McFall Page 14

  For emphasis, Heather slapped her palm on the vinyl notebook that held the almost four-hundred-page document. She was the only board member who regularly brought her UDO to the meetings, although a reference copy stood on a shelf in the corner, beneath the American flag.

  “The UDO’s just a guideline, not the Gospel,” Willard said, as Kaufman yawned and snuck a look at his iPhone. “We can choose to override any or all of the ordinances if the project is in the best interests of Pickett County.”

  Heather shook her head. “No way. The articles clearly state that variances can only be granted if there is proof that they won’t have a negative impact. We haven’t been given any proof of that.”

  McFall gave her the type of smile that a weary, patient father might muster for a wayward child. “You have my word, Miss Fowler.”

  Heather flung up her hands. “A promise hardly counts as proof.”

  Kaufman and Willard started talking at the same time. Stu Hartley, a carpenter and usually reticent board member who always voted with Extine no matter the issue, even threw in a comment, saying, “This here project looks like a win-win to me.”

  Heather raised her voice, horrified at her own shrillness. “But the septic lines—”

  “That’s only the first phase,” McFall said. “Once we raise some revenue on lot sales, we’re building a small sewage treatment plant down by the river.”

  The same river I saved when Titusville wanted to tap it for more drinking water? Over my DEAD BODY.

  Heather’s lip quivered with rage, and she could have sworn McFall smirked. Kaufman and Willard were still rambling, and Extine employed the unheard-of measure of banging his gavel three times on the walnut surface of the table. The rapping was as dramatic as gunshots in the small conference room.

  In the ensuing silence, Extine said, “A treatment plant is the best and cheapest option. I amend our approval to include a provision to allow such a plant, contingent upon any state and federal approval, of course.”

  The vein in her temple was throbbing so mightily, Heather thought she was going to have a stroke. “We haven’t approved anything yet!”

  “If there are no objections, can I hear a motion?” Extine said.

  Willard raised his hand like a grade-school student who was pleased to deliver the correct answer to a math problem. “I move that we—”

  “We can’t just grant a blanket variance because Mr. McFall gave us his word,” Heather interrupted.

  “Yes, we can,” Willard said. “It’s in the UDO. Article 7, Section F. The last item.”

  Even a public servant as dedicated and obsessed as Heather could hardly be expected to read—much less memorize—hundreds of pages of dense legalese. But she was familiar with Article 7 because it was basically a summary of the board’s powers and limitations. She flipped through her notebook, eager to show the other board members that they had no authority to allow McFall to do whatever he wanted.

  She had a good feel for the spirit of the article, which she’d been planning to use as fodder for her argument against McFall’s ambitious—and maliciously greedy—design. While the final article granted the board some leeway in granting variances, she was confident that the board’s powers were limited.

  What she read at the bottom of the article shocked her:

  The planning board may, by a majority vote, grant approval for any project if such a project is deemed in the best interests of Pickett County, regardless of whether the project meets other requirements of the Unified Development Ordinance.

  Heather squinted at the words. Was she going mad? She’d never seen that article before, and if she had, she would have immediately brought it before the county commission to have it struck from the document. What was the point of crafting a thick planning document and then essentially rendering it useless if three of the five board members wanted it that way?

  She glared at Baldemar Francisco. “When was this UDO amendment passed?”

  “It’s always been there,” he said.

  “No. Even the ink looks fresher than the rest of the page. Like it’s been typed out today. And this has been in my desk drawer since the last meeting.”

  “Are you feeling okay, Miss Fowler?” Extine said, although his tone lacked any compassion.

  Heather ignored him, still pressing Francisco. “This article would never pass legal muster if someone kicked it to a state civil court. Can the county assume that kind of liability?”

  The lawyer cleared his throat. “I’m not here tonight in my capacity as county attorney. I am representing Mr. McFall.”

  McFall didn’t even smile—he just sat there as innocent as a lamb. “That’s a conflict of interest,” Heather said to the attorney.

  “No, it would only be a conflict if I was representing both parties. Tonight I’m only representing Mr. McFall.”

