Chapter 11
Normally, nothing could get Dawn up out of bed this early on a Saturday morning, but an estate sale in Ballard seemed worth it, especially since the items had come from a ninety-one-year-old granny whose last name was Olson. Dawn had been anticipating this estate sale all week because it said “sweater collection” in the ad. The Forgotten Hug’s Nordic sweater stock had sunk dangerously low, and this was her chance to replenish her supply.
But she needed to get there early, before the vintage clothing dealers from Seattle and Snohomish swooped in and beat her to the best inventory. Dawn wore the red dress with lingonberries printed on the fabric she’d sewn, hoping it might bring her luck. She was just dropping frozen waffles into the toaster when the doorbell rang.
“Who could that be?” she muttered.
She glanced at the clock and saw that it was only a quarter to eight. Alarmed that it might signal an emergency, she reached for her phone to see if it held any message from Mark about Sierra. But nope, nothing. Dawn hurried to the front door, arriving just as the bell rang again. When she looked through the peephole and saw Warren standing there, she did a double take. Yes, it was really him, and he held a box of donuts in one hand and a caddy of beverages in the other. He wore gray shorts, a blue shirt, and a lightweight jacket that stretched across his broad shoulders.
“Warren,” Dawn said as she opened the door, “what are you doing here?”
She was grateful she was wearing a cute dress instead of her ratty bathrobe. Warren might be the enemy when it came to the bridge debate, but he also served a large helping of eye candy.
“Sorry to barge in on you like this.” Warren thrust the caddy of drinks forward. “I hope you like coffee. I brought hot chocolate for Sierra.”
“Sierra’s not here.” Dawn froze where she stood, too confused to move. “She’s with her dad.”
“Oh. Mikaela’s with her mom.” Warren raised the pink box he held in his other hand. “More donuts for us, then.”
Dawn put her hand on her hip. “I appreciate that you brought baked goods, but I have an appointment in Ballard.”
If she wasn’t in such a rush, Dawn might have been friendlier. Sure, he stood on the opposing side of the bridge debate, but zings of electricity sparked through her every time she looked into his blue eyes. She hadn’t eaten breakfast with a hot guy like Warren in years. She’d dated off and on since her divorce but nothing serious.
Warren raised his eyebrows. “At seven forty-five in the morning?”
“Oh, so you do know the time?” Dawn tapped her foot. Attraction didn’t replenish her stock of Nordic sweaters. She needed to zip over to Ballard while the estate sale was fresh.
“I wouldn’t barge in on you like this if it wasn’t urgent.”
Damn, that coffee smelled good. “Okay,” Dawn relented. She reached for the java and invited him in. “I’ll give you five minutes, but then I need to scoot.”
Warren closed the door behind them and followed her into the house. “What’s in Ballard?”
“Hilda Olson, a granny with a sweater collection to covet.” Dawn set the drinks on the kitchen table and read the labels on the cups. “Two black coffees and a kid’s hot cocoa? That’s the most basic order I’ve seen in years. I thought you were from Seattle?”
“Olympia.” He set the box of donuts next to the drink caddy.
“Same difference.”
Warren whacked his hand across his chest like she’d shot him. “It is not .”
“It is if you’re from Kennewick.” Dawn opened the box of donuts, selected a maple bar, and sat down.
Warren claimed the seat next to her. “We had a kitchen table just like this when I was growing up.”
“I bought this at a thrift store for my first apartment.” The avocado-green vinyl dinette set was made in the 1970s. She sipped the coffee, forgetting it was black, and made a face because it was so strong.
“Wait.” Warren pulled a paper bag out of his coat pocket. “I almost forgot the cream and sugar.”
“Thanks.” Dawn helped herself to a cup of half-and-half. “So, explain yourself, Captain Berg. Why are you here?”
Warren picked up the other cup of coffee and pried off the lid. “I ate dinner with Brittany Barrow last night and found it illuminating.”
“In what way?”
Dawn didn’t know Brittany personally, but she remembered what Melanie had told her. Brittany used to take barre class with them at the Cascade Athletic Club until Brittany became jealous of their instructor, Marlo Jonas, and her relationship with Ben Wexler-Lowrey. Brittany had sought revenge by accusing the Nuthatch Bakery of having a rat problem. If not for Harper Landing Moms, the Wexler-Lowrey family business would have lost thousands of dollars over the Thanksgiving pie season. Melanie had posted a call to action, and hundreds of women rushed to the Nuthatch to buy pies.
