FIFTEEN Confrontation
T he Bluster Town Hall does not deserve a name so grand. It’s the same clapboard bungalow that has housed the mayor’s office and other administrative work since Bluster was organized enough to have somebody in charge. It’s kept up well and gets a fresh coat of bright blue paint and white trim every five years or so, but as far as I know, there hasn’t been a serious push to renovate, remodel, or even replace it since central air conditioning was installed somewhere around the Eighties.
No room in that bungalow is anywhere near big enough to hold an actual town meeting, so those are held in the sanctuary of the Coastal Christian Church, the only church in downtown Bluster, sitting right across Windward Street from the town hall.
To be clear, most town meetings are not well attended. They’re held monthly, no matter what business there is to discuss, and a lot of the time, that business is not what you might call captivating. There’s a handful of diehards, mostly elderly, who show up no matter what, but aside from them, usually the only people who show are the mayor, his secretary, the other four members of the town council, and anybody with a vested interest in some item on the published agenda. Most of the time, the council members talk among themselves in an echoing church sanctuary, with maybe ten people sitting in the pews as an audience.
But occasionally, once or twice a year, some item comes up that everybody has an opinion about, or is just curious about, and then the sanctuary fills up.
That hadn’t changed while I was away.
When Roman parked his fancy electric truck in the church parking lot, he had to take a spot against the fence in the back, and the meeting wasn’t due to start for almost fifteen minutes. This meeting might end up being standing room only.
Surprised at the attendance, I pulled my phone out and found the agenda on the town website.
Roman saw what I was doing and chuckled. “It’s you, Leo. I told you, you’re on everybody’s tongue since you’ve been back.”
“That’s so weird to me.”
He turned to me, his brow in a quizzical fold. “I know you’re not surprised people are interested you’re back.”
“No, not that.” I put my phone away; the agenda was not especially interesting, and I wasn’t even on it. I meant to speak during the open forum. “I was ready, before we got here, to face down ... I don’t know, an angry mob or something. Torches and pitchforks. But I’ve been around now almost two weeks, and everybody’s been either openly nice or simply indifferent to me. I thought maybe people didn’t care so much.” Erin had been hostile, but she had good reason.
As I had that thought, I decided I needed to try to talk to her again soon.
“People care, hon. Like I told you, they want to know what you’re up to, and everybody figured you’d show up tonight.”
“I know, I know. We talked about this the other day. But it’s just weird to me that anybody thinks I’m so interesting.”
Now he smiled. “Well, I personally find you fascinating.” He let that sit for a second before he added, “But you remember what this town is like. Everybody’s in everybody’s business, and the people with lives they can’t wedge their noses into are more intriguing than any outsider. Leo, you’ve been the focus of interest around here your whole life. There’s always been some mystery around the Sea-Mist. Marilyn wasn’t exactly a joiner.”
That made me chuckle, but not with the same humor Roman had expressed. “She wasn’t a hermit, either. She ran a business, for fuck’s sake. People knew her.” I sighed. “But yeah, I get your point. She didn’t really have anybody she considered a friend.”
He nodded. “There was a lot of guesswork happening back then, and when you left that only got more intense. Marilyn opened up a little bit after you left, if only to make you out the bad guy. So be prepared, okay?”
None of this was shocking or even unexpected news, but I was about to stroll into the lion’s den. Of course my mother would tell a story about how terrible I was, how ungrateful and selfish and whatever else. I stared out the windshield, wondering if maybe I should just take Manfred’s offer and get the fuck out of here after all.
Then Roman picked up my hand. “They’re interested, not hostile. And I’m here for you. It’ll be okay.”
I folded my fingers over his. “I know. Thank you.” I took a big breath and huffed it out. “Okay. Let’s get it over with.”
I THINK ENTERING THE church with Roman’s hand at the small of my back might have been as exciting to the people of Bluster as my simple presence was. Certainly the people nearly filling the pews were as focused on him as they were on me.
I won’t lie; I enjoyed that a lot. Like I said, Roman’s been the town heartthrob since he was old enough to carry the title. He’d told me over dinner that he’d had a few dates in the past couple of years but hadn’t been serious with anyone since he lost Carla and Gabriel. So it felt pretty nice to have him at my side for this performance of the Return of the Braddock, or whatever people thought made me so interesting.
I felt like I had my own personal knight in shining armor. Sir Galahad.
Not that the Coastal Christian Church is worthy to hold Arthur’s round table. Like the town hall, the church is historic and humble. A windswept, whitewashed clapboard church with a simple steeple atop a gable roof. No stained glass, no marble statues of saints, just a simple little house for God. It would make a great model for a church in one of those Christmas town figurine setups.
In fact, Bluster really shows out at Christmas, and the church is the centerpiece of that snowless wonderland.
But it was August and, though the night had its usual coastal chill, the church sanctuary was stuffy and humid. Quite a few buildings on the NorCal coast, residential or otherwise, don’t have AC. The church is among those, and the place was packed. All those bodies generated some damp heat.
