Chapter 16 #2
“Half an hour,” Hank said. “He’s finishing a walk-through at one of the boardwalk places.”
Brian slid out of the booth. “Then we’d better get moving. I want to see my future lift bay.”
They paid, said quick goodbyes to the staff who recognized Hank, and walked back toward Bay Street. The farther they got from the waterfront crowds, the quieter the streets became. The warehouse loomed at the end of the block, brick stained and windows clouded with years of salt and dust.
Jason Keene already stood out front, blueprints under one arm, a hard hat dangling from his hand. He wore the same pencil behind his ear and the same practical boots he’d had on in the mayor’s office.
“You came back,” he said. “Always a good sign.”
“We brought reinforcements,” Hank said. “Jason, this is Brian Knight and Colby Landon. The other two-thirds of the brain cell.”
Jason shook their hands. “Good to meet you. Let’s go see what we’re dealing with.”
Inside, the warehouse smelled like old wood, motor oil, and the faint tang of salt driven in on sea wind. Dust motes spun in shafts of light. The ground floor stretched long and deep, the concrete cracked but solid.
Jason walked them through the space, pointing out support columns, water lines, and electrical panels that needed to be replaced yesterday. He spoke in practical phrases, the way Hank remembered engineers talking in briefing rooms.
“We replace this panel,” Jason said, tapping a metal box that had seen better decades, “run new lines along here, re-route for whatever heavy equipment you want. Where are you thinking lifts and dyno?”
“Lifts along that wall,” Hank said, pointing. “Dyno at the back, with exhaust ventilation tied into that existing duct if we can salvage it.”
Jason measured with his eyes. “We can. We’ll have to reinforce that wall if you want to anchor anything serious. But it’s workable.”
Bree drifted toward the steel staircase leading upstairs, her steps soft on the treads. Hank watched her go.
“She okay?” Jason asked quietly.
“She’s thinking,” Hank said. “That’s good for all of us.”
Jason nodded. “Upstairs is in better shape structurally,” he said. “Less water intrusion. More natural light. It’s going to clean up nice.”
They climbed after her. The second floor opened out into a wide expanse with tall windows facing the harbor. The glass was cracked in places, but the light poured in.
Bree stood near one of the windows, palm flat against the dusty sill, eyes half closed. Her sketchbook dangled from her other hand.
Hank came up beside her. “What do you see?”
“Walls knocked back,” she said. “White paint, but not too clean. A big work table there. Easels along that side. A couch in the corner for when I forget how to sit like a normal person. And that entire wall…” She pointed opposite the windows.
“Gallery space. Rotating work. Maybe a couple of pieces that never move.”
“Security film on the glass,” Jason said. “New frames. We can keep the size. The light’s kind of the whole point.”
Bree chewed her lower lip. “No bars,” she said.
“No bars,” Jason agreed. “We’ll put shutters on the outside that roll down at night; from the street, they’ll look like part of the building. Cameras at the stairwell and entrance. That way, anyone who comes up here is either invited or recorded.”
Hank saw the tension in Bree’s shoulders, saw it ease a fraction at the word recorded. “You okay with that?” he asked.
She nodded slowly. “I can live with shutters if they’re up when I’m working,” she said. “And if the cameras aren’t giant, blinking red eyes.”
“I leave the blinking to smoke alarms,” Jason said. “We’ll keep them discreet.”
They walked farther into the space. Brian and Colby peeled off, talking excitedly about mezzanines and storage. Jason stopped near a section of floor where the boards creaked.
“We’ll need to reinforce this area,” he said. “Especially if you plan on holding openings with more than a handful of people.”
“Openings,” Bree echoed, soft and almost to herself.
“You’re going to have them,” Hank said. “Might as well plan for it.”
She looked at him, eyes bright in the filtered light. “You really think people are going to climb those stairs to look at my work?”
“I think people are going to climb those stairs to feel something they didn’t expect to,” he said. “Your work does that. I’ve seen it.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “You keep saying things that make it harder to be rational.”
“Rational’s overrated,” he said. “Calculated risk, that’s the sweet spot.”
Jason cleared his throat politely. “Before this turns into a Hallmark moment and I have to pretend I’m not here,” he said, “let me talk timelines. If we get permits moving next week, they can complete the structural and roof work in three months. Windows, wiring, and plumbing will layer in as we go. You’re probably looking at six months before you’re ready to open the doors to customers. ”
“Next season,” Colby said from across the room. “We could be running under our own sign by the time the Cup roll-out returns here.”
“That’s the idea,” Hank said.
“Money?” Brian asked. “Just so we know whether we’re eating instant noodles all winter.”
Jason gave them ballpark figures. They weren’t small, but they weren’t impossible. Hank felt the numbers click into the mental spreadsheet he’d been carrying since the mayor’s office.
Prize money. Savings. A percentage of past seasons he’d never touched. The studio build-out was from Bree’s account. Possible small-business grants, the mayor had mentioned.
“Assuming nothing catastrophic hits your budget, you’re okay,” Jason concluded. “I’ll give you a detailed quote once my engineer runs the structural calcs.”
“Thank you,” Hank said. “We appreciate you being straight with us.”
“Straight’s the only way I know how to be,” Jason said. “I’ll email the preliminary breakdown tonight. You three talk it over. If you decide to move forward, we’ll get the paperwork started.”
He headed back toward the stairs with Brian and Colby. Their voices drifted down as they started arguing about whether the shop’s logo should feature flames, a piston, or both.
Hank stayed where he was, next to Bree, letting the quiet settle.
“How’s it hitting you?” he asked.
She turned in a slow circle, taking in the space. “Like standing on the edge of a canvas that’s too big,” she said. “My brain’s trying to fill it all at once, and I know that’s not how it works.”
“You start with one line,” he said. “Then another.”
She smiled faintly. “You say that like you’ve done it.”
“I’ve built a couple of things,” he said. “Teams. Bikes. A life or two.”
Her hand brushed his chest lightly, right over his heart. “You sure you want to build this one here?” she asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “Yeah,” he said. “I am.”
She looked up at him, eyes dark and serious. “Then we have to make it hard for anyone to knock it down.”
“That’s the plan,” he said. “We’ll layer the security in like primer. You’ll notice it when it’s going up; after that, it just becomes part of the walls.”
She nodded, but he could see the lingering shadow. Losing her sister had taught her that bad things did not bother with fair warning; they just happened and left holes.
“Hey,” he said softly. “We’re not helpless bystanders here. We have a capable police chief, a mayor who wants this to succeed, and a contractor who is honest. Plus three stubborn idiots who don’t know how to quit.”
“And one painter with questionable life choices,” she said.
He smiled. “Those are my favorite kind.”
Her gaze softened. “You keep being like this,” she said, “and I’m never going to find my rationality again.”
He leaned down and kissed her gently in the dusty sunlight, a promise rather than a diversion.
“They called this quiet aftermath,” he murmured against her mouth. “Feels more like the starting line to me.”