“Brittany is corrupt.” Warren rubbed the stubble across his square jawline. “I have reason to believe that Will Gladstone is buying her off. At the very least, he’s paying for her city council campaign.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me at all.” Dawn bit into the maple bar and savored the sweetness of it.
“Outside interests are trying to shape Harper Landing politics.” Warren stared at his coffee cup. “I was up all night replaying the safety committee meetings in my head, trying to figure out where I went wrong.”
“Wrong?” Dawn put down her donut. “Are you finally admitting the bridge is a bad idea?”
“No, not exactly.” Warren kneaded the back of his neck. “I participated in those meetings with a clear motivation: protecting the safety of the people of Harper Landing. I thought the other committee members wanted that too.” Warren shook his head. “But Brittany and Will have ulterior motives, and now, I’m not sure about the rest of the task force.”
The cuckoo clock in her living room crooned eight times. “Shoot.” Dawn jumped out of her chair and ran to the sink to rinse maple glaze off her fingertips. “I better dash, or I’ll be late.”
She wanted to hear Warren’s story, but she couldn’t afford to miss that estate sale, not when her Etsy shop had orders to fulfill. Dawn made a split-second decision. “Hop in the car with me. You can explain everything to me on the drive. We’ll be back to Harper Landing in two hours.”
“You want me to go to a junk sale with you?”
Dawn bristled. “It’s not junk. It’s an estate sale.”
“Sorry.” Warren stood. “My bad. Sure, I’d love to go with you.”
“Good.” Dawn lifted the lid of her Mickey Mouse cookie jar and removed a fat wad of cash. “Bring the donuts with you. They might come in handy.”
She led the way into the three-car garage and climbed into the driver’s seat of her SUV. The address was already loaded into her phone, ready to go.
Warren walked around and got in on the passenger side. “A BMW X5, huh?” He clicked on his seatbelt. “Sweet.”
She pulled the seatbelt around her, clicked it, then started the car. As she backed down the driveway, she said, “Mark picked it out. I would have been fine with a Camry, but the St. James family drives BMWs.”
“And he didn’t fight for it in the divorce?”
Dawn shifted into drive. “Nope. Our divorce was more of a sad parting of ways than a fight. We knew early on that we weren’t right for each other, but by then, we already had Sierra. The only reason our marriage lasted as long as it did was because of her.” It was always difficult explaining her amicable relationship with Mark to other men. That was one of the reasons her relationships never lasted past the third date.
Warren looked back at Dawn’s two-story house with a Puget Sound view. “What does Mark do for a living, print money?”
Dawn laughed. “He’s a lawyer and the best father I know, even better than my own dad was, and that’s saying a lot.” She double checked her phone and made sure she was on the right road to Ballard. “But you seem to be a pretty great father, too, from what I know about you. What did you end up telling Laurie and Alison?”
“Nothing yet.” Warren winced. “I can’t think about it too long, or my head will explode.”
“Would it be their baby, or your baby too, or what exactly?”
“I’m not exactly sure, but I know that I would definitely be part of the child’s life.”
“Do you want another baby?”
“Desperately,” he said in a gruff voice. “I hate the idea of Mikaela being an only child, but I don’t know if Laurie’s plan is the right one for me.”
His frank admission surprised Dawn. “I’m not wild about Sierra being an only child either,” said Dawn. “Not that there’s anything wrong with all the extra parent time she gets. But I always wanted her to have what I have with my sister, Wendy: a friend to bicker with for the rest of my life.” She chuckled at her own joke.
“Exactly. That’s how I feel about my brothers too. But Rudy, Neil, and I also have parents who have been married for forty-two years. I wanted that, too, but it wasn’t in the cards.”
“At least not for you and Mikaela’s mom, I take it?”
Warren shook his head. “Not after she left me for the UPS guy.”
“Ouch.” Dawn cringed. “It sounds like you have horrible taste in women. I mean, you did go on a date with Brittany. Speaking of which...” She patted his leg, which felt like a brick of muscle. “Tell me about the bridge stuff, but first start off with what the hell were you thinking going out with a piranha like her?”
“I thought she was pretty.” Warren flashed her a sheepish look. “And since she’s a successful businesswoman, I thought she might be interesting to talk to.”
“Sure.” Dawn rolled her eyes before she focused back on the road. “You wanted to talk with her.”
“I know. Typical male. I already got an earful from Laurie when she found out about the date. She went on and on about some sort of pie fiasco.”
“It wasn’t just pies. It was rats. Brittany tried to destroy the Nuthatch. It was all over Harper Landing Moms.”
“Which I’m not on because for one thing, I’m a dad, and for another, Facebook is not for me.”
