Page 11

CALEB

Long day. He was exhausted. Not from work, but from wrangling an eleven-year-old boy. Which started the moment the kid opened his eyes. What an ordeal. Caleb had to constantly move him from one thing to the next.

Wake up. Get out of bed.

“Bent, shut off the game. Let’s go.”

Get dressed. Then eat breakfast.

“What is the TV doing on? Go brush your teeth. Now.”

Make his lunch. Grab his backpack. Then run back inside for the books that go in the backpack.

“Did you get your lunch? From the counter? Now why would I pick up your lunch for you when you have two eyes, two arms, two hands, two legs, and two feet?”

By the time he dropped him off at school, he was ready for a nap. But Caleb banked on Bentley getting used to the routine and executing things on his own.

Caleb cruised by One More Cup for a latte and egg frittata before heading home to wrap up the last of his work for Jenny Finch and then prep something for Simon and the town council meeting.

He’d hacked together a rough budget last night while watching college basketball, but he needed to design a couple of examples.

In Seattle, Caleb worked on restoration projects whenever he could. He felt like he was saving history, saving the dreams of those who’d given blood, sweat, and tears to building the country.

In the afternoon, he picked up Bentley, ran to Biggs for a few groceries, then came home for an after-school snack and homework.

Bentley talked nonstop from the moment he got in the truck—about his classes, roller-skating, Grandma’s chili, his latest level on Minecraft—until Caleb said, “Buddy, I’ve got to get some work done.

Remember you’re going to Grandma and Grandpa’s tonight. I’ve got a meeting.”

By six o’clock, he was satisfied he had enough to pique town interest. Then he packed up his laptop for the presentation, walked with Bentley to the folks’ for dinner, and headed to city hall. He’d tried to entice Mom or Dad into going, but they refused.

“The members from the West End control everything. It’s heartbreaking.”

“Then come with me. Fight for our side.”

“They never listen,” Dad said.

Simon met Caleb in the foyer. It was a beautiful space with Italian marble floors, a staircase constructed with ash wood, and a chandelier of handblown glass. Caleb had written a paper on the interior for his senior high drafting class.

“Are you ready?” Simon ran a handkerchief over his forehead. “It’s like 1987 all over again. When I ran for mayor three years ago, I wanted to help the East End, unify us with the West, and end the competition, but the divide is wider than ever.”

“It’ll be all right. We’re just getting started.”

“I’ve roped you into my efforts. Now they’ll label you as my ally and their enemy.”

Someone called for Simon, so he excused himself. Caleb made his way into the meeting room, where a couple dozen citizens talked among themselves in groups of two and three. Emery sat alone in an aisle seat of the second row. Caleb slipped in next to her.

“Are you new here?” he said, extending his hand. “Caleb Ransom, architect, befuddled uncle, single.”

Emery grinned and shook his hand. “Emery Quinn, editor, befuddled sister, single.”

“Sister? Weren’t you an only child?”

“I was ... I am ... sort of, but not anymore. It’s complicated. Well, not complicated technically,” she said in a low tone. “It only feels complicated. Is there a way to make me stop saying complicated ?”

Up front, Simon called the meeting to order.

“Ah, saved by point of order.” Emery tapped on her phone to record the meeting, then opened her Notes app.

“Did you see the carnival is in town?” Caleb whispered.

“Hard to miss with all the lights and sounds.” A message pinged on Emery’s phone. She swiped it away, but not before Caleb saw QuinnFam as the heading.

After the Pledge of Allegiance and Pastor Troy’s opening prayer, Simon moved through old business before addressing new. Since all business these days seemed to revolve around the West End, there were no objections.

“Onto the matter of the old homes in the northwest corner of town,” Simon said. “I’ve asked Caleb Ransom—”

“Who’s Caleb Ransom?” Mac Diamond made a show of looking round the room.

“I’m Caleb Ransom.” He rose up, waved, and sat back down. “Architect. Just moved back to town. We’ve met before, Mac.”

“So what do you want him to do, Simon? Have we approved this?”

Simon already looked defeated. “I’ve hired him to work on a refurbishment budget for the Org. Homestead. Show a couple of designs that fit the era of the homes. They’d make great low-cost housing, which we need. I’ve also asked Caleb to work on a Main Street initiative.”

“Main Street initiative?” This from Bobby Brockton, a contemporary of Caleb’s, and part of the beach-trashing cabal.

