Chapter 15 #3
Mayor Rochelle Meyers stood at the window when they walked in, looking out over the harbor.
She was small and wiry, with silver-streaked hair pulled into a low knot and a blazer that had seen a few campaign cycles.
Beside her stood a broad-shouldered man in his forties with a rolled-up set of blueprints under one arm and a pencil tucked behind his ear.
“Hank, Bree,” the mayor said, turning with a smile. “Thank you for coming. And congratulations again on the win. Copper Moon’s very proud of you.”
“Thank you, Mayor Meyers,” Hank said, shaking her hand. “You remember Bree.”
“Of course.” The mayor shook Bree’s hand warmly.
“So.” The mayor gestured to the man beside her. “This is Jason Keene. He’s one of our preferred contractors on city projects. He oversaw the renovation of The Breakwater and the boardwalk restrooms. He has opinions about wiring and roofing.”
Jason nodded. “I like buildings that don’t fall down when it rains.”
“High bar,” Hank said. “Appreciated.”
They all took seats around the table. A slim folder lay in front of Hank and Bree; the mayor tapped it with one finger.
“This is a preliminary sale proposal,” she said.
“It’s not binding. Think of it as a starting point.
The city owns the Bay Street warehouse outright.
It’s been a storage headache for years. We’d like to turn that into a revenue stream and a revitalized block.
Having a Cup champion’s performance shop and a local artist’s studio in that space fits nicely with what we’re trying to do. ”
Hank flipped open the folder. The first page outlined the purchase price, far lower than he’d expected, especially for a building that size.
“That number real?” he asked.
“Yes,” the mayor said. “It’s an introductory rate; in exchange, you commit to specific improvements that bring the building up to code and create street-facing activity.
After two years, the taxes step up to a level closer to the market average, with caps on annual increases.
We’re not looking to gouge you. We’re looking to keep you. ”
“What improvements would be on us?” Bree asked.
“Interior build-out,” Jason said. “Electrical upgrades. Plumbing for whatever bathroom and utility setup you need. Cosmetic stuff like paint. The city will handle structural work, roof repairs, and exterior masonry. We’ve already budgeted for window replacements as part of a safety initiative in that district. ”
Hank tracked the numbers in his head; what he had, what he could reasonably expect from next season, what he could not count on from sponsors.
“It’s doable,” he said slowly. “If nothing catastrophic happens.”
“Catastrophic like nitrous kits blowing up our reputation,” the mayor said dryly.
Bree stiffened. “About that…”
The mayor lifted a hand. “You did us a favor,” she said. “You and your crew. I don’t like the press using the words ‘cheating scandal’ and ‘Copper Moon’ in the same sentence, but I’ll take one ugly news cycle over a fatality. Sergeant Diaz concurs.”
“Speaking of Diaz,” Jason said, “she mentioned you might be interested in security measures. Cameras, reinforced doors. That kind of thing.”
Hank nodded. “She told us we might’ve stepped on somebody’s business plan. I’d like to make sure my shop isn’t an easy target.”
Bree felt tension slide under her skin. “I don’t want to live in a fortress,” she said before she could swallow it.
Three pairs of eyes swung to her.
“I mean,” she said, forcing herself to stay steady, “I spent the last year feeling like my life was made of caution tape. If we turn the studio into a bunker, I’m going to feel like I never left.”
“I’m not talking about sandbags and razor wire,” Hank said, tone calm. “I’m talking about smart locks, camera coverage on entry points, solid glass instead of the ‘a stiff breeze could punch through it’ that’s in there now.”
“The glass upstairs is the only reason the light’s decent,” she said. “If we start slapping bars over it, I might as well paint in a closet.”
Jason leaned forward. “There are options between closet and fortress,” he said.
“Tempered glass with security film. Roll-down shutters you only deploy at night. Discreet cameras. From the street, it looks like any other cool mixed-use space. From a would-be thief’s perspective, it’s more trouble than it’s worth. ”
Bree considered that. “You’re sure it doesn’t have to look like a prison?”
“Promise,” Jason said. “My wife would divorce me if I started turning half the town into bunkers. She runs the bookstore; she has opinions.”
The mayor smiled. “She also sits on the arts council, which would be thrilled to have a working studio downtown.”
Hank looked at Bree. “I’m not trying to cage you,” he said quietly. “I just don’t like leaving doors open for people who mean us harm. That’s all.”
She heard the echo of Diaz’s words yesterday. You stepped into somebody’s income stream. That puts you, and anyone close to you, on their radar.
