Chapter Forty-Eight
Everett
“Let me be clear.” Tad Hart leans back in a leather chair. It creaks under his weight. “Neither Hart Iron Works nor the Hart family will be held responsible for standards that didn’t exist fifty years ago.”
Mila and I are seated across from the Harts in their library, a dark, wood-paneled room with high ceilings and bookshelves stretching up every wall. The carpets and curtains are faded from the sun, and it’s dusty as fuck. I’ve sneezed like five times already.
“That’s not what this is about,” I reply, fighting off yet another tickle in my nose. “This is about moving forward, not looking back.”
Beside me, Mila slides forward so she’s balanced at the edge of her seat. “And doing it in a way that will shine a positive light on the Hart name.” Her eyes slide to mine, and I give her a nod. She’s up first.
“Mrs. Hart.” Mila addresses the woman in the chair next to her husband. “May I show you something?”
It was Mila’s idea to appeal to Tiffany directly.
She did a little research over the weekend—because she’s fucking brilliant—and discovered that Mrs. Hart majored in art history with a specialization in Postimpressionism.
I had no idea what that meant or how it would be useful, but Mila said to trust her.
Which I do. Completely.
And knowing that she trusts me feels like a knife in my gut every time I think about what I know and she doesn’t.
As if she can sense my nerves, she sends me a reassuring smile as she reaches into her portfolio.
Carefully, she removes the matted illustration, placing it on the coffee table between us, facing the Harts.
“Oh, how lovely.” Tiffany leans forward, her fingers steepled over her chest.
It’s more than lovely. It’s a gorgeously detailed sketch of what Mila imagines the foundry site can become. I thought her early drawing was good, but that was a seedling compared to this tree in full bloom. It’s lush and colorful and vibrant. Tiffany is awed.
Tad remains ramrod straight, looking at the drawing as if it’s a giant turd on the table. “What is it?”
“It’s the foundry site, dear,” says Tiffany.
Tad harrumphs. “Doesn’t look like the foundry site to me.”
“It’s what the site could become,” Mila clarifies. “Not a toxic embarrassment or a legal liability, but a symbol of progress and redemption. A place of healing.”
The old linebacker’s face retains its granite expression, but he’s been negotiating deals since before I was born and knows better than to give anything away. I see the flicker of interest in his eyes as Mila elaborates on her drawing.
“Sunflowers are natural metal extractors and begin working very quickly. They’re also a symbol of warmth and abundance.
The way they always have their faces to the sun suggests steadfastness and loyalty.
And because they can grow so tall and strong, they’re symbols of resilience.
It’s no wonder Van Gogh painted them so often. ”
“Oh, I just love those paintings!” Tiffany gushes. “Van Gogh once said, ‘The sunflower is mine.’ They had special meaning for him.”
Mila smiles at her. “They’ll have special meaning to Hart’s Landing, too.
There’ll be walking paths through different gardens, and students will be able to learn about the remediation process and plants with superpowers.
I was even thinking it could be a place where students learn to draw and illustrate the cleanup cycle.
” She tucks a strand of copper hair behind her ear.
My heart. She’s so fucking beautiful.
“Mila is a well-known botanical illustrator,” I say, my chest so full it could burst. “She drew this after seeing the site to show us what it could be.”
“You drew this?” Tiffany Hart’s eyes widen, her voice rising to a high pitch. “My goodness! It’s exquisite!”
Mila blushes. “Thank you.”
“And what’s that sign say?” Tad points a thick finger at the drawing.
Tiffany peers closer. “Hart Family Healing Gardens,” she reads, clasping her hands beneath her chin. “Oh, isn’t that beautiful?”
“Is this real science?” Tad asks, his skepticism obvious in his furrowed brows. “Or is it New Age, hippie-dippy pseudoscience?”
“It’s very real, and very forward-thinking,” I tell him. “Dr. Yang from MSU has signed off on the entire phytoremediation plan. The university is prepared to partner on this project.”
“What’s that mean?”
This is my part—the nuts and bolts, dollars and cents.
I wipe my sweaty hands on my pants and sit up taller.
“The structure we’re proposing creates a limited partnership where the Hart family contributes the initial funding for remediation but transfers the property to the Hart’s Landing Community Foundation.
The foundation would then collaborate with the university for the actual work. ”
“Potentially insulating the family from direct liability,” Tad muses, rubbing a hand over his jaw.
