Chapter 25
The call ended. I stood on the porch, phone in hand, watching the evening light stretch across my land.
I had hoped for better news. Marcus Webb's referral had come highly recommended, a Seattle attorney who specialized in utility disputes and municipal regulations. A lawyer who knew where the bodies were buried in county bureaucracies.
He had looked over everything. The original notice and the follow-up letters. The county's stated justification for requiring the electrical infrastructure to be brought up to current code despite having been grandfathered in for decades.
His conclusion was straightforward and devastating.
The notice itself was procedurally sound.
The county had the authority to require compliance.
The fact that they had chosen to exercise that authority now, after years of leaving the property alone, was suspicious but not actionable.
Municipalities had broad discretion over utility regulations within their jurisdiction.
Fighting it would cost more in legal fees than simply complying, and compliance meant tens of thousands of dollars to retrench and rewire the buried cables that ran from the road to the cabin.
Permits would need to be obtained. Contractors scheduled.
The entire process could take six months or longer.
The lawyer had been baffled by the county's aggressive posture. He asked, half-joking, if I had slept with the commissioner's wife.
No, I had told him. Even worse. I pissed off a rich man.
There had been a long pause on the other end of the line. Then he said he was sorry he could not be more help, and that I should call him if the situation changed.
I slipped the phone into my pocket and stepped off the porch.
The evening was cool and quiet. I walked the perimeter of the clearing, moving slowly, taking stock of what I had built here over the past months.
The woodshed stood solid, its posts repaired, its walls straight and true. I had replaced the rotted boards myself, working in the heat, swatting spiders off my clothes, learning as I went.
The Airstream still sat where I had parked it, now serving as my second shelter.
The cabin itself looked better than it had when I arrived.
New shingles on the roof. Windows resealed.
The floor boards replaced where they had gone soft with rot.
Porch steps replaced. A dozen other fixes, all requiring time and money and effort.
On the other side of the cabin, the 500-gallon propane tank squatted on its concrete pad. It was a quarter full, maybe less. Another expense was coming due.
I reached the pond and stopped at its edge. The water was still and dark, reflecting the last colors of sunset. The stream gurgled quietly.
I turned and looked back at the cabin, at everything I had done and everything that remained to be done.
So much work ahead. A section of the foundation sill had to be repaired.
The wood stove pipes needed replacing. The septic system still had not been inspected and certified to meet the county's demands.
I had plans for a proper workshop, for raised garden beds, for a dozen projects that would take years to complete.
How would I do any of it without power?
The despair rose in my chest like cold water. I had cashed out my 401k for this place. I had bet everything on a fresh start in these woods. And now Harlan Foster, a man I had met exactly once, was systematically dismantling that dream because I dared to buy land he believed was rightfully his.
I stood by the pond and let the despair wash through me.
Then I thought of Abner Flint.
Fifteen years. Abner had lived without grid power for fifteen years.
He had solar panels and batteries and a comprehensive understanding of how to live outside the systems that most people took for granted.
He had raised a daughter in those conditions, educated her, kept her healthy and strong and capable.
What Abner had done, I could do.
I did not have his knowledge or his experience. But I had his example. And I had Scout, who had been raised in that world and could teach me what I needed to know.
Scout. I thought about the way she looked at me. The way she talked about me to Grace, according to what Grace had told me. Scout held me in high regard. She saw something in me that I was not always sure existed.
I hoped I could live up to her view of me.
Movement on the path caught my eye. A figure approaching from the direction of the James Farm, walking with purpose through the evening light.
I raised my hand and waved. Claire waved back.
I left the pond and walked to meet her near the cabin. She was wearing jeans and a canvas jacket over a green tank top, her red hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. The last of the sunset caught the freckles across her nose and cheeks.
"Hey," she said as she reached me. "I was hoping to catch you. Did you hear back from the county about the electrical issue?"
"I heard back." I shoved my hands into my pockets. "Not from the county directly. From a lawyer a friend referred me to."
