14. Colt #2
“Bye, Mags.” Alice waves as we leave, and I throw Maggie a wave too, relieved that the woman seems to have given me a chance, despite our rocky start. Surprised to find that I want her approval, and June’s approval too.
Because they’re a part of Alice’s world.
Inside the municipal building, we make our way to a counter and the visibly bored woman sitting behind it. She looks like she’s been sitting in that exact chair since the town was founded and has no plans to move anytime soon.
"Morning, Mrs. Devonshire." Alice’s voice is light but professional. "We’re here to check on the permit for 402 Willow Creek. The residential-to-commercial conversion?" Alice leans over the counter and flashes a bright smile. “And may I add, that scarecrow in your yard? Spectacular.”
Mrs. Devonshire peers over her spectacles, and then clicks a few keys on a computer that surely belongs in a museum. "Ah, yes. The bookshop. Let’s see..." She frowns at the screen. "There doesn’t seem to be a decision yet."
"Is it normal to wait this long?" I press. "It’s been over two weeks."
Mrs. Devonshire looks at me and then Alice, her expression softening a fraction.
"I suppose not. We usually get these turned around in five business days. But Harold isn't in as often as he used to be. He’s getting on in years, you know." She sighs as if Harold’s aging is an inconvenience of the highest order. "We’ve been using a new guy to help with the backlog. He’s…
Well, he’s a bit stricter on standards." She looks toward the back office.
"Let me see if Harold’s in today. Sometimes he slips in through the back. "
As Mrs. Devonshire shuffles off, the door to the inner office swings open.
My body tightens the moment I see him.
It’s Travis, the asshole who hassled Alice at the Hall.
Travis strides over and leans against the counter, his eyes fixed on Alice. "Hey, Ali. Don’t you look nice today.” Travis smirks at her, and I immediately bristle. Because while I’m already wary of this dude, I really don’t like hearing him call her Ali. “Can I help you with something?"
"We're here for our permits.” Alice stands up straight, her posture rigid.
"Ah, right. The permits.” He nods, clearly enjoying his moment of power.
"I recall seeing that come across my desk. I’ve been helping the city council as an interim code enforcement consultant.
Legally, I’m authorized to review all applications to ensure they meet the mayor’s new safety initiatives. ”
“Unfortunately, there were quite a few errors in your paperwork." Travis cuts his eyes toward me. "Did one of y'all's contractors fill this out? Because if so, I’d be letting that person go. They clearly don't know what they're doing."
I recognize the directed shot, and the blood in my veins simmers. I spent six hours on that paperwork. I read and reread the local government code, scrutinizing every word to ensure I didn't miss a single comma.
"What’s the issue?" I ask cooly, because I’ll be damned if this guy elicits a reaction out of me.
Travis walks to a desk and returns with a folder.
He flips it open, stabbing a finger at a page.
"For starters, your plumbing schematic doesn't specify the PVC piping grade for the grease trap. And your parking plan? You didn't account for the three-foot setback from the neighboring oak tree’s drip line. That’s a violation of the new Green Holly ordinance. "
"The grease trap?" I say, incredulous. "It’s a bookshop.”
"That may be, but the code requires a grease-ready interceptor if there’s a possibility of future food service.
" Travis’s eyes are back on Alice. He frowns like he hates delivering such news.
"Look, I’m just doing my job. But I’ll need to examine this for another couple of weeks.
I’m allotted thirty days for a commercial review, and we’re talking about the safety of the town here. "
"You're full of shit, Travis.” My voice is dead calm.
His eyes flash. "Excuse me?"
Before he can respond, the door behind him opens. A man—Harold, presumably—walks in, followed by Mrs. Devonshire. Harold is wearing a fly-fishing vest over a flannel shirt and looks like he’d rather be anywhere else on earth.
"What's the issue?" Harold mumbles, reaching for his glasses.
"Just explaining the deficiencies in their application." Travis’s tone quickly changes from patronizing to helpful subordinate.
Harold takes the folder and flips through it, eyes squinting behind thick lenses. "This the Willow Creek place?" Harold glances questioningly at Mrs. Devonshire. “That’s near your house, huh?”
“Mm, hmm,” Mrs. Devonshire hums. “Right across the street.”
“This gonna bother the residents around there, you reckon?” Harold asks her.
Mrs. Devonshire looks over the top of her glasses at Alice. “You got a plan for parking? I don’t want them parking in front of my house.”
“The side street.” Alice points to the forms. “It’s notated. No one faces that street so it shouldn’t be an issue.”
“You gonna sell them ro-mance novels?” Mrs. Devonshire punches the word.
Alice looks to me for help, but I just shrug, because I have no idea which genres she plans to offer. I’m just building the shelves for them. Alice glances back at Mrs. Devonshire and squares her shoulders. “Yes, ma’am. All kinds of books. Romance too.”
Mrs. Devonshire smiles, satisfied. “I think a bookstore’ll be a welcome change.”
Harold grunts. "Well, then. Everything looks to be in order."
Travis steps forward, his face reddening. "But Harold, the grease trap ordinance—"
Harold pulls out a rubber stamp and thumps it onto an ink pad. "Travis, they're selling books, not burgers. I think it’ll be alright." Harold slams the stamp onto the permit.
APPROVED.
"Thank you!” Alice squeals. “Thank you so much!"
Harold nods and promptly walks toward the rear exit, likely returning to the river to continue fishing.
I pick up the folder, but before I leave, I hold Travis’s stare for a long moment. He’s standing there, arms crossed, stewing on the fact that his power play was undermined. And I know, from years of gauging hostile intent, that we haven’t seen the last of him yet.
The second the door clicks shut behind us, Alice hollers in victory. She jumps up and down on the sidewalk, waving the folder like a trophy. "We got it, Colt! We got it!"
And then she’s throwing herself into my embrace and I’m lifting her off her feet, my arms locked around her waist. Laughter shudders through my chest and a grin splits my face despite my best efforts.
I hold her far longer than I should, feeling the warmth of her body seep into mine.
When she pulls back, I notice the little dimple in her chin, the flecks of yellow in her blue, hopeful eyes.
“Yeah, kid,” I say, unable to let go. “Goddamn right we did.”