Thomas Kinkade's Cape Light Page 7

  “You told me to get involved,” Lillian reminded her before she could protest. “Practically dared me, I recall. I hear there’s going to be a very large turnout. Should be quite interesting.”

  Emily shook her head. “Mother, this tactic is beyond transparent. Beyond even your usual manipulation. You realize that, don’t you?”

  Lillian feigned an innocent, even injured, look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Ezra has a cold. You saw him. Otherwise, he would have driven me. That’s what I planned. I suppose you can just drop me there. I might find someone to give me a lift back to town, or call a taxi. Either way, I mean to put my shoulder to the wheel, Emily. Not just spout a lot of fine words about the situation.”

  Her tone made Emily sigh. Her mother knew very well that Emily would never drop her off and drive away. The Elks Lodge was quite a few miles outside of the village. It would be hard to get a taxi to go out there.

  “I’ll stay and wait for you, but I’m not participating. I’m sitting this one out,” Emily reminded her mother.

  “You’ve made yourself perfectly clear. No need to get huffy. You can stay in the car if you like, check your email. But I guess you don’t get nearly as much anymore, since you lost the election. That must leave a lot of time free.”

  “Yes, it does.” Emily forced a smile but didn’t say more.

  A short time later, they pulled into the parking lot of the Elks Lodge. There were more cars than Emily had expected, and she hoped she could stay under the radar, but her hopes were short-lived.

  “Mayor Warwick! So glad you could come.” A woman at the door beamed as she handed them agendas.

  I should have worn a floppy hat and sunglasses. I’ll have to remember to keep some in the car.

  “Just call me Emily, please. I’m a private citizen now.”

  “But concerned about this issue, as we well know,” a man nearby replied. He stood at a table, handing out copies of news articles about the issue. Emily recognized him—Martin Becker, a history teacher at the high school. She also recognized the headlines, some trumpeting the arguments against new zoning she had made during her campaign.

  Emily smiled back and moved her mother along.

  “You should have no qualms about keeping your title. Don’t they still call former presidents ‘Mr. President’?”

  “Mother, don’t be absurd. This isn’t Washington, D.C.”

  Emily quickly chose seats for them at the back of the room but, of course, her mother preferred to sit up front. “I can’t hear a thing otherwise. You know that,” she insisted, pushing ahead to the front of the room.

  “All right, you sit up there if you like. I’ll see you later,” Emily countered, determined to keep her distance from this situation, both figuratively and literally.

  Lillian looked cross as Emily walked away, but didn’t argue.

  Emily settled in a distant spot and reviewed the agenda. She was still annoyed about the way her mother had tricked her into coming, but was secretly interested to see what would go on. Could the group organize and block Charlie Bates and the pro-zoning crew? She hoped so. She worried about the future of the village; all of its historic charm and character was at stake. Everything that made Cape Light . . . well, Cape Light.

  Martin Becker and Marion Ross, the woman who had greeted everyone at the door, were up front, running the meeting. They sat at a long table, along with three others. Martin Becker introduced himself.

  He seemed intelligent and serious. An argyle vest under a tweed jacket gave him an academic air, along with wire-rim glasses and gray brush-cut hair.

  “Thank you all for coming. I hope that you’re all ready and willing to fight the changes in the zoning laws that our new mayor supports. We believe these changes will ruin our town’s charming, unique character. They will also bring down our property values and harm the wildlife that now thrives in this area.

  “The question is, how can we block the group that is determined to push through these changes? Unfortunately, they have the new mayor on their side, as well as most of the town council. This issue is at the top of their to-do list. We do not have much time to organize and fight it. We have to strike back fast and efficiently.”

  Emily knew this was true. A number of tactics came to mind, but she was determined not to speak. She waited to see what others would suggest.

  A few hands went up in the audience, and suggestions were offered—from collecting signatures to holding back on real estate taxes. Not bad ideas, Emily thought, but not time-effective.

  “Maybe we should dump some fake tea in the harbor . . . as a protest,” one man said. “I bet we would get some news coverage.” Probably, Emily thought, though she doubted the theatrics would do anything to block the zoning changes.

  A woman in the front row stood up. Emily recognized Grace Hegman, who owned Bramble Antiques Shop. “I’m sorry to seem uninformed, but can you please explain how Mayor Bates and the town council can change the zoning? Don’t the village residents have to vote on a question this important?”

  “That’s true,” Martin said. “A vote of all residents must be called. But with their majority, they’ll easily pass a call for a vote. And likely set a date within a month or two—before we can get the real facts out to everyone who might vote against the change once they know the true consequences. If the vote were held today, Mayor Bates and his group would likely win. Otherwise Bates wouldn’t have been elected.”

  Emily felt her face flush with embarrassment. When she lost the election, it had been more than a personal defeat. She had let the town down. She had left them unprotected from this disastrous possibility.

  Martin suddenly realized his faux pas and looked embarrassed. “Sorry, Mayor Warwick. Former mayor, I mean,” he mumbled into the microphone. “No slight intended. You had my vote and, I’d guess, the votes of many others in this room.”