On the actual agenda were blockbuster items like whether to add a second day of trash collection two weeks each month, a discussion of the bids for repainting the town welcome signs, and whether to allocate funds to replace with more stable poles the traffic lights at the one intersection in town that still had lights swinging on cables.
Roman was right; I was the item of interest.
With that in mind, I grabbed his hand and strode straight down the aisle to the front pews, smiling an unbothered greeting at anyone I made eye contact with. I went all the way to the first pew on the left side and sat down right in the middle. I busied myself perusing the agenda on my phone. There were paper versions in a stack on a chair near where the altar usually was (it was now the council table), but I didn’t want to get up again to get one.
When Roman sat beside me, I could feel his regard. I turned and found him looking over at my phone, wearing a soft, gently smug smirk.
“You look smug,” I muttered from the side of my mouth.
“I’d rather call it proud,” he muttered back. “I’m with the most interesting woman in town.”
“Gross,” I complained lightheartedly, and he sat back with a rumbling chuckle.
We’d arrived late enough that by the time we sat down, the council members were ready to take their seats. When Mayor Holt gaveled the meeting open, I looked over my shoulder to scan the pews. Lots of people looking at me, a good percentage of whom smiled when they saw me looking. But as far as I could tell, no Darryl Manfred.
“I don’t think Manfred’s here,” I told Roman when I sat back again.
He turned to look as well. “That’s good, right?” he asked when he was looking forward again.
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect.”
Mayor Holt is a big fan of Robert’s Rules of Order, and that hadn’t changed while I was away—yes, he’s been mayor all that time, something like thirty years of winning elections—so the meeting started with approving the minutes from the previous meeting, then reading off a few information items (volunteers were needed to work the Bluster BBQ booth at the Del Norte County Harvest Festival in September; Bob Riggs was retiring and looking for a buyer for his commercial fishing boat, the College Tuition; and the Del Norte Players were holding auditions for Cabaret , the fall musical—I made a mental note to tell Wyatt about that one).
Then it was time for Open Forum. When Mayor Holt called for anyone who wanted to speak, I didn’t hesitate for even a breath. I stood immediately and said, “I’d like to speak, Mayor. I’m Leo Braddock.”
My name faded into utter silence. Before I’d stood, the sanctuary hadn’t been noisy, but it hadn’t been quiet, either. You know how it is in a space like that—nobody in the pews was intentionally trying to make noise, everybody was more or less paying attention to the reason they were there, but also people were whispering to each other here and there, or coughing and sniffling, or shuffling papers about, or shrugging out of their jackets, or trying to get their kids quiet ... you know what I mean.
But when I stood and announced myself, the whole damned place got so quiet it was like the church had been suddenly packed in cotton.
In that dense silence, Mayor Holt smiled warmly at me and said, “Welcome back, Leo. Amelie will be right over with the microphone.”
Amelie, a cute teen whom I didn’t recognize, trotted over to me. She handed me the mic and stepped a few steps back, staying close with the power pack hanging from her shoulder, a cable running to the mic in my hand.
Bluetooth mics exist, of course, but the Bluster town council hasn’t yet seen fit to allocate those funds. I’m sure it’ll get onto an agenda eventually, and the old folks can complain about it.
“Hi, Mayor Holt,” I said into the mic. Then I turned to face the rest of the people present. “And hi, everybody else. I think I know most of you, and I probably know some I’m just not recognizing. But hi.”
A pretty decent wave of sound rose as people returned my greeting. No pitchforks yet. Or spitballs, rotten fruit, or other projectiles. Not even a raspberry blown. Good result.
Feeling awkward nonetheless, I did a dumb little wave and turned back to the council table. “I just wanted to let everybody know that I’m back. I’m with my son, Wyatt, who I just registered for tenth grade at the high school. We’re hoping to get the Sea-Mist open again if we can—we’re still trying to figure out everything we need to do to make that happen, and if we can afford it all, but that’s the plan. That’s all I wanted to say—just to let people know what we’re hoping to do. If we come up on something we need to consult with the council with, I’ll make sure to ask for it to be on the agenda of a future meeting. Wyatt already loves it here.”
I hadn’t planned that last sentence, and now it probably sounded like I was singling him out because I didn’t share the sentiment, so I added, “And I’m happy to be back.”
“I’d like to speak!” came a booming voice from the back of the room. A voice I’d heard only once but recognized immediately. Everybody looked in that direction and saw Darryl Manfred striding down the aisle.
Amelie reached for the mic, but I pulled back a bit and shook my head. She made a little Oh, sorry, thought you were done gesture. Fifteen seconds earlier, I’d also thought I was done. However, the only scenario in which I might have ceded the floor to that asshole would have required my sudden unconsciousness.
I turned to Manfred, looked him straight in the eyes, and said into the mic—loudly—“I’m still speaking.”
