Chapter 8 Beck
BECK
After living in the city, the honking and garbage trucks had become white noise to me.
Since I'd returned to Chance Rapids, it was the silence that woke me up.
But today, it was accompanied by a splitting headache.
Through bleary eyes, I blinked at the foreign object on the antique dresser, and it took a minute for my brain to compute that they were roses.
For Clara. Shit. I fumbled for my phone. What did I text her last night? My heart thumped as I scrolled through my messages. It only stopped racing when I realized that I hadn't sent her any of the messages.
The radiator ticked as I rolled out from beneath the layers of quilts to tiptoe to the bathroom. The floors in the Inn were frigid.
My mouth was dry and my head hurt. How many scotches did I drink last night?
While the shower heated up, I did something I would never do in the city - I bent and drank directly from the tap. The water in Chance Rapids came from a glacier-fed river, and was better than any fancy bottled stuff.
As I showered, the events of last night came back to me in waves, accompanied by nausea.
William King's project was not going to have the overwhelming reception that I'd anticipated. Getting the town's approval was supposed to be the easy part of the project. The new arena was going to be state-of-the-art. How could anyone want to keep the old barn?
Clara's figure skating program. Logan's hockey charity. Both were heavily subsidized by the town and by fundraising. I could sell the state-of-the-art cooling system, modern gym, recovery facilities, and of course, the entire new League that would come to town.
The answer came to me as the shower ran cold. I let the icy water stab my face for a minute before stepping out and wrapping a towel around my waist.
As I got dressed, my phone buzzed with a text message. Then another. And another. There was a missed call from Rob, and one from the Mayor. As I scrolled through the messages, trying to catch up, my phone rang again.
"Good morning, Rob," I answered.
"How come you haven't answered my messages?" he barked.
Clearing my throat, I composed myself. "I'm just taking a look at them now." I put him on speaker as I read the messages. "Oh, shit."
"Yeah, oh shit is right. Clara Dalton is stirring up a big pot of it."
The multiple messages described Clara's social media post, a battle cry to save the arena, and the overwhelming response from the people in the town.
"I'll deal with this."
"You'd better get ahead of this problem, or I will."
"I'm on—"
Rob disconnected the call. His true colours were showing, and they were multiple shades of asshole, but this was business, and he was right. I clicked on the link that Mavis sent to Clara's post.
There were hundreds of replies.
It was official. The hornet's nest had been kicked, by the toe-pick of my figure skating ex-girlfriend, who hated my guts.
I gritted my teeth. This was typical Clara; she let her emotions run the show. This was my project. My livelihood. If this fell through, I could kiss my job with King Corporation goodbye.
My finger shook as I held it over the call button.
How much of this was Clara wanting to save the rink, and how much was it her wanting to ruin my life? Was this her final revenge?
The rising sun shone through the sheer curtains and a beam of light landed on the roses. What an idiot I was. I'd been on my way to make things right with Clara, while she'd been crafting her revenge.
If she wanted a face-off, she'd picked the wrong opponent.
I knew what I had to do. Picking up the phone, I steeled myself to face William King. He wouldn't be happy about the opposition, but if we could put the right spin on the project, I could stop Clara Dalton's crusade, once and for all.
After three days of networking with the townspeople, I still hadn't heard from my boss. Was I about to be fired? At least there had been some good news, the SUV had been fixed.
I spent the day visiting tradesmen. Which meant getting up early and hanging out at the G-Spot where they all stopped to get their morning coffee, energy drinks, and gas station sandwiches.
Most of them were excited about the project, especially when I confirmed that it would be at least five years of full-time construction to build the new subdivision.
Freddie, an electrician, and a guy named Josh, were the only ones who asked about the community programs. I evaded their question, but wouldn’t be able to side-step it much longer. I needed an answer.
My phone chimed with a text from Kelly, Mr. King's assistant.
Mr. King’s lawyer will call you at 8 am PST sharp on Saturday.
I groaned. That was two whole days from now.
I tapped out a message: “I need to talk to him sooner.” But then I deleted and replaced it.
Saturday at 8 a.m. Confirmed.
Two days later, at exactly eight in the morning, I answered the call from William King's lawyer.
"Mr. Shepherd." Sidney Mouser, chief counsel, sounded irritated. "What's going on up in the hills? Mr. King is off the coast of St. Barth's right now.
