CHAPTER 4
Aiden
I adjust my cuff links and inhale the cold air as I step out onto the crumbling street.
Victory is near, I can sense it.
I look down the street.
The bakery, the grocer, the pharmacy. Blinking lights, swaying signs, flags, marquees. Clutter. All soon to be smooth, flat, deep black asphalt. Covered in the cars of the patrons that will fill my accounts and sing my praises to the tune of five star reviews and even more patrons, on and on.
Well, not my praises, of course. The resort’s praises by way of Vanderwell Holdings by way of Dad by way of me.
Close enough.
I don’t much care for the praise anyway. Never received any. Dad can have it all.
I see the potential in Juniper Falls’ underlying bones.
I see numbers in a massive set of spreadsheets. Numbers that obliterate the competition, finally.
I want the kitchsy little town. I’m taking it.
Simple as that.
“It is quite charming,” Mildred says. Again.
I gesture over my shoulder. “Then turn in that direction. All the charm on that side of the street will still be there.”
“You know that won’t be true after a year or two. I’m sure you already have a developer waiting to fill the units with Lululemon and Ralph Lauren.”
“Be reasonable, Mildred. We’re close to New York. Louis Vuitton is a much better fit.”
“It’s unnerving when you joke,” she deadpans right back at me.
I shrug, “You know I love these final meetings.”
She sighs, “Maybe they’ll fight back.”
“They never do,” Renaldo grumbles.
“Quick reminder that it’s Vanderwell on your paychecks, not Juniper whatsit,” I say as we reach the door, not really bothered. My staff and I get on quite well. Not sure why they’ve taken up for this particular underdog. And positive it won’t matter.
I step into the record store, eyes scanning. Not for her, necessarily. But she is a puzzle. Harper, Ben said is her name. The Roasted Chestnut. Annoying name, amazing products.
Coffee aside, the place is in shambles. Her father…or husband’s? name is on the lease. Daddy probably bought her her dream bakery that she had no idea how to run. She barely makes eye contact with customers and was flustered with all of three patrons at the counter.
And the meeting…
How could the demon woman who yelled me right out of her store shrink to the point of invisibility in a discussion with her fellow townsfolk?
It was bizarre. Didn’t even get to double check the green of her eyes, which couldn’t possibly be as vivid as I remember, because she didn’t look up. Not once.
How can she run a business?
I suppose she doesn’t. Not a successful one. Not in this town.
It’s always the same. Big dreams, doe eyes, and nary a single financial plan to keep the doors open.
“Mr. Vanderwell! Lovely to see you again!” The realtor chap gushes at me. The mayor joins him. I nod and hold up a hand, willing them to stop. I prefer our big mergers. Cold and calculating—that I’m used too. All this warmth is…disturbing. I’m disturbed.
“Let’s get to it then,” the gruff mechanic says.
He may look like the leader of a biker gang but I appreciate his hard demeanor. This is business. I’m about to start my usual closing remarks when a woman stands up. She owns…? I’ve forgotten. Probably an ice cream shop called Snowflakes or something equally ridiculous.
“We want to negotiate,” she says.
I fight a smirk. I don’t mean to be an amused, condescending ass but honestly…this little lady— about four feet in total, huge glasses, hunched shoulders, bright white hair and a sweater with more colors than the rainbow—against Vanderwell Holdings?
It’s amusing.
“I’m Maxine Houston and I own My Favorite Things. We want a year.”
“A year? To do what, exactly?”
“Get you to move your parking lot.”
I scoff, “Listen, the plans are drawn by a renowned civil engineer. I didn’t take out half the street just to be cruel.”
“You sure about that?” Maxine glares, arms crossed, feet spread. The exact position I’m in. A worthy opponent arises.
“I am. I’m not here for fun, I—”
“That’s some bull. You’re a heartless suit who lives for this,” Maxine spits. Some of the heads in the room nod.
I let myself grin. So, they’re going with insults. This town does have some fight in it, after all.
She wants to play? Let’s play.
“Alright, let’s say I do live for this, Ms. Houston. What could your little band possibly come up with that would make me give up a year of development time? Millions of dollars?”
“You can put up your little resort, we just want you to change your parking plan.”
I scoff, “Little resort, eh? The parking plan is designed to—”
“Then make your fancy engineer redesign it. If we win, Main Street stays.”
“Win?” I ask, more intrigued than ever.
“It’s not a game, Max,” one of the other owners scolds her.
“More like a wager,” the realtor tries.
“Doesn’t matter what you call it. In a year, we’ll prove Main Street can be profitable.”
I study the room, my adversaries. Is this little spitfire the mastermind?
The mayor certainly isn’t. The big Black man is adorned in tie-dye from head to toe once again and there she is, next to him.
They must be close. Her arms are crossed too, shoulders tight like most everyone else in the room, but she’s looking down.