“Exactly.”
Mila speaks up. “Mr. Hart, I grew up hearing stories about how your family built this town, how Hart Iron Works provided jobs for so many—and took care of their families. I just took my mom to the Hart Primary Care Clinic. There’s a Hart Animal Rescue, too, which demonstrates care for all living things.
That legacy is real and important.” She gestures to her illustration.
“This will show care for the environment in a way that acknowledges the past but builds something better for the future.”
I watch Tad’s face, imagining the calculations happening behind his eyes. He isn’t convinced yet. He might like the story about his caring family legacy, but he doesn’t make emotional decisions.
I have one more card to play. “The alternative is less appealing for everyone—no community center, no healing gardens. The EPA has already contacted the town expressing interest in the site. If they designate it for Superfund cleanup, we would lose control of the narrative entirely.”
Tiffany places her hand on her husband’s arm. “Tad, imagine the gala we could host for the opening. Perhaps I could even commission a sculpture for the entrance. We could invite the Kennedys!”
The corner of Mila’s mouth twitches.
“And the cost?” Tad asks.
“Significantly less than traditional remediation,” I say. “Dr. Yang estimates around three hundred thousand for the initial phase, with maintenance costs of roughly seventy-five thousand annually over five years.”
Tiffany is nodding, already convinced. She probably has a designer purse collection that costs more than that.
Tad is the harder sell, but I’m confident he’ll recognize that this solution offers a path forward that protects both his family’s finances and their reputation. He’s a blowhard, but he’s not a fool.
Finally, he nods. “Okay. You have our cooperation. But we’ll need to see more detailed plans. Cost breakdowns, timelines, the structure of the foundation, the exact legal protections.”
“You’ll have them as soon as I can get them done.
This project is currently my top priority.
” I exchange a triumphant look with Mila.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hart, would it be okay with you if we submit the proposed plan for approval at tomorrow night’s town council meeting?
If it goes through, you could schedule that press release. ”
“Fine.” Tad stands up, indicating that our meeting is over.
“I’ll walk you out,” says his wife.
At the front door, we shake hands and promise to be in touch.
“Mrs. Hart, I wonder if I could ask you one more thing,” Mila says.
“Certainly.” Tiffany smiles and checks her watch.
“I’ve lost touch with Rachel, your niece. Do you happen to have contact information for her?”
“Oh.” Tiffany Hart looks puzzled, although her forehead doesn’t wrinkle. “I’d have to see. Her mother might know, but we don’t see Catriona too often, not since George died.”
“Well, if you happen to come across a phone number or even an address, I’d be grateful. I’d like to reach out.”
“I’ll let you know.”
As soon as the massive front door is shut behind us, Mila and I throw our arms around each other.
“You were perfect,” I tell her. “This is all because of you.”
Mila laughs. “It was a team effort. You knew just how to seal the deal with old Tad.”
“He’s easy. He might not care about the environment or the aesthetics, but he definitely cares about the numbers and his family name.” We start down the tree-lined drive toward the truck. “And the drawing was… I don’t even have the right words.”
“Better than Van Gogh?”
“Still a hack.”
We reach my truck, and I open the passenger door for her.
“What do you think?” She smiles up at me. “Should we go have dinner somewhere to celebrate the win?”
“Actually, I have to meet my mom and sister at home. We’re taking her over to that new condo complex on the water to see about a fitness membership.” I’m a total dick for being glad I don’t have to face Mila across a table.
“Okay. Maybe we can FaceTime later?”
FaceTime isn’t much easier. “I’ve got my axe-throwing league.”
“Will you be late?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Oh.” Her face falls. She chews her bottom lip. “Everett, is everything okay?”
“Everything is great,” I lie. “We just crushed our goal.”
“I don’t mean with the project. I mean with you. With us.” She looks me directly in the eye. “Is there anything you need to tell me?”
I swallow hard, cursing my sister. “No. Everything is fine with us. I’m just— I’m just tired.”
The attempt she makes at a smile is nearly enough to make me break down and confess. “Okay. But you’d tell me if there was something wrong, right?”
I start to say yes, but the word catches in my throat—it feels too much like a lie.
Instead of answering, I kiss her. And hate myself for it.
I corner my sister while my mom chats with a woman at the fitness center.
“You have to tell her,” I say forcefully. “I feel so fucking bad every time we’re together. I’m losing my mind.”