One —
Forked
Our street. At least for now.
Blanche dumped a bucket of water down Tuna Street. She watched the ripples sink into the crushed shell and didn’t even glance at the blue waves of the Gulf of Mexico lapping away on the beach. She swung the bucket back and forth furiously.
A rat skittered up a palm tree. All she could think of was Sergi Langstrom.
Something just wasn’t right about that guy. He was slick. A Bradley Cooper knockoff without true charm and a carpetbagger, to boot.
