Chapter Four
Everett
“You see, Mr. Mayor, I just think it sends the wrong message about what kind of town Hart’s Landing is.”
I smile at widowed Mrs. Biddle, lifelong resident of Hart’s Landing, fervent defender of its history and traditions, and my former second-grade teacher. She never misses Coffee with the Mayor and always has some new, urgent issue to bring to my attention.
Today, it’s the new stoplight.
“Hart’s Landing needs to preserve its provincial feel,” she continues, two hands clasped over the top of her purse. “That’s the charm of a small town. People come here to get away from the chaos and noise and pollution of the big city.”
“I understand your concern, Mrs. Biddle. I just don’t think one stoplight on Main Street is going to ruin our small-town charm.”
“One stoplight today, ten slick high-rise office towers tomorrow!” She furrows her penciled-in eyebrows.
“They already turned the old shipping dock into condominiums,” she says, as if a nuclear power plant had gone in on the riverfront instead of senior housing.
“And I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about the old Hart Iron Works building being purchased by some foreign billionaire and turned into a—a—” She leans forward and lowers her voice to a scandalized whisper. “A sex club!”
I choke back the laugh threatening to erupt from my throat. “I haven’t heard that one, but I assure you, such a thing would never be approved by the town council. The Hart family would like to donate the old foundry site and office building for a community center.”
“Oh.” Her expression is slightly crestfallen. The billionaire’s sex club is definitely a better story. “Well, mark my words, it’s a slippery slope. We must remain vigilant in the face of modernization.”
I pick up my mug and sip my coffee. I didn’t anticipate these kinds of conversations when my jackass friends bet me I wouldn’t run for mayor.
Another thing I didn’t anticipate? Winning.
After all, I was a thirty-year-old farmer, a college dropout with zero political experience.
What did I know about executive planning or local government?
But it turned out that the citizens of Hart’s Landing didn’t really care.
When the Gazette interviewed people after the election, they said they voted for me because I seemed real and down-to-earth.
I had a firm handshake. I looked them in the eye.
No one minded that I was young—they liked my youthful enthusiasm for problem-solving.
They liked that I was a fourth-generation cherry grower whose family had lived in Hart’s Landing for over a century.
They liked that I wore flannel and denim, not a suit and tie.
It showed that I was willing to pitch in, work hard, and get things done.
So here I am—Mayor Everett McKean.
And actually, I’m pretty fucking good at it.
“Tell you what, Mrs. Biddle.” I set my cup down and lean on the table with both elbows, like I have a secret for her. “Lately, I’ve been thinking more about the old train depot. It’s been empty for years now, and there are plenty of people who want to see it torn down.”
Mrs. Biddle’s spine snaps ramrod straight, as if I suggested she commit murder. “No! That building is over a hundred years old! I used to board the train there all by myself to visit my grandparents with a little note pinned to my dress. The conductor always had a lollipop for me.”
I smile. “I think the old depot would make a perfect location for a new Hart’s Landing Historical Society and Museum.”
Her wrinkled face seems to smooth out for a moment. “That’s a wonderful idea!”
“I’m glad you think so. I’d like to form a committee to explore potential ideas.
I could really use someone on it with extensive knowledge of Hart’s Landing’s history, as well as a strong commitment to preserving it.
” I’ve built up an arsenal of persuasive expressions as mayor, and here I deploy one of my best weapons—the Prince Charming grin.
“I was wondering if maybe you’d like to be the founding member? ”
Her eyes mist over, and she places a blue-veined hand on her heart. “I’d be honored. Truly honored.”
“Perfect.” I stand up and hold out my hand. “Good seeing you, Mrs. Biddle. I’ll be in touch.”
“Always a pleasure. You certainly did grow up nicely.”
“Thank you.”
“I had my doubts, I don’t mind telling you.” After shaking my hand, she points a knobby finger at me. “You had the handwriting of a moral degenerate, and you never stayed in your seat. But look at you now!”
I trot out an aw-shucks chortle, lowering my head to surreptitiously check my watch.
Coffee with the Mayor officially ended an hour ago, but I stayed late to make sure everyone who came got my ear for at least a few minutes.
But I have to get out of here, or I’ll be late for my meeting with the environmental consultant I hired to conduct an assessment on the old foundry site. Test results are in.