  Heather couldn’t even begin to assail such a willfully ignorant position. Unlike many people, she didn’t consider lawyers the equivalent of snakes and cockroaches. Justice was built on the rule of law, and orderly society depended upon a widely accepted standard of behaviors. If those were taken away, well…

  Then anyone could do exactly what they wanted. Such as build a development at twice the density the property could reasonably sustain.

  “We have a motion on the floor,” Extine said. “Approve McFall Meadows as submitted, with an amendment to permit a sewage treatment plant according to the owner’s specifications.”

  “I object,” Heather said, pushing away from the table and stomping across the room to check the copy of the UDO sitting on the shelf. As she flipped to the proper section, Kaufman said, “I’m missing ‘American Idol’ for this?”

  Heather nearly dropped the bulky notebook when she saw it held the same strange language as her own. She couldn’t believe such a passage had slipped through under her watch. She was failing the very constituents she’d promised to protect.

  Like Larkin McFall, though, all she had given was her word. And words could apparently be changed without warning

  “All in favor?” Extine said.

  “Aye,” said Willard, Kaufman, and Hartley in unison. Extine echoed his own approval, Heather could have sworn that even Francisco threw in a bonus “Aye.”

  “Project passes,” Extine said.

  “Nay,” Heather said, still standing, the notebook against her hip. The project would pass anyway, but she wanted her objection noted for the record, because she was pretty sure one of the local environmental groups would challenge the decision at some point.

  “Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” McFall said. “I’d really prefer the appearance of unanimous support.”

  “I don’t like the precedent this is setting,” Heather said. “The next developer to walk into this room is going to expect the same carte blanche to do whatever they want.”

  “I don’t know about no cart whatever, but if this is a precedent, I say we need more of it,” Hartley said. “This is going to put some good people to work and bring money into this town. Mister McFall deserves a pat on the back, not somebody trying to slap him down for trying to help other folks.”

  Heather was surprised Hartley had that many words in his vocabulary. She looked at the blank faces around her, from Willard to Extine to Kaufman, then at Francisco, who was already shoveling his papers into a leather satchel.

  “Sure you won’t change your vote?” Extine asked her.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Motion carries, four-one. Can I hear a motion to adjourn the meeting?”

  After formalities, Extine banged the gavel again. As Francisco and the other board members filed out, Larkin McFall sidled over to Heather. “Does the UDO say anything about trespassing?”

  “Don’t rub it in. This isn’t over yet.”

  “Oh, I know. It’s just getting started.”

  His words unsettled her, although they weren’t weighted with any obvious menace. They might even have been a pleasantry, like the gentle v
olley of two friends warming up for a tennis match. Still, Heather didn’t like the look in his eyes. The earlier possessiveness she’d seen on the mountaintop, when he’d accused her of trespassing, had shifted into a gleam that she might have called hunger.

  She blushed, hoping it was anger and not shame that warmed her cheeks. She shoved the UDO back on the shelf and collected her own notebook, while McFall bent over and whispered in the secretary’s ear. It was an intimate moment that made Heather uncomfortable, even more so when the secretary giggled.

  “Can I get a copy of the draft minutes when they’re ready?” Heather asked the secretary.

  “Sure, Miss Fowler,” the secretary said. Like many females who worked for the county, the secretary was a traditionalist who accepted a male-dominated power structure without hesitation. That attitude usually marched in lockstep with a resentment of Heather, as if she were trying on trousers while all the other women were wearing pretty skirts.

  “Can I escort you to your car?” McFall said to Heather. “The recent deaths in town were accidents, of course, but it never hurts to play it safe.”

  Yes, it does. It ALWAYS hurts. But I’ve come to believe it hurts either way.

  “No, thank you,” she said.

  “I wish you’d quit fighting me. We’re on the same side. I really do have the county’s best interests at heart.”

  “Making millions and destroying mountains while patting yourself on the back. Color me unimpressed.”

  “Miss Fowler …” He paused and lowered his voice so the secretary couldn’t hear his husky whisper. “Heather.”