"Sir. There's been some…" I paused.
"Hello? Are you still there?" Then he spoke to someone in the background. "I think we lost the connection."
While I waited for him to come back to the call, I took the roses from the vase and held them over the trash can.
“Are you there?”
"I'm here, Mr. Mouser." I cleared my throat. "There's been some opposition to the project."
He chuckled. "There always is. What is it this time? Did they find an endangered frog on the proposed building site?"
"No." I winced and sucked in my breath as a thorn pricked my finger. It was time to let the roses go. "There are some charity programs running at the arena. The town is afraid that you won't offer subsidized ice time."
His barking laugh crackled through the phone so loudly I had to pull it away from my ear. "Is that all?"
"Yes, sir. That's the main objection."
"Well, that's easy. Tell them they won't lose their programs."
"Really?" This was easier than I thought it was going to be.
"Sure, kid. Just get the job done." The phone crackled and I wasn't sure whether we'd lost the connection, or my boss's lawyer had hung up the phone. Whatever it was, it didn't matter. Now, I could squash all the objections.
The good news had come just in time for a key meeting: the one with Logan Brush.
I pulled on my gloves and slung my messenger bag strap over my shoulder. The contracts inside were as good as signed.
If I could get Logan Brush on board, that would tip the scales in my favor. And now I had all the ammunition I needed to face Clara Dalton's crusade.
Frost covered the front windows of the diner. Bells tinkled over my head as I stepped inside the bustling breakfast spot, met with the smell of coffee, bacon, and deep-fryer grease.
"Beckett." Muriel smiled. "You're going to have to wait for a table this morning, unless you want to sit at the counter."
In my week of schmoozing, I'd eaten breakfast and dinner at every restaurant in town. In some places I'd been treated like a king, and others, with obligatory small-town politeness. It was easy to tell which Rapidians thought I was the scrooge trying to ruin their Christmas.
Muriel was in the latter, and still hadn't offered me a special coffee.
"I'm meeting Logan Brush.” I knocked the snow off my boots and caught a glimpse of Logan's baseball hat over the back booth.
"He's at table one. I'll walk you there." Her tone changed. One thing I'd learned over the past week was that Logan Brush was not only well-respected, but well-liked.
Muriel poured me our cups of coffee the left with our order.
"Good morning, Shepherd." Logan sipped his coffee.
"Morning," I replied. "Thanks for meeting with me. I have some updates on the project."
"Good." Logan crossed his arms. "Listen, before we start, you should know that there are quite a few people unhappy with the way this thing has been handled."
I sighed. "It went off the rails pretty quickly. I forgot how quickly rumors spread in this town."
Logan's eyes crinkled as he smiled. "This town loves gossip, almost as much as it loves that old barn."
"I wish I'd known about the charity programs. They didn't exist when I was a kid. I could've gotten ahead of that problem, if I'd…"
"Done your research."
I held up my hands. "You got me."
"Also, there are certain members of council that stand to benefit heavily from some of the land deals. Charlotte is concerned they are acting in their own interests, rather than the interest of the town. I'd have to agree with her."
The corner of the diner’s placemat had curled, the lamination separated from the paper. I flicked my thumb on the plastic as I listened. "Let me guess, it’s Rob.”
Logan nodded. “He's got a numbered company. Charlotte found it. He’s a scumbag and we will deal with this conflict of interest, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. Shepherd, you grew up here. You have to know how people in this town love that rink. It's the heartbeat of this town."
This was my time. "What if we could keep the programs, but have them on the secondary ice surface at the King rink?"
Logan tilted his head. "That might change things.
I mean, you'd still have a few die-hards who want to keep the old building.
I'm one of them. But I'm also able to see the big picture, and how every kid in this town could have ice time.
And, if the NHPL expanded to Chance Rapids, this place would grow faster economically than it already has with the ski hill. "
"Well." I sipped my coffee. "How do I get more people to see things your way?"
Muriel dropped off our breakfast. We'd both ordered the G-Spot classic: three eggs over easy, toast, and local sausage. "You're doing the right thing, getting out and talking to people, but Shepherd, for someone who grew up here, you haven't really gotten involved."
"Involved?" I dipped my toast in the runny yolk. "I'm only here for a few weeks."