He pulled up at the head of the aisle and gave me a villain’s grin, that smirk the bad guy in movies always wears that says I am going to love making you suffer.
I stared at him stonily. I’d lived a whole childhood at the mercy of a cruel asshole. While Manfred might have scared me a little, there was no chance in any hell I’d show it.
Mayor Holt cleared his throat. He had a mic clipped to his lapel. “Leo has the floor,” he said. “Any other speakers will have their turn after she’s finished.”
Manfred bowed and made an ushering gesture with his hand and arm, like he was making way for a lady. He really was an asshole. Grade-A Prime.
So I had the floor, but I’d said what I wanted to say, which was simply that yeah, we were planning to try to open the Sea-Mist again. So there were a few seconds where everyone sat staring at me while I frantically scurried around in my brain trying to figure out what I should keep saying.
My brain grabbed at a thought, and all at once I knew how to proceed. I didn’t know then if it was something I should say, but I definitely wanted to.
“The other day, Wyatt and I came back home from registering him at the high school, and there was a strange car parked in front of our cabin. We didn’t see anyone around up front, so we did a turn through the property. We found this man”—I pointed at Manfred like I was about to shout J’accuse! —“trespassing. He was standing in Cottage 12, acting like he belonged there. When I told him I was the owner and he wasn’t welcome, he made it very clear that he felt entitled to the property. So I want to make it equally clear right here in front of everyone: The Sea-Mist is mine. I am my mother’s heir. My son and I intend to stay in Bluster. We intend to get the Sea-Mist back in shape and open the business again. In the event that something happens to change that plan and I decide to sell, I will not be interested in any offer from Darryl Manfred or anyone he represents.”
With that, I handed the mic to Amelie and sat down. Roman took my hand and leaned close to whisper into my ear. “That was excellent !”
Flush with pride, and anxiety, I smiled and squeezed his hand. “Thanks.”
Unfortunately, that little moment of self-satisfaction didn’t last long. Manfred had the mic.
His tone now was markedly different from the way he’d spoken to me the other day. There was no hint of condescension, threat, or irritation in his voice now. He sounded like a perfectly reasonable man only trying to conduct his business.
“My name is Darryl Manfred. Many of you are familiar with me—I’ve been to a few of these town meetings over the past few years. If you are familiar with me, you know that I have, indeed, been trying to secure a purchase of the Sea-Mist. Mrs. Braddock and I had come to terms, but she passed—God rest her soul—before we could finalize the deal. Since then, until just two weeks ago, that beautiful property sat neglected. Miss Braddock here says the Sea-Mist is hers, but she didn’t care when her mother was sick, or when she died, and she didn’t care about the property for years afterward. Even so, of course she is currently the legal owner of the Sea-Mist. The law doesn’t care if children are good to their parents.”
Roman’s fingers tightened around mine, but I barely noticed. I was focused on Manfred, and I saw the flicker of venom in his smile now. I didn’t care about his dumb dig, but he had something else up his sleeve, I could tell.
His eyes locked with mine, and that poison smile sharpened. “I know Miss Braddock has a lot of things going on. She’s just arrived, she’s living with her child in a cabin that’s sat neglected for years, and she’s got serious financial issues stemming from bad investments by her deceased husband. And there’s significant damage to at least one of the cottages, which might, in fact, need to be razed and rebuilt. With all that going on, probably she forgot that property taxes accrue whether or not a property is in use. Mrs. Braddock had fallen behind already before she died. It’s one of the reasons she was so glad for my offer. The bill is now significant, and more than five years in arrears.” Throwing me a subtle, nasty wink, Manfred turned to face the council table. “I wonder, Mayor Holt, has the town sent Miss Braddock a tax bill yet, and if so, has she paid it?”
My hand went slack in Roman’s hold. In fact I had forgotten about property taxes. Also, I now understood how and why Manfred had been scheming to get the property out from under me. If the bill was five years unpaid, it wasn’t eminent domain he was trying to use.
It was foreclosure.
The mayor looked at me as he answered. “I won’t discuss billing matters with private citizens in a town meeting.”
His expression was gentle, and I understood that he was trying to give me some cover. I appreciated that, but my insides were on fire with panic. Five years of unpaid taxes on a thirty-acre property in Northern California? I didn’t know the amount, but it had to be well into five figures, if not more. There was no way I could pay that.
Foreclosure. Again. I couldn’t go through that again.
“Property taxes are public record, Jerry,” Manfred said, his tone more pointed now.
“But billing matters are not. Do you have other business for the open forum, Mr. Manfred?”
Manfred stared at the mayor long enough for the silence to become rhetorical. Then, with a brisk nod, he handed the mic back to Amelie and strode back up the aisle, past scores of fascinated townspeople, and straight out the door.
As Amelie hurried off to the next person with their hand up, the mayor gave me a paternal smile and mouthed We’ll talk .
I nodded, but I was really scared. If I had to pay that bill soon and in full, I was screwed.