"And?"
"He says the notice is legitimate. The county has the authority to require compliance. Fighting it would cost more than just doing what they want."
Claire's face fell. "Thomas, I'm so sorry."
"Today's the deadline," I said. "Power's still on. Maybe nothing will happen."
"I hope you're right."
"Hope is all I got right now." I studied her face in the fading light. "What about you? Any luck finding a lawyer willing to take your case against Harlan?"
Claire sighed and shook her head.
"No. Everyone I've talked to either doesn't want to go up against him or wants a retainer I can't afford. One firm in Bremerton seemed interested until they found out Harlan's name. Then suddenly they had a conflict of interest."
"His reach is longer than I thought."
"His reach is everywhere." She crossed her arms over her chest. "He's been building influence in this county for thirty years. Donating to campaigns. Sitting on boards. Making himself useful to people who matter."
"What will you do?"
Claire's jaw tightened. "I'm not giving up. I don't care how long it takes or how hard it is. I'm going to get justice for myself and for my father."
She paused. A ghost of a smile crossed her face.
"I just really need the next two tea harvests to pay off so I can afford to hire someone who isn't afraid of him."
"You can count on me to help with the harvest," I said. "Whatever you need."
"I know."
She met my eyes, and something passed between us. Something that had been building since that day in her tea field when she kissed me.
"I know I can count on you, Thomas."
The moment stretched. The evening air was soft and cool, carrying the scent of cedar and the distant sound of birds settling in for the night.
I broke the silence before it could become something else.
"Come inside," I said. "I've got iced tea made from your leaves. The sun tea turned out great."
Claire blinked, looking almost flustered. "I'd like that."
We walked to the cabin and I held the door for her. She stepped inside and looked around, taking in the small space with fresh eyes.
"You've done more work in here," she said. "The shelves are new."
"Built them last week." I went to the refrigerator and pulled out the big glass bottle of sun tea. "Still figuring out where everything should go."
Claire took a seat at the kitchen table while I poured two glasses. When I set hers down in front of her, she picked it up and examined it with an amused expression.
"Seattle Mariners glasses?"
"Found them in Forks when I was getting lumber. They were sitting by the checkout aisle." I set my glass on the table and sat across from her. "I thought of DJ when I saw them."
"He would love these." Claire turned the glass in her hands, studying the logo. "He talks about you a lot, you know."
"Good things, I hope."
"He wants to know when you're going to take him to a game. I think he's mentioned it every day this week."
"I meant to talk to you about that." I wrapped my hands around my glass, feeling the cold through the Mariners logo. "I want to keep my promise. Take him to Seattle to see a game before the season ends. You and Bessie just need to tell me when you can go."
"We will." Claire's smile was relaxed now, lighting up her green eyes. "I'll hold you to that."
"Please do." I raised my glass. "Cheers."
She raised hers and we clinked them together. The sound was small and clear in the quiet cabin.
We held each other's gaze over the rims of our glasses.
Claire's eyes were very green in the evening light coming through the west window.
I had known how pretty she was, but in this moment it struck me once again, hard.
The way her freckles scattered across her cheeks.
The warmth in her expression. The strength in the set of her shoulders was earned through years of carrying more than anyone should have to carry alone.
Then the lights went out.
No drama, no warning. The overhead fixture simply stopped. The refrigerator's hum cut off mid-cycle. The cabin fell silent.
"Son of a bitch." Claire set down her glass.
I sat for a moment in the dimming cabin, watching the last of the day's sun paint the west wall in shades of orange and gold. Then I stood and went to the shelf above the wood stove.
The propane lantern was where I had put it days ago, brought in from the trailer against the possibility of exactly this moment. I checked the fuel level, turned the valve, and lit the mantle with a match from the box I kept on the shelf.
The cabin filled with light. Warm light, different from electric light. Softer, more alive somehow.
I set the lantern back on the shelf and sat back down across from Claire.