slice—though the sign looks newer in the old picture than it does now.
A crowd stands proudly in front, holding a banner: Long Live Maple Falls!
I think of Bailey’s version of the welcome sign on the way in. You’ll never want to leaf and chuckle.
“What’s so funny?”
“Long Leaf Maple Falls.”
Bailey playfully whacks me and I pretend to rub my instantly sore arm, but we’re both smiling. It’s hard to ignore what builds between us—not made of brick and stone like the buildings on this street, but maybe something even more long-lasting.
“Check this out.” She points to a handwritten letter. “Carson, this is from the mayor back then. He’s talking about a special town charter amendment they passed—a preservation clause that requires a supermajority vote for any historical district redevelopment.”
I straighten in my chair. “If that amendment is still legally binding?—”
“Anyone who dares to bulldoze this town will need to go through me … and get a major buy-in from the voting public. This could change everything.”
The pizza shop door jingles.
“Oh, no. Not Mary-Ellen,” Bailey whispers frantically.
But it’s too late. A petite woman in her sixties with short, cropped hair bustles over, waving at Bailey excitedly and eyeing me up and down.
“Bailey, dear, I heard you’re back in town.
You have to start coming to our hockey game watch parties—” As if she only just realized I’m seated here and didn’t somehow hear that one of the Ice Breakers is at the Rustic Slice, she dramatically splays her hand across her chest. “Well, what are the chances? You’re one of our new players.
Wait. Let me guess, Carson ‘Bama’ Crane.
I’m Mary-Ellen McCluskey,” she says with aplomb.
Proffering a friendly smile, I say, “Yes, ma’am. That’s me. Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure is mine. I’m going to have you sign something.” She leans toward one of the papers on the table.
“No!” Bailey shouts .
Mary-Ellen, startled, jumps back.
“I mean, not that. Um, it’s?—”
Mary-Ellen, like a slow-moving beagle that has caught a scent, moves closer, gaze trained on the time capsule contents. “What is?—?”
Bailey waves her hands dismissively. “Just some old?—”
Mary-Ellen’s hand lands on the metal box.
Bailey winces. I’m not entirely sure why she’d want to keep it a secret because obviously, we’ll need to share it to save Maple Falls, but I sense Mary-Ellen is a well-meaning busybody—my grandmother always warned me to keep my mouth shut around Mrs. LaShun if I didn’t want everyone to know about our dirty laundry.
The older woman whips around, eyes alight, practically frothing for an explanation.
“You’re not going to believe what we found,” Bailey starts.
Mary-Ellen blinks a few times. “Is it what I think it is?”
Bailey bites her lip and nods as if she’s not entirely sure this is how she wanted the big reveal to go because in less than sixty seconds, the announcement is made and the other guests at the Rustic Slice have gathered around while the older couple at the nearby table recount the story of the time capsule being buried to anyone listening.
They were just kids back in the nineteen-fifties, but they remember it as clear as day.
Mary-Ellen simultaneously runs defense, making sure no one stains the historic documents with their pizza grease-stained fingers while making several phone calls.
Dozens of people move in and out of our vicinity, crowding around the table.
Mr. Romano, the owner, with a flour-dusted apron, comes out of the kitchen.
He lets out a long and guttural, “Ooh! My father is in that photograph. Grandfather too. The Rustic Slice is third generation. We were going to name it Romano’s, but my grandmother insisted on the Rustic Slice. The rest is history. ”
Someone whoops. “You’ve got that right. Maple Falls history!”
Bailey’s phone starts buzzing with notifications.
Mary-Ellen and another woman take turns posting live updates to the town’s community forum and based on the constant jingles and beeps, residents are responding in droves.
The people in the old photos wouldn’t know what to think about all the technology that makes something like a time capsule virtually obsolete in this day and age.
Yet, it might be exactly what the citizens of Maple Falls need to save this place.
From the crowd, someone calls, “The council added an emergency item to next week’s meeting.”
“Thank you, Ashlyn,” Bailey says. “I hope your dad can help. I mean, this changes things entirely, don’t you think?”
Ashlyn, who is Mayor Thompkins’s daughter, grumbles and turns back to her phone.
In fact, during the last twenty minutes, I got a crash course about the inner workings and history of Maple Falls by a rotating cast of local experts, all chiming in on the validity of Alexander MacDonald’s property rights, dirt on council members, and who makes the best apple pie.
Whatever it is, Bailey has my vote.
Our eyes meet across the room, and something shifts between us. It’s something bigger than attraction, chemistry, or handcuffs. We’re partners now, united by purpose.
I soon find myself by her side, and above the loud chatter, I say, “We did it.”
Bailey slides her hand into mine, her fingers cool against my skin. She looks up at me, eyes bright. “No. We’re just getting started.”
The buzz continues building into the night, with residents stopping by our table to see the time capsule.
By closing time, Mr. Romano promises to supply free pizza to anyone who works on saving his shop.
Bailey prepares how she’s going to present our findings at the town meeting after carefully returning the contents of the time capsule to the metal box.
As we exit, I say, “By the way, the grape juice, er, soda, was refreshing.”
Her laughter dances into the night. Once more, she takes my hand and swinging it between us, we walk down the street toward the truck.
A dark shadow edges out from the entryway of Maple Grounds, long closed at this hour. A reedy man wearing a suit and with slicked-back hair says, “I don’t know what you kids think you’re doing, but I suggest you?—”
Bailey stiffens beside me and her grip on my hand tightens in alarm.
I lengthen my spine and my shoulders slide back as I step protectively in front of her. “Sir, I suggest you cross to the other side of the street.” My tone is pure warning.
He puffs up and says, “Do you have any idea who I am?”
“No, sir, I do not, but Shirley May won’t be the only one serving pancakes on Main Street if you don’t back off.” I’m prepared to flatten him if I have to.
He snarls. “No, you’re the ones getting in my way with that little spectacle at the pizza joint, thinking your little rinky-dink town stands a chance.”
From behind me, Bailey gasps. “I recognize you from the town council meeting. You’re Alexander MacDonald’s representative.”
“Jeremy Hunt, Esquire and you’re standing on his land.” He opens his arms with a flash of greed in his eyes. “This is mine. All mine.”
“You mean MacDonald’s?” I ask, wondering how much he stands to gain if this deal goes through.
Arms in front of her chest and chin lifted, Bailey says, “Where is he anyway?”
“That’s none of your concern. He’s an important man and currently out of the country. ”
Bailey shakes her head. “We’re going to prove you wrong and send you back to whatever hole you crawled out of, mister.
” Clearing her throat as if remembering her manners, she adds, “Along with a sampling of local homemade goods—I make great maple butter, but still. You’re not just swooping in here like a bat and taking over. ”
He narrows his eyes. “Watch me.”
Bailey cuts him a glare. “Oh, it’s on. The die has been cast. I choose to accept this mission.”
This is no laughing matter—her beloved town is at stake—but Bailey is adorable even when she’s fierce.
Jeremy Hunt, Esquire seems just to be a greedy grandstander and as he skulks away, I half expect him to cackle or holler, You haven’t seen the last of me , but he just sniffs. That’s almost worse because I worry what he might do to claim this town for his client. You can never be too careful.