  She looked at his face, then at his wedding ring. “Good night.”

  But it wasn’t. It wasn’t a good night at all.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “So, you gonna ask her?” Bobby asked Ronnie.

  “Ask who?”

  “Don’t play dumb. You know what I mean.”

  “She’s probably already going with somebody. You know how girls are.” Although Ronnie believed nobody knew how girls are, which was the problem.

  “The dance is tomorrow night, so if you want to go for it, you’d better jump.”

  “Last time I jumped, I found a dead guy.”

  “Well, there won’t be any dead guys at the dance,” Bobby said. “Unless Melanie suddenly turns into a witch and pulls a ‘Carrie.’”

  They were loading fence posts and boards into the back of Bobby’s pickup in front of Lemly’s Building Supply. Larkin McFall had hired Bobby to work after school now that baseball season was over, and Bobby had arranged for Ronnie to get a job, too. Ronnie wasn’t sure how he felt about working for a McFall, but since his dad and half the town now seemed to be on the guy’s payroll, he figured he might as well sock away a little extra money for college. Besides, it beat the heck out of mowing grass for Dex’s dad.

  “What about you?” Ronnie asked, eager to change the subject. “Did you hook up with Amy Extine yet?”

  “She’s going with Brett Summers,” Bobby said.

  “That sucks. He’s a real dickhead.”

  “Well, his dad’s an insurance agent who drives a BMW, so what can you do?”

  Bobby had a point, but Ronnie wasn’t ready to let his friend go down in flames. Especially since he wanted Bobby to be interested in someone besides Melanie. “What can you do? You’re a rock-n-roller. Look at all the chicks Dex scores. Heck, even if you got some of his leftovers.…”

  Bobby slammed a fence post into the bed of the truck so hard that some rust flaked off the bumper. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. You think I’m worried about girls? No, I’m worried about delivering a tight gig. I want the band to be solid. We’ve been practicing a lot, but if Jimmy Dale shows up drunk again, we’re screwed.”

  “I wished I’d learned to play an instrument,” Ronnie said. “I wasted my time with the piccolo. Can’t really stick it to the man with a little tin whistle.”

  “Never too old to rock'n'roll, unless you’re the Rolling Stones zombie patrol,” Bobby said, removing his leather gloves and pushing down on the back of the pickup. “That’s about all the weight I want to carry. If we hit a pothole, the shocks will snap.”

  Bobby accepted the bill of sale after a clerk totaled the order, and Ronnie could see that his friend was proud to have the responsibility. Larkin McFall apparently trusted him to sign for materials and track his own hours. “That’s ‘McFall,’” Bobby said to the clerk. “Put it on his account. M-C-F-A—”

  “I know who McFall is,” said the smug clerk, who wasn’t much older than they were. He was probably a recent dropout. “He’s the only one buying building materials right now.”

  “Don’t forget who signs your paycheck,” Bobby said.

  As they drove out of Titusville, the pickup grumbling in protest over the heavy load, Bobby said, “So, are you afraid of Melanie or something? Scared she’ll shoot you down?”

  That was exactly what Ronnie feared. As long as there was uncertainty, he could content himself with dreams, fantasies, and hopes. The unknown still offered luscious possibilities. But her rejection would be final. He couldn’t really comprehend life after that. He knew it was goofy, even pathetic, but Ronnie’s suppressed adoration of Melanie was one of the most real and reliable foundations of his life.

  “She won’t shoot me down,” Ronnie said. “I just want to be respectful.”

  “She’s nice, but she’s no Amy Extine, that’s for sure.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Have you seen Amy’s hooters? I swear—she grew a full cup size this year. Or else she had surgery.”

  “Considering what an asshole her rich old man is, I wouldn’t put it past either of them. Trophy daughter.”

  “C’mon, now, dawg, you can’t rag on the home team,” Bobby said, some of the humor falling out of his voice. “Her dad’s in league with Larkin McFall. In a way, that means we’re working for Extine, too.”