No fire, no fight. Again, I stare at her, waiting.
I’m unusually curious. But she doesn’t look up.
I shift to address Maxine again, “How?”
“What?”
“How do you plan to suddenly turn a profit after years in decline?”
“You leave that up to us.”
I huff, “So you’ve no plan, then.”
“We do. We have a bunch of holidays throughout the year. Not just Christmas. We’re going to celebrate all of them.”
“Celebrate holidays? That’s your big marketing ploy?”
She doesn’t respond but she doesn’t cower, to her credit.
I look around the store. There are thousands of records, posters, vintage lights, retro listening booths hooked up to iPods. It’s a well-thought-out record shop. Put it on a busy corner in Manhattan and give some teenager access to the Instagram account, they might thrive.
But this isn’t Manhattan.
“No, the deal is—”
“Ten months,” Maxine counters. Everyone watches. Some are starting to fidget, others glare. Makes me think they had a group discussion about not fidgeting. Cute. I wonder if the baker is fidgeting, but I don’t look. I hold eye contact with my tiny foe.
“It won’t be enough,” I say, meaning it.
“Let us try anyway.”
“No.”
“September,” she says, sounding a bit nervous now.
It’s the motion in the corner of my eye that does it. Harper looks up. At me. I don’t look over, since I’m positive she’ll just look away. Scurry off, metaphorically, like the mouse she is. But only sometimes? Why am I even wondering about it?
“July,” I’m surprised to hear myself say.
What the hell? Now am I negotiating with these country bumpkins?
Maxine turns, and everyone else shifts as well. As predictable as clockwork, they’ll look to the ringleader, probably the realtor. Not the demonstrative fellow, but the quiet one who actually knows what he’s…
What?
The baker?
They’re all looking at her. At Harper.
I do, too. She’s looking at Maxine, not me, but she is exactly like I remember. Huge, brilliant emerald eyes hiding under the curls and the bandanna. Sweet features, probably literally sugar-dusted, even though they’re always frowning. She nods once, then retreats back into herself.
A strange facade, that one. One of the two is fake, either the town leader or the shy baker.
But I don’t care either way.
I’m not changing the design. I can’t. I don’t need the extra months, not really.
I’ll get what I need, delayed or not. And they’ll come round once they realize I’m saving them.
Not out of the goodness of my heart, of course, but because it’s a solid investment and Ben claims to love this place.
The beautiful scenery is being wasted now, hiding behind their garish lights and cheap tinsel.
Most importantly, I’m not letting the Rockfords get their greedy hands on it now that word’s spread that I’m interested. The resort is positioned perfectly to round out my portfolio. Soon they will finally be put in their place. By me.
“Deal,” Maxine says.
I have to drag my eyeballs away from the enigma at the back of the room and back to the little old lady squaring off with me.
I clear my throat and say,“To be clear, this is a negotiation over only my parking lot—”
“Over the heart of the town!”
“Heartless bastard,” someone mutters.
“Good luck filling your resort without our charm!” Someone adds.
I think the biker mechanic man just cussed me out under his breath. Someone called me an asshole. Me, the one offering to save them.
Small town charm, indeed. People everywhere continue to be horrible. Which is why I prefer dealing with paperwork, steel, asphalt and the like.
Maxine shushes them, then says to me, “This is for both sides of Main Street and all its shops and the gazebo. We put it writing, don’t you doubt it. We’re serious,” she cuts me off, back to being tough as nails now that the brains, Harper, has approved of the July cutoff.
The quiet realtor hands Maxine a file. She then passes it to Mildred. Mildred’s mouth barely quirks on one side. This is not how these meetings normally go.
Which is both unnerving and irritating.
I nod, “Serious until July when you will undoubtedly fail and thank me for saving the day. But I look forward to having my lawyers review your proposal,” I sneer, letting my patronizing prick flag fly freely now.
I snatch the file, turn on my heel and leave.
No need staying in this overstuffed tomb of a store any longer.
I pull at my collar as we get out into the waning light.
Renaldo snickers as he opens the back car door for Mildred and myself.
“Something to say?” I snipe, beyond annoyed.
“Not a thing,” he says.
I stare at him a second longer before getting into the car.
We drive to the jet and no one utters a word. But Mildred is smiling. It’s the most annoying damn smile I’ve ever seen in my life. She doesn’t have to say it out loud.
Bested by a tiny granny and a silent baker.
In Juniper Nowheresville, New Jersey.
Haven’t even signed on the dotted line yet and already this is my most bothersome project.
Doesn’t matter. I’ll soldier through. It’ll be worth it in the end. I don’t have to stay here, just check in periodically. And this was probably it, these people at their best. Rallying for this little showdown.
Now it’s behind us.
And I’m positive this cheesy town cannot get any worse.