“Fair points.” Dawn adjusted the sleeve of her sundress to conceal her bra strap. “So what makes you think Will Gladstone is funding Brittany’s campaign?”
“Because I looked up the public disclosures for campaign finance last night, and he’s donated the maximum limit, five hundred dollars.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” Dawn checked her blind spot before changing lanes.
“His brother, sister, father, and niece have also each donated five hundred,” said Warren. “That’s a total contribution of two thousand five hundred dollars from the Gladstone family. Plus, Will has offered to bankroll Brittany as she expands her advertising business into Mercer Island. She spent almost an hour last night describing to me in excruciating detail how she’s launching the Mercer Island Coupon Pack and Mercer Island Delights this fall. Will’s not only fronting her the money for the printing costs, but he’s also introducing her to advertisers.”
“You’re kidding.” Dawn glanced at Warren and saw his serious expression. “Really?”
“Really.” He nodded. “She was proud of it too. A huge braggart. Brittany wants Harper Landing to become the next Mercer Island, and she’s using Will’s money to make it happen.”
“But the average family can’t afford to live on Mercer Island. That’s where millionaires lives. Instead of fishing boats, they have yachts.”
Dawn thought of her in-laws, Joan and Ted St. James. They were good people but also filthy rich. Joan’s job as an archivist in the library science department at the University of Washington didn’t pay well, but Ted made a bundle as a senior partner at the same law firm where Mark worked. Their Mercer Island house cost more than Dawn’s home in Harper Landing and Mark’s condo in Seattle put together.
“The average family can’t afford to live in Seattle anymore either,” Warren pointed out. “That’s why home values in places like Harper Landing are going up, since we’re only thirty minutes away.”
“Thanks for the mansplaining.” Dawn rolled her eyes. “I had no idea Harper Landing was thirty minutes away from Seattle or that it was becoming expensive to live there.”
Warren’s ears turned red. “Sorry. I’m used to explaining things in simple terms for my job.”
“That makes sense, I guess.” Dawn glanced sideways at him. “I’ll give you a pass on the mansplaining this time, but watch it, mister.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
They were crossing the Snohomish County line and entering King County.
“Why is Will interested in Harper Landing and not a place like Ballard?” Dawn asked.
The GPS told her they’d be at the estate sale in seven minutes.
“Because developers like Will have already worked their sorcery in Ballard.” Warren pointed down the street toward a modest prewar brick home with arched windows standing next to a modern two-story townhome that looked like a rectangular box with a front door. “I have colleagues in the firefighters’ union who work in Ballard. Some of them commute all the way from Skagiton because they can’t afford to live in King County.”
“Teachers probably can’t afford to live in Ballard, either,” Dawn said, thinking out loud. “Or hairdressers, like my sister, Wendy. Or anyone filling a ‘traditionally female’ job.”
“Nope.” Warren shook his head. “That’s—” He stopped.
“That’s what?” Dawn asked.
“I don’t want to mansplain.”
Dawn chuckled. “I appreciate your discretion, but go for it.”
“Okay,” Warren agreed. “I was going to say that tearing down older, affordable homes that were often rentals is one of the reasons homelessness is on the rise in Ballard and across Seattle.”
“Because of the lack of affordable housing.”
“Yes.” Warren nodded. “We have homelessness in Harper Landing, too, but it’s more hidden with families broken apart and couch surfing, like I did as a teenager.”
Dawn was touched that Warren was willing to speak so openly with her about his difficult adolescence. She remembered the crappy apartment she and her mom had rented when her parents first got divorced. The walls were paper thin, and the baseboard heater was inefficient. Dawn spent all of the winter of her sophomore year shivering from the cold.
“If I wasn’t getting child support payments from Mark, I wouldn’t be able to afford to live in Harper Landing,” Dawn said. “The Forgotten Hug is only a year old. It’ll take several years for it to become profitable enough to support Sierra and me on its own.”
“And I wouldn’t be able to live in Harper Landing, either, if I paid for childcare,” said Warren.
“So what does this mean for the beach? What are Brittany and Will up to?”
Warren scratched his jaw. “This is only a hunch, but I think their goal is to build the Marina Bridge in the name of public safety then change the zoning laws to allow for public access. Instead of emergency vehicles only, it would be for everyone.”
“That would make it easier to build a housing development along the waterfront.” Dawn slowed for a red light. “Right now, it’s only for businesses.”
“Because of the zoning.” Warren nodded. “The fire code in Harper Landing says that emergency response vehicles need ready access to any new house that’s built. With the train track where it is, people have been prohibited from developing homes along the waterfront so far.”