“All you’re missing is a wife,” Mrs. Biddle tuts. “You know, my granddaughter Charity is about your age, and she’s single, too. Why don’t I have you both over for dinner sometime?”
“Thanks, but I’m not looking for a wife.”
She purses her lips. “Why not? It’s not good for a man to be without the influence of a woman to soften his rough edges.”
I laugh. “I like my rough edges.”
“But you must be so lonely.”
“I’ve got a dog.”
Mrs. Biddle’s Stern Teacher face hasn’t lost its edge. She wags a finger at me. “That’s not what I meant, young man, and you know it.”
“I don’t have time to be lonely, Mrs. Biddle.
” That much is true. Between keeping the family farm afloat, serving as mayor, and ensuring my name stays at the top of the axe-throwing leaderboard at The Axe & Barrel pub—my top three priorities in life, in that order—I don’t have a single minute to spare.
“But thanks for coming today. Have a good afternoon.”
She totters off with a frown, muttering what sounds like “moral degenerate, mark my words.” I’m used to disappointing the matchmaking mavens of this town, who are always trying to fix me up with a daughter, granddaughter, niece, neighbor, hair stylist, dental hygienist…
basically, any human female they can find within a twenty-mile radius.
It’s practically a competitive sport, and Coffee with the Mayor is their favorite playing field.
When I originally had the idea, I imagined informal conversations once a month where I could get to know my constituents, hear about matters important to them, and learn more about what I could do as mayor to make Hart’s Landing a great place to live, run a business, raise a family, or take a vacation.
In reality, I usually get about ten percent of that and ninety percent complaints about the condition of people’s lawns, the need to change the high school team name to something more ferocious than the Mighty Muskrats, and elevator pitches from grannies who have “just the girl” for me.
And now that it’s September, there are the pies.
“Hello there, Mr. Mayor.” Beaming, Judy Gillis sets down a stunning example—lattice crust golden and flaky, luscious red fruit peeking out between the lines. A dusting of sugar crystals sparkles on top.
“Hi, Mrs. Gillis.” My stomach growls audibly. I skipped lunch, and it’s nearly half past three.
“Hungry, dear?” Her eyes take on a mischievous gleam, and she bats her lashes. The eye shadow covering her lids is sky-blue, and her lips are painted bubble-gum pink. “Have a slice of my strawberry-rhubarb pie. It’s fresh from the oven.”
The tart, buttery smell reaches my nostrils, and my stomach moans with hunger. “It looks delicious.”
“I’m so glad you think so. I made it just for you. I thought you might like to try it before the contest.”
Best Pie is the most coveted prize at the Founder’s Day Festival, and despite many efforts to get out of it, I’m the judge.
“There’s not a pie in this town that can touch mine.” She winks flirtatiously. “Just one taste will tell you.”
Slightly revolted, I clear my throat. “Thanks, but I never eat on the job. If you’d like, you can put it over there with the others.
” I gesture toward a table on the far side of the community room within Town Hall, where several other pies have been left and a few people stand chatting near the coffee urn.
Judy’s jaw drops like the blade of a guillotine. “Is that Vera Pratt? Did she bring her blueberry crumble? The nerve! I told her I was bringing my strawberry-rhubarb for you. She stole my idea!” Without another word, she picks up her pie and marches across the room to have it out with Vera.
Recognizing my chance to escape, I say goodbye to the Town Hall manager and hurry outside.
On the sidewalk, I pull out my phone to dash off a quick text to the consultant, apologizing for running late.
But as I began typing, something catches my eye on the far side of the street.
A woman with long, coppery hair is hurrying down the block.
When she crosses in front of the wine bar, she slows for a moment, then speeds up again and disappears inside the pharmacy two doors down.
My pulse quickens.
I’ve only ever known one girl with penny-colored hair like that, but I haven’t seen her since the night of the fire.
Many times since, I’ve thought of her. Wished that that night had gone down differently. Wondered what if.
I’m tempted to wait around a couple of minutes and see if I can catch a glimpse of the woman’s face when she emerges. But I’m already behind schedule, and this wouldn’t be the first time I mistook a random redhead for the girl I once knew.
It’s always wishful thinking. Never her.
So I finish my text to the consultant, hit send, and continue down the block toward my truck. Besides, if Mila Ferguson really is back in Hart’s Landing, I’ll hear about it soon enough.
I’m the mayor, after all.