Faith knew the house. It was an eyesore wedged between two beautiful turn-of-the-century grandes dames, completely destroying one of Aleford’s prettiest corners. Now instead of a long stretch of rolling lawn with huge ancient oaks and locusts, you saw a two-car garage almost as big as the house itself—a house boasting two decks and a gazebo.
“Bonnie is home with the baby for a few more weeks.” Lora was thinking out loud. “And I can go over there after school. I haven’t seen the baby in ages.”
“Good.” Tom sounded satisfied. He wasn’t convinced Joey Madsen was making the calls, but this way, someone related to Lora would know about them and perhaps be able to get her to take action. If by chance it was Joey, Bonnie would indeed put a stop to it immediately. Bonnie Madsen resembled her patriar-chal grandfather. And there was no question who would assume his role in the future, despite the number of aunts, uncles, cousins all within shouting distance. Bonnie worked for Deane Properties, too, and her latest coup was a new mall development project in nearby Byford. She’d gone into labor an hour after the papers were signed. Gus was still telling the story proudly all over town.
“I’m sure she’ll understand,” Faith said. “Women have moved far beyond the stage where their financial decisions are dictated by men. If you don’t think Alefordiana Estates is a good investment, then you shouldn’t be pressured—even by someone in your own family.”
“Oh, I think it’s a good investment,” Lora said.
“Joey’s going to make a ton of money. I have nothing against the idea personally. I just don’t want to put my money there right now.”
Faith looked at Tom dismally—a politically incorrect damsel in distress.
Lora left, thoughts apparently back to circle time and “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands.” Faith and Tom were less sanguine.
“Were you being discreet or do you really not know much about Brad Hallowell?” Tom asked his wife.
“I really don’t, but the more I think about this whole thing, the more likely it seems that the calls are from him.”
“Hell has no fury—in this case—like a man scorned?”
“Exactly, and I’m worried about where that fury might lead next. Eventually, he’s going to be driven to make good on his threat,” she added.
“Lora was genuinely frightened when she arrived, quite hysterical.”
“But you calmed her down,” Faith commented somewhat archly.
Tom thought it was time to change the subject. He was getting a little tired of Miss Lora. He yawned and reached for Faith. “It’s getting late. Sleepy?”
“Not all that much,” she answered, fitting her head into the place just below his chin that seemed to have been designed for it.
Later, when she was drifting off to sleep, Faith realized she hadn’t told Tom much about the selectmen’s meeting. Now that Town Meeting had adjourned, Aleford, formerly glued to the local-access cable channel, had had nothing to watch on TV. Seinfeld was into reruns and all those stacks of must-read books next to the bed weren’t as enticing as they had seemed during the cold of winter. It was the itchiness of spring.
Then, just when Aleford was ready to give up and pick up their tomes, Alefordiana Estates came along.
As a saga, it was more riveting than Melrose Place and the Nibelungen rolled into one. It was enacted not just at selectmen’s meetings but also at the planning board’s. Then there were all the behind-the-scenes scenes at the Minuteman Café, Shop ’n Save, the library, Patriot Drug—wherever two or three Aleford residents happened to gather. Tonight’s selectmen’s meeting was the first of Joey Madsen’s final presentations of his plans, his dreams. He’d already run the gauntlet of the planning board and various town commissions. Even he was not naïve enough to think they would be approved on the first go-round, and he was right.
Joey and his lawyer had dressed appropriately in dark suits. But the resemblance ended there. Joey was a large man with a thick mat of curly brown hair, beginning to show a dusting of gray. His round face was tanned and his skin was rough. He always seemed to need a shave, even tonight, when a fresh nick in his chin had indicated a recent encounter with a razor.
But it was his hands that stood out—enormous hands, with fingers easily equaling two of Faith’s. Strong, very strong hands. His lawyer had the look of an old Yankee family in need of fewer cousins marrying.
Everything about him was bleached out, from his complexion to his thinning blond hair. He wore a signet ring. Joey’s hands were conspicuously bare of even a wedding band.
Joey had done the talking, flinging over the large blueprints, citing drainage studies, setbacks—all according to code, and with minimal wildlife impact. At home, he’d said to his wife, Bonnie, “When the rac-coons are in their garbage, they’re on the phone to Charley MacIsaac right away. But put them in a god-forsaken bog that nobody’s thought about for years and suddenly it’s like they’re about to become extinct or something.”
In front of the camera at the meeting, however, his tone had been measured and controlled. He spoke in glowing terms of the new families the Estates would bring to Aleford, contributing their talents to the community and enriching everyone’s lives. At one point, he seemed to get a bit choked up as he spoke of “a new generation of children waiting to enjoy the riches of our historic community.” Viewers at home were able to hear, although not see, a speaker who commented audibly that there weren’t too many families with young children around who could afford $900,000 mansions. Of course, it was Millicent Revere McKinley’s unmistakable voice, and people began to get excited. The show was about to begin. Joey had frowned but hadn’t missed a beat as he segued into a paean to those older occupants who had worked hard all their lives just so they could spend their golden years in a place like Alefordiana. “And their gold,” said the voice. The chairman called for order.
When Joey’s presentation was over, it was time for questions from the board, but before any of them could open his or her mouth, Millicent hopped up and cried, “Point of order!” in a manner worthy of her “The British are coming” ancestor, if indeed that was what he’d said. As with most things, there were several opinions on this in Aleford.
Penelope Bartlett, the current chairman of the board, looked a bit piqued. Millicent was a friend, but toying with the selectmen’s agenda was pushing the boundaries of friendship.
“Yes, Miss McKinley?”
Citing precedent, a 1912 discussion of new shrub-bery on the village green, Millicent demanded equal time.
“But equal time for what?” Penny asked. “It is the understanding of the board that only Mr. Madsen is submitting building plans tonight.”
“Equal time to oppose his plans.” Millicent had been Penny’s campaign manager, and now she shook her head sorrowfully. Once they get in power . . .
“Madam Chairman,” Morris Phyfe, one of the two liberals on the board, spoke up, “I believe Miss McKinley is within her rights.” Historically, the board comprised two liberals, two moderates, and one conservative. This kept things nicely in balance, the town believed, and campaigns not in accord had little chance.
Millicent made a motion from the floor to vote on the issue. Penny was now seriously annoyed and forgot her Robert’s Rules. “Millicent, you know you can’t do that.”
Morris came to the rescue and made the motion himself that the board vote on Miss McKinley’s point.
Faith noted that Morris was fulfilling his duty not only as protector of free speech but perhaps also as protector of his own property, which abutted the land in question. It could well be the Phyfes were not eager to have a multimillion-dollar complex-cum-pool and putting green in their own backyard.