“Crap.” Dawn frowned. “Brittany’s going to win that city council seat for sure. Cheryl Lowrey’s not even campaigning.” She glared at Warren. “And you helped put her there. Brittany citied her experience working on the safety committee in her campaign literature as one of her qualifications for the job.”
“I know,” Warren grumbled. “And something else bothers me too.”
“What?”
“I keep thinking about what you said the other night, about the beach being the great equalizer because everyone can enjoy it no matter how much money they have or what type of home they live in.”
Dawn didn’t remember saying those words exactly, but it sounded like something she might have said. “And?”
Warren hung his head a moment before sitting up straight. “Well, what if the only people who get to enjoy the beach are the people who can access it?”
“What do you mean?”
Warren clenched his jaw before explaining. “We already have the yacht club and the Cascade Athletic Club over there,” he said. “Plus the marina. If the zoning laws changed and an expensive housing development went in, then what’s to stop someone disreputable from turning the whole area into a gated community for the privileged?”
“But the dog park and the senior center are over there, too,” Dawn pointed out.
“So what? Dogs don’t vote.”
“Their owners do.” Dawn paused, thinking about Warren’s hypothesis. “You could be right, though. The senior center’s remodeling project has gone over budget.”
“They could run out of money and become easy prey for someone like Will Gladstone.” Warren rested his arm on the center console. “With the right backers, he could swoop up that whole area and turn it into a gated community.”
“And close off the public beach forever?”
Warren nodded. “I’m sorry, Dawn.” His expression was somber. “You were right, and I was wrong. This issue is about more than public safety. It’s about public access as well. Only, the city isn’t presenting it that way.”
“So does this mean you’ll sign my petition?”
“I’m not sure yet. I need to speak with the chief first so that the fire department can take an official stance.” He looked at her intently, and Dawn felt that zing of electricity again. “But it definitely means that I’ll pay more attention to you from now on.”
Dawn felt her cheeks heat, surely making them as red as her dress, and hoped Warren didn’t notice. She flicked on the blinker and came to a stop at a four-way intersection. When she turned onto the next street, it was so narrow and packed with parked vehicles that only enough space remained for one car to pass. Fortunately, there was no oncoming traffic, or she’d be forced to back up.
“I hate streets like this,” she murmured.
“Me too,” said Warren. “And here comes a roundabout. At least we’re not in a fire engine.” He looked down at Dawn’s phone. “It says we’re almost there. At this point, you might as well park.”
“Wish me luck.” Dawn looked to the left and right, searching for an empty spot. The older homes were built with one-car garages in an era when most families didn’t have two vehicles. The redeveloped townhomes were crammed so close to the property lines, they didn’t have room for garages at all. That made street parking a nightmare.
“You’ve arrived at your destination,” announced the robotic voice of Dawn’s GPS.
They crept past a brick house with a Norwegian flag waving out front next to a big sign that read Estate Sale.
Dawn finally found a parking spot three blocks later. She squeezed into it with the expert parallel parking skills that came from four years of living downtown during college.
Warren nodded his approval. “Nice.”
Dawn checked her watch. “Phew. I made it with ten minutes to spare. You can stay in the car if you want.”
“Do you want me to stay in the car?”
“No, you’re welcome to come with me.” Dawn grabbed the estate sale listing. “As long as you don’t mention the word junk again.”
“Sorry about that.” Warren climbed out of the SUV. “It just seems weird to me that people pay top dollar for things you could find at the Goodwill store.”
“It’s called antiquing.” Dawn swung her patchwork purse over her shoulder. “And I happen to be great at it.”
She hustled down the sidewalk toward the house with the Norwegian flag, relieved that she didn’t see anyone waiting in line on the porch. If Dina Greenbaum from Seattle’s Wearable Wonders got there first, she would likely buy the whole lot. Greg Turner from Yesterday’s Closet in Snohomish would mean trouble too.
A brand-new Nordic sweater sold for between ninety and four hundred dollars. A vintage sweater could command a similar price, depending on the condition and pattern. At an estate sale like this, Dawn might be able to snag them for twenty bucks apiece. She didn’t think of it as exploiting unsuspecting old ladies but rather ensuring that their beloved knitwear found proper homes with people who valued fiber arts.
Dawn knocked on the door and smiled cheerfully, hoping for the best. A young man in his twenties opened it a minute later, wearing AirPods and a hoodie.
“Hey,” he mumbled. “Are you here for the sale?”
“I sure am.” Dawn waved the listing she’d printed from Craigslist.