  Everyone turned to look at her, and Emily forced a smile. “No need for a show of hands. I trust you,” she called out, making everyone laugh. “Just to clarify, what Mr. Becker said is true. That’s the way it will likely go in Village Hall. Starting with the next council meeting on December fifth, I expect this issue will be discussed. The council will decide then to call a vote on zoning changes that will allow more commercial building.”

  “Yes, that’s right, first Monday of every month. I was just getting to that,” Martin Becker quickly added. “The meeting is Monday, December fifth, at six thirty in Village Hall, open to everyone. We need a big turnout and need to voice our opposition. Any other suggestions, Mayor Warwick?”

  Everyone looked her way again. Emily felt put on the spot, which was exactly what she had not wanted to happen. Her mother caught her eye, smiling and nodding, looking very pleased that her plan had worked out after all.

  “Should we get T-shirts and signs made?” one woman asked. “I think that makes a big impression. You can really see how many people are united in the same cause. Red, maybe? With white letters—SOS. ‘Save Our Open Spaces.’”

  It wasn’t exactly an acronym. There was an extra O in there, Emily noticed. But she didn’t bother to point that out.

  “That’s an idea,” she replied, “but you probably want to focus on a fact sheet. Before the meeting, get it into the hands of as many people as you can and urge them to come to the Village Hall meeting. The flyer should state the points against this idea, plain and simple. It takes a long time for information like this to penetrate and sway opinions. You have to make a real push there.”

  A job my campaign didn’t do all that well, she nearly added.

  “Excellent points,” Martin said. “We need to have volunteers out every day—at the train station, the post office, and the markets—handing out fact sheets and explaining our position. We’ll have a sign-up sheet at this table right after the meeting.”

  A hand popped up, and Martin recogn
ized a new speaker. Emily quietly sighed. So much for sitting here like a fly on the wall. You were a very noisy one, she scolded herself.

  Now she had the problem of stepping back—gracefully or awkwardly. She would be disappointing everyone here who thought she was jumping into this effort with them, heart and soul.

  Would it be so bad to take part? Just a little?

  Dan won’t like it. He won’t even like knowing that I came here today. But I can blame my mother.

  When the meeting ended, Emily managed to snag Lillian and escort her out of the building without anyone stopping them to talk.

  Once in the car, Emily felt herself fuming. She took a moment to collect her patience as she carefully steered out of the parking lot.

  “I thought it went very well. You gave them some good advice,” Lillian said. “Why bother with T-shirts? Silly window dressing. We need to get the word out, get more citizens on board. That’s the only way to beat Bates and his crowd.” When Emily didn’t answer, she added, “I’m glad to see you’ve come to your senses. I knew you’d never be able to watch from the sidelines, Emily. It’s not your style.”

  Emily gripped the steering wheel hard to keep from raising her voice. “I know you think you’ve tricked me into joining this group. But you’re wrong. I offered a few remarks to help out. Mainly because everyone was staring at me.”

  “Tish-tosh. You know you enjoyed it. You could have stepped up and taken the microphone from that Bentley fellow and—”

  “Becker. His name is Martin Becker.”

  “Whatever. You could have stepped into his place, and no one would have objected. In fact, I think even he would have been pleased. Will you let them down now? They think you’re signed on to fight the good fight. You certainly made that impression. Some part of you at least must want to join in.”

  “I’m not going back, so don’t try this again,” Emily said smoothly. “It won’t work twice.”

  “It was a straightforward request, not subterfuge in the least. I resent your accusation. It’s most unfair,” Lillian complained.

  They drove silently for a few minutes, her mother’s head turned toward her window in a stiff pose as she stared out at the tall marsh grass that bordered the Beach Road. Mostly brown this time of year, the thick patches of reeds stretched for miles, swaying gently in the wind, breaking here and there to reveal a pool of water or muddy flats.

  A flock of birds rose from the brush and swooped gracefully across the clear sky. Emily’s gaze followed them, her heart growing lighter at the sight.

  Her mother heaved a heavy sigh. “Suit yourself, Emily. You always do. But don’t be surprised if by the time you’re ready to come back to politics—and I have no doubt that day will arrive—you’ll find an outlet mall on this very road, and the nesting grounds for the osprey and snapping turtles and all those fine, delicate creatures out there will be covered with condo units. This is an important moment. Mark my words, people will remember what you do, and don’t do, right now.”

  Emily did not reply, though she knew there was more than a grain of truth in her mother’s goading. But she also knew that Lillian had drawn a great deal of pride and status from being the mother of the mayor. She clearly felt a great loss to her own identity with Emily’s defeat. If her daughter couldn’t be mayor right now, at least she could lead the charge against Charlie Bates.

  But what sense would it make to confront her mother about that and open yet another can of worms? Emily was sure her mother would deny those motives, the same way she denied tricking Emily into attending the meeting.

  Emily pulled into her mother’s driveway. “I’ll help you to the door,” she said.

  Lillian got out of the car, leaning heavily on her cane. “I’m fine. I’ve kept you away from . . . well, from whatever you’d rather do today . . . for too long. I can see that.”