“Our main street is stellar. Recently paved, new lights and foliage. We need to talk about development and expansion of our infrastructure. The West End needs room to grow. We’ve been talking to a developer who—”

“Bobby, the West End is not separate from the East End,” Simon said. “We’re all Sea Blue Beach. We’ve got to stop thinking like we’re two different entities with one budget.”

“Maybe we’d like to change that too,” Bobby said with a look toward Mac Diamond, who gave a slight head shake.

“Who is that guy?” Emery whispered.

“Mac Diamond,” Caleb said. “A renowned golf course developer. Moved to Sea Blue Beach in the early 2010s.”

Emery tapped notes on her phone.

“We’ve been talking with Thorndike Alliance about development on the East End.” This observation came from Alfred Gallagher, real estate mogul.

“Excuse me?” Simon morphed from defeated to determined. “I’ve not talked to anyone from Thorndike.”

“We’re going to bring you in, Simon,” Mac said. “So hold onto your horses.”

“Hold onto my horses.” Simon slammed down his gavel. “I’m the mayor of this town, and if anyone is driving the horses, it’s me.”

“Exactly.” Mac’s patronizing tone was grating. “Go on with what you and this architect want to do.”

This architect?

Simon shot Mac a couple of visual daggers and returned to his agenda.

“If we’re to preserve our town, our culture and history, we need funds to fix up the streets, paint and beautify, reclaim and reuse.

I’ve invested my own money into purchasing Doyle’s Auto Shop and other properties.

Caleb, do you want to bring your presentation for the Org. Homestead?”

He whispered to Emery as he stood. “Welcome to Sea Blue Beach, eh?”

While he set up his presentation, Simon reminded the citizens and the town council that those old homes were built by town founders Prince Blue and Malachi Nickle.

“If we do any refurbishing of those homes, or anything on the East End, we’ll go with JIL Architects, Simon,” Bobby said. “They’re proven and—”

“Owned by your brother-in-law,” Caleb added.

Bobby fancied himself the “mayor” of the West End. He owned the largest lawn and landscaping business in the region. His ads and billboard said, If BB Lawns & Garden isn’t caring for your yard , you’re not caring for your yard.

“All right, Caleb, show us what you got, but really, those old homes need to go. Sea Blue Beach is a modern town with modern amenities. People don’t want to stay in a fixed-up Florida Cracker home when they could live in a brand-new build.”

“Sorry, Alfred,” Caleb said. “I couldn’t hear you over your wallet talking.”

“There’s not a wallet in this town that doesn’t talk, young man.” Alfred looked around for approval. “Well? You just going to stand there or show us what you got?”

Was it okay to loathe that guy? Arrogant and rich, trying to rule the town with his greed. Caleb was all for capitalism but not at the expense of everything that made this town the gem of the north Florida coast.

Meanwhile, Emery sat in the meeting expressionless, like a good stoic, objective reporter.

His presentation was short and sweet, getting to the bottom line and the wow factor of how beautiful those old homes could be.

“We can use sustainable and reclaimed materials,” he said, “which I’ve done before. It will cut cost and waste. Still, the cottages are old and will need to be updated for today’s codes, including foundation work, new plumbing, and electric.”

He also presented Main Street ideas for the East End—new Victorian lamps, fixing the brick portion of Sea Blue Way, buying new planters and plants, maybe a few banners, and painting the storefronts. “Like Simon suggested, a Main Street initiative will help bring in new business for the East End.”

Caleb advanced to the last slide—the budget slide—and Alfred, Bobby, and Mac laughed.

“Where are you going to find that money?” Mac asked.

“We have some reserve,” Simon said. “It will get us started.”

“That money has been earmarked for easements on the West End for the new rec center.” Alfred’s voice boomed through the room.

“You know we’re becoming a destination for pro tennis players and golfers, which opens doors for service and support jobs.

They can’t afford country club fees, so we need the rec center. ”

“They’ll need places to live too, Alfred. Not everyone will be able to afford a home in the West End. The Org. Homestead is a good place to start.” Simon matched Alfred’s tone.

“I think you’re forgetting where most of our revenue comes from, Mayor.”

“How could I forget when you remind me every council meeting?”

“I think the mayor has forgotten that all spending goes to a council vote.” Mac sounded like the voice behind the curtain in Oz.

Besides Bobby and Mac, Millie Leaf was a West End council member. Adrianna Holmes and Lester Walsh were East End members—who sat there like bumps on a log.

“The mayor has authority for discretionary spending up to three hundred thousand dollars.” Simon faced the citizens in the hall, not his council. “All I’m asking is for some funds to go to the East End.”

“And we know you have a good many properties in the East End, don’t we, Mayor?” Mac said.