Chapter 3 #3
“Guess that means you fellas aren’t in town for the Brine, then?” He weighs my bananas on a cute little scale.
I shake my head. “What’s that?”
Perky pauses to push up his glasses and stare at me in surprise. “The Winsome Brine,” he clarifies.
I shrug apologetically.
“It’s our biggest festival! See, the Fletcher Pickle Company used to have their headquarters just up the street.
” He points vaguely north. “The factory closed ages ago—it’s an artists’ workspace now—but we Winsomefolk still celebrate our proud pickling heritage every autumn, and we crown our Big Dill, of course. ”
He’s saying a lot of things here, but my brain gets stuck on we Winsomefolk.
Dear god. How is Winsomefolk so much weirder than any of the possibilities I came up with? Is he including me in that term? Am I one of them now, even temporarily? Because legit, the proud pickling heritage might be a deal breaker.
“So if you’re not in town for the festival, what brings you to Winsome?” Perky asks, dragging my brain back to reality.
“Oh. I, ah, inherited some property—”
He gasps. “So you’re Jim Grange’s nephew from New York! I heard all about you from Rachelle when I was at the diner earlier.”
My immediate thought is, Who the fuck is Rachelle, and why is she talking about me? Is this normal small-town stuff? Because that might be a deal breaker too.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Perky goes on with a little cluck of his tongue.
I nod stiffly. Just like when the sheriff offered condolences the day before, it feels strange to accept them over someone I barely knew.
“I imagine Jim took the bus out for one last joyride when he knew it was his time. He sure loved his adventures.” Perky gives me a commiserating smile.
“He used to say his heart wasn’t made to be planted in any one spot.
But I like to think at least part of it put down roots in Winsome.
That’s why he shared his mushrooms with us. ”
There’s a lot to unpack here, like the fact that Perky clearly knew Jim better than I ever did. But also…
“Jim…” I lower my voice and lean in. “…shared his mushrooms with you?”
I can’t tell if he’s talking about the kind of mushrooms you make ravioli out of or the ones Jim suggested might talk to him.
Maybe for Jim, they were one and the same.
Perky looks at me like I’m the one who’s not making sense. “Well, sure. I’d bet those mushrooms are why half our visitors come to Winsome! Speaking of which, what happened to the Magic Mushroom Mobile? Because I’d really love to—”
He pauses mid-sentence and narrows his eyes when a voice behind me says, “Morning, Perky.”
I whirl around, half expecting to see Beckett Axford in all his flannelly glory—honestly, that’s how my luck’s running these days—but I don’t.
Which is good. Which is excellent.
The last thing I want is to see him again. Obviously.
Instead, I find a man in a sleek windbreaker and hiking boots. He looks like he’s in his fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair, expensive cologne, and a charming smile.
“Sorry to intrude,” he says, directing that smile at me. “But I couldn’t help overhearing. Derek Sullivan.” He holds out a hand. “Sorry to hear about your uncle. Jim was a good man.”
“Right.” I force a smile as I shake his hand. “Guess it’s true what they say about gossip in small towns, huh?”
“You have no idea,” Derek says. His eyes glint with humor. “Especially when you’re not from around here… and especially when you dare to stand up to one of the town’s golden boys.”
I wince. “You heard about that?”
“About your easement argument with Beckett Axford?” Derek chuckles. “Hell yes. Pretty sure everyone has.”
I dart a look at Perky, who bites his lip guiltily, suggesting Rachelle isn’t the only gossip in town.
“Well, I’m not sure what you’ve heard,” I say defensively, “but Beckett—”
“Oh, you don’t have to tell me,” Derek interrupts, still sounding amused. “Beckett’s had it out for me since the day I arrived. The man hates outsiders. There’s a reason he’s called the Axe.”
Perky scoffs, “You made that up yourself. No one calls him that except you.”
Derek shrugs. “Well, they should. God knows he’s a pain in the axe.”
A startled laugh bubbles out of me because I had almost that exact thought when I first met Beckett.
Derek smiles and pulls a business card out of his pocket. “Listen, Griffin, I know we just met, but if there’s anything I can help you with, please let me know. I’ve got an excellent Boston lawyer on retainer—”
“Oh. Not necessary.” I hold out a hand to wave him off. “I own the land. The deed’s on file at the record office and everything. Axford Lumber has no legal claim to it.”
“And anywhere else in the world, that would be the end of it,” he agrees.
“But around here, it doesn’t work that way.
If Beckett sues you for access, first, the Winsome town council is required to make a recommendation to the court.
Easements, like logging permits, fall under the town’s zoning laws. ” He sighs. “Ask me how I know.”
My mouth falls open, and suddenly, I feel like I’m forty-two stories above Times Square again. “But that’s not…”
“Fair? Mmm, tell me about it. Now, I don’t know the specifics of your case, obviously.
But I can tell you I bought some land here over a year ago, and every time I’ve tried to get a permit to use it, I’ve been blocked.
” He sighs wearily. “I’d hate to see you suffer from the same frustration.
We outsiders have to stick together, don’t we? ”
He presses the card into my hand, and without thinking, I curl my fingers around it.
Derek nods to Perky, who nods back stiffly, then turns for the door.
Milo rejoins me at the register, arms loaded with jars and bottles labeled Garlicky Replenish and Fermented Fresh. His eyes track Derek as he exits the store.
“Who’s the silver daddy?” he asks in a low voice.
Perky adds Milo’s pickle haul to my bags with a disapproving frown.
“Derek Sullivan of Sullivan Timber. Started a new eco-conscious lumber company a couple years ago, and he’s been buying up land around here like crazy.
He owns the land on the other side of the Axfords’ place from Jim’s…
I mean, yours. And he thinks it’s the Axfords’ fault he can’t get a permit to cut down trees there.
Like they’re blocking him on purpose.” He snorts in amusement and peers at me over the top of his glasses. “It’s not true.”
“Huh,” I murmur, studying the business card still clutched in my hand. “Well, he seemed nice enough.”
Perky could not look more horrified if I laid out a pentagram on his linoleum floor and summoned a pickle demon. “Don’t confuse smooth with nice.”
I nod because Perky’s right. I’ve met a million guys like Derek, selling gen-u-wine Rolexes on Canal Street and sitting across from me in Midtown boardrooms. Beware the guy who offers to “collaborate” while angling to own the project.
But that doesn’t mean those people can’t be helpful in their own way. In fact, it’s good to know up front that someone’s looking out for themselves first… rather than, say, having that lesson spelled out for you in six-foot-tall, semi-pornographic letters on a Times Square billboard.
And while I know better than to believe Derek’s biased view of events, I don’t buy Perky’s blind loyalty either.
So, I casually tuck Derek’s card in my pocket. Because the enemy of my enemy is my friend, as they say. And Derek Sullivan might have an axe to grind with Beckett Axford…
But so do I.