  Emily was about to fire back a tart reply, her patience fraying totally, when she spotted Ezra coming down the walk to meet them. “Here’s Ezra. He’ll help you in,” she said simply. “Good-bye, Mother. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Lillian straightened her spine. “I shall. I’m going to make some calls and get some people from church over to the next meeting. I’m with the rabble-rousers now. You know, I’ve changed my mind. I hope they do give out red T-shirts. I’ll be proud to wear one.”

  Emily smiled at the very idea. She had never seen her mother wearing a T-shirt, much less one with a slogan on it. Perhaps if it was made of cashmere or satin? That might work.

  “I’m going to the next meeting on Wednesday. If you don’t want to drive me, and Ezra is unable, I’ll call a cab,” Lillian said.

  “You should plan on that,” Emily agreed. “I’ll be busy. Jane has a volleyball game that day. I promised I’d watch her play.”

  Her mother tilted her head back, looking stung. “Yes, very important. Good luck to you both.” She turned and headed to the door, her cane steadying slow steps.

  Ezra stood halfway down the walk, waiting for his wife. He waved, and Emily waved back. Normally, she would go inside and say hello, but today she felt relieved to back out of the driveway and head straight home. The meeting had been only an hour, maybe less. But Emily felt as if she’d been out with her mother for days on end.

  * * *

  “Slow today, especially for a Sunday afternoon. I guess everyone’s home, eating their turkey leftovers,” Charlie said. He wore his reading glasses balanced on the tip of his nose, his gaze fixed on a letter that was typed on Village Hall stationery.

  “Maybe we should close early, Dad,” Zoey suggested. “I have a ton of studying and papers to work on. Finals are coming soon.”

  Zoey had noticed that her father had his own pile of homework, stacks of folders and papers he carried around with him, ever since he had started as mayor. He often left them on the counter or in some other inconvenient spot. It was a miracle that his official documents did not end up splattered with ketchup or drowned in coffee.

  But what he had said at their Thanksgiving dinner was true. It was hard for him to run the diner and Village Hall, too. He was either flipping burgers or flipping the pages of a building inspector’s report.

  “We’ll see how it goes,” he replied in the vague way parents always did. He slipped the letter in a folder and let his glasses hang on the cord around his neck. “Wipe down all the menus and refill the napkin holders, will you, Zoey?” He turned his head and squinted at the busboy. “Scotty, you come back into the kitchen with me once you’ve emptied that rack. I’ve got another job for you.”

  Zoey had already wiped the menus. Charlie had obviously forgotten. Though the order was a good sign. They might close early, after all. She gathered up the menus, along with the napkin holders.

  She had been hoping to read a few pages from a textbook she had stashed near the cash register. No luck with that plan. Her father didn’t like to see any of his employees idle for even a minute. The mere possibility really got under his skin, even though he stole plenty of downtime now to keep up with his village duties.

  She was in the midst of jamming a wad of napkins into a particularly stubborn holder when a customer walked in. Zoey looked up and nearly sprayed napkins all over the diner, but saved herself from complete mortification just in time.

  James Potter met her surprised expression and smiled. “Hey, Zoey. You work here?”

  “I do,” she said lightly. “Sit down anywhere. I’ll get a menu.” He was alone. Where was Sophie? And why wasn’t he on a train or a bus headed to New York by now?

  He smiled again, then chose a table near the window. He hung his thick leather jacket on the back of a chair and took a small notebook and his phone out of one of the pockets before he sat down. He wore a nubby gray sweater that was a bit worn but looked just right on him. His thick hair was windblown, and he smoothed it back with his hand.

  Zoey
walked to the other side of the counter to grab a menu and a glass of ice water. She snuck a tube of lip gloss from her pocket and swiped some on. Not that all the makeup in the world could do anything to hide her geeky uniform—complete with a ruffled apron and the ugly black sneakers she had to wear for kitchen work.

  I looked so cute in church, in my black skirt and boots. Why can’t I ever run into this guy when I look half decent?

  She set the menu and water in front of him. “There are some specials on the board. Not that anything we serve is actually special,” she added quietly.

  He laughed. “At least that’s honest.”

  “Why would you eat here when you can have Sophie’s cooking?”

  “My grandmother has been in one meeting after another after church today. I’ve been wandering around town, and now I’m hungry enough to eat this menu.”

  “That’s about the level of our cuisine. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Fair enough.” He glanced at the menu a moment. “How about a hamburger, medium, with lettuce, tomato, and fries?”

  “Good choice. Anything to drink?”

  “Just coffee. Black is fine.”

  Zoey marked his order on her pad. “I should have guessed. Isn’t that the way writers always drink coffee?”

  He smiled, amused by her observation. “Not always. I don’t stay up all night, drinking coffee and chain-smoking, if that’s what you think.” His smile widened, and dimples appeared in his cheeks. He really was killer cute; she tried not to stare.

  “No offense. But I haven’t thought that much about it,” she replied with a small smile, then feared her nose was going to start growing like Pinocchio’s. “I’ll put your order in.”

  “Great, thanks.” He didn’t seem offended by her quip. He opened his notebook and took out a pen and a pair of glasses. The square, black frames suddenly made him look very intellectual.