“It doesn’t start until nine, but you can go on up.” He stepped back. “My grandma’s upstairs with another customer.”
“Another customer?” Dawn’s stomach lurched. “Someone beat me here?” She barreled through the entryway and charged up the stairs.
“Nice to meet you,” Warren said to the guy. “Is that an antique Halligan bar?”
Dawn didn’t wait around to find out what Warren meant. At the top of the landing, she heard voices coming from an upstairs room but couldn’t distinguish who was speaking until she reached the doorway. It was Greg Turner from Yesterday’s Closet. She’d recognize his fake Southern accent anywhere.
“These fascinators are enchanting,” he said, “but practically unsellable. Nobody wears them anymore, I’m afraid.”
“Not true,” Dawn whispered to herself. Royal weddings had made fascinators trendy again, and Dawn sold them for thirty dollars apiece online, and they went for even more in her shop.
“I’ll give you three dollars each, just to take them off your hands,” said Greg.
Dawn knocked on the doorframe of the midsized bedroom. An older white-haired lady who was tall but slightly stooped stood in front of an oak wardrobe with mirrors on the doors. A brass bedstead with a white coverlet dominated the room, and an open cedar trunk full of sweaters sat in the corner.
“Hi,” said Dawn, putting a huge smile on her face. “I’m here for the sale. Are you Mrs. Olson?”
Mrs. Olson looked at Dawn with rheumy blue eyes. “Most of the sale is happening downstairs. This furniture is coming with me to my new apartment.”
“Hello, Dawn.” Greg sneered. “Fancy meeting you here.”
Dawn wrinkled her nose. “I knew I smelled your cologne.” She crossed the threshold and stepped closer to the wardrobe so she could see around the open doors. Hatboxes were stacked inside as well as what looked to be a wedding dress preserved in a windowed box. “Did I hear someone mention fascinators?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Olson selected a purple satin headpiece from the top box. “My mother wore this with an Easter dress she made.”
“It’s beautiful.” Dawn gazed admiringly at the feathers. “Is that ostrich?”
“I think so.” Mrs. Olson handed it to her. “Try it on. It would look pretty with that dress you’re wearing.”
Dawn held the fascinator to the side of her head since the elastic was shot. She looked in the mirror and posed. “This would be perfect for a wedding or a bridal shower,” she said. “You know these have become popular again, right?”
“You don’t say.” Mrs. Olson turned her gaze toward Greg and regarded him coldly. “Someone told me they were practically worthless.”
“Oh no.” Dawn placed the fascinator back into its tissue-paper-lined box. “I own a shop in Harper Landing called the Forgotten Hug, and I sell them for thirty-five dollars each. But I already have quite a few on display right now. I’m here to buy sweaters.”
Mrs. Olson’s lined face frowned. “Oh, I’m so sorry, dear,” she said with genuine disappointment. “This man beat you to it. I just sold my whole collection to him.”
“You did?” Dawn didn’t stop to think. She crossed the room and knelt in front of the cedar chest to inspect the treasure she lost.
Reindeer, snowflakes, hearts, and stripes. The trunk contained a rainbow of wool and pewter buttons. The cedar oil scent was so strong that there was a high likelihood all the sweaters were in good condition and moth-free.
She looked over her shoulder at Mrs. Olson. “For how much money?” she asked.
“A hundred dollars,” the old lady said proudly.
Dawn rifled through the cardigans. “But there are at least a dozen sweaters here.”
“Seventeen,” Mrs. Olson corrected her.
Dawn did the math in her head. Greg stood to make at least three grand off this woman. “I’ll pay you five hundred fifty dollars,” she said. “Cash.”
“I’m paying cash too,” Greg said, dropping his fake southern accent. “And we already had a deal. Miss Olson, don’t renege on me now.”
“Oh bother.” Mrs. Olson sat on the bed, and the springs squeaked. “What a pickle.”
“Dawn!” Seconds later Warren poked his head into the room with an excited look on his face. “There’s the best collection of controlling nozzles I’ve ever seen downstairs in the living room.”
“What?” Dawn had no idea what Warren was talking about.
“Unnskyld meg,” Warren said, nodding at Mrs. Olson. “God morgen.”
“God morgen til deg ogsa,” the old woman responded. She smiled at Dawn. “The sweaters are yours.”
“But that’s not fair!” Greg protested.
“Neither is trying to cheat a widow,” Mrs. Olson snapped at him.
Dawn squealed with delight and plunged her arms into the wool. She didn’t know what words Warren had spoken to Mrs. Olson, but they must have been magic.