“I know,” she said. “I just spent a year being scared of everything. Of crossing the street, of getting in the car, of answering the phone. I don’t want this to become another thing fear takes from me.”
He reached across the table and rested his hand over hers. The mayor and Jason politely examined their notes.
“What if,” he said, “we design the space so your studio is light and open and very Bree, and the security sits underneath that. Like a frame. You won’t see it day to day, but it’ll be there if we need it.”
She exhaled slowly. “So long as we’re not talking about metal detectors at the door.”
“Only for Brian,” he said. “He sets off alarms just on principle.”
Her mouth twitched. “Okay. I can live with that.”
Jason nodded. “I can draw up some options,” he said. “We’ll prioritize natural light upstairs. Downstairs, we can keep it more utilitarian without making it look like a chop shop.”
“I don’t own any neon underbody kits,” Hank said.
“Let’s keep it that way,” the mayor replied.
They moved through more details. Fire code. Parking allocation. Loading access. The mayor mentioned potential small-business grants. Jason offered to walk the building with them that afternoon and flag immediate concerns.
At the end, the mayor folded her hands. “No pressure,” she said. “You take this with you. Talk to your team. Talk to your families. If you decide it’s too much, I’d rather lose you now than halfway through construction.”
Hank glanced at Bree. “We plan on doing both,” he said. “Talking and staying.”
Bree lifted her chin. “We’re not signing on the dotted line today,” she said. “But we are serious. This isn’t just a post-win sugar high.”
“Good,” the mayor said, satisfaction flickering. “Copper Moon could use a few more people who stick. Lord knows we’ve had enough passersby.”
She stood and offered her hand again. “Whatever you decide, you’ve already made this weekend one for the books. Thank you.”
They shook, thanked Jason, and stepped back into the hallway.
As they walked toward the front doors, Hank’s phone buzzed. He checked it, thumb skimming the screen.
“Diaz,” he said. “She wants us to know they picked up chatter about a guy asking questions at one of the smaller regional races. Same description as Einstein’s contact. She’s sharing data with other departments. Her exact words are ‘stay aware, not paranoid.’”
Bree snorted. “That should be on a T-shirt.”
He pocketed the phone. “You okay?”
She thought about Vic. About mysterious parking-lot meetups and illegal bottles and cash in duffel bags. About the way Diaz’s eyes had sharpened when she looked at Bree outside the warehouse.
“I don’t enjoy being on anybody’s radar,” she said. “But I like the idea of pretending nothing’s wrong even less.”
“Then we stay aware,” Hank said. “We put cameras where they should’ve been years ago. We keep in touch with Diaz. We don’t let fear drive the bus.”
She frowned. “That’s a terrible metaphor.”
He grinned. “You knew what I meant.”
She chuckled. “I did.”
They stepped out into the sunlight. The harbor glittered; gulls wheeled and complained overhead. Across the street, a dark SUV idled at the curb before pulling away. Hank watched it for a beat, attention narrowing, then relaxed when it turned toward the highway instead of the industrial district.
“Problem?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “Habit.”
He looked down at the folder in his hand, then back at her. “So. You still in?”
Bree thought about her parents’ voices on the phone. The relief under the worry. The way her mom had said, “We always tell her, you said hi."
She pictured the warehouse, dust motes in the air, the view of the water through the cracked upstairs window. Hank’s hand in hers as she’d imagined easels and canvases and people climbing the stairs to see what she made.
“I told my parents I was,” she said. “I’m not walking that back.”
He smiled slowly, warmth softening his features. “Good. Because I just promised a mayor and a contractor that James Performance is going to be more than a temporary sticker on the door.”
She laughed. “We’re really doing this.”
“Yeah,” he said. “We are.”
He lifted the folder slightly, like a toast, then leaned down and kissed her right there on the civic center steps. It was not the desperate, I might never get to do this again kind of kiss. It was steady and sure, the kind that tasted like commitment and morning coffee.
Across the street, someone honked and whooped. A kid’s voice shouted, “That’s the Cup guy!”
Bree smiled against Hank’s mouth.
“Fame is exhausting,” she murmured.
“It has perks,” he said.
They broke apart reluctantly.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go show Brian and Colby the numbers so they can tell me all the reasons my timeline is too aggressive.”
“And I’ll tell you all the reasons it’s not aggressive enough,” she said.
He chuckled. “I look forward to the arguments.”
They walked down the steps side by side, their footsteps finding an easy rhythm as they headed toward the future they had just nudged a little closer into focus.