  “Crap,” Ronnie said. “Talk about six degrees of suckage.”

  “Anyway, I got all summer to chase Amy. She’s bound to get bored with Brett sooner or later. So, what do we do about Melanie?”

  Ronnie’s gut clenched. Was it time for them to finally have “the talk”? The one they’d been avoiding for more than a year?

  The fantasy is better than the reality. Besides, she kissed you. Even if it was just your cheek, her lips were warm and “sweet.”

  “Why do we have to do anything?” Ronnie asked.

  “Well, if she’s going to go to the dance with you, we need to come up with a plan. Make you look good. Win her over.”

  Ronnie was confused. Bobby had gone out with Melanie at least four times he knew about, and probably more that he didn’t. They hadn’t quite become a “thing” in the high school hallways, but there was enough chemistry between them that a few of the jocks taunted Bobby about it, asking how far and how often and how deep and all that other asshole talk. The rumors had made Ronnie’s head roar and his chest ache, even though he knew Bobby was a good dude and—unlike the other jocks—wouldn’t treat her like a piece of meat.

  “Well, part of it is I’m embarrassed about my wheels,” Ronnie said.

  “Your wheels? That’s your mom’s van. That’s worse than if that piece of shit was actually yours.”

  “You’re one to talk,” Ronnie said. “Look at the steam coming out from under the hood.”

  “That’s just the radiator,” Bobby said. “Overheating a little from dragging this pile of wood up the hill.”

  “You should charge McFall extra for the wear and tear.”

  Bobby downshifted as they ascended a steep grade, the engine whining and sputtering. “That’s not a bad idea. If you ask Melanie to the dance, I’ll ask McFall if we can use one of his new trucks.”

  “You’re serious?”

  Bobby looked over at him. “Are you?”

  “I’ve got to get my nerve up.”

  “Try it out.”

  “Huh?�
�� The truck had topped the ridge and Highway 321 wound rapidly down toward the river and the bridge, the afternoon sun glinting off the big windows in the Riverview development. Ronnie felt the first tickling sensations of dread.

  “Pretend I’m Melanie,” Bobby said.

  “That’s weird, dude. I’m not gay.”

  “If I were gay, I bet you would be.” Bobby laughed and punched his arm, and then grew serious. “I know Melanie pretty well. Better than you, for sure.…”

  The statement was true, and it made Ronnie jealous, and it also made a strange kind of sense. Bobby gave a coaxing, “Come on. Just give it a try.”

  “Okay.” Neither of them had a cell phone, but Ronnie put one hand to his cheek, a pinky to his mouth and a thumb to his ear. “Buh-rinnng. Buh-rinnng.”

  “Hey, this is Melanie,” Bobby said, in a pretty decent imitation of Melanie’s high-pitched voice. “Who is it?”

  Ronnie couldn’t believe he was this nervous just faking it. He couldn’t even imagine pulling off the real thing. “Huh-hi, this is Ruh-ronnie.”

  Bobby shifted back to his usual voice. “Who the hell is Ruh-ronnie?”

  Ronnie tried again. “Hi, Melanie. How ya doing? This is Ronnie.”

  “Ronnie who?” Bobby mocked, now back in Melanie’s voice. Ronnie punched him on the arm. The bridge was coming up, and he hoped Bobby wouldn’t say anything about Darnell Absher’s corpse.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to go to the dance with me,” Ronnie said, his anxiety over the bridge and the river mixing with his anxiety over Melanie, blooming into a chaotic cascade of thoughts and emotions.

  I’m such a weirdo, and I’m NEVER gonna get laid.

  “No, no, no,” said Bobby. “It’s like petting a baby goat. You don’t just run up to it with your arm sticking out. You have to let it get used to you first, relax a little. You have to warm up to it.”

  Of course, Bobby was right. And Ronnie couldn’t help imagining Bobby and Melanie out on a date, going home after the movies. Had Bobby pulled over by the bridge in the dark and petted her like a baby goat?

  “Okay, I’ll make some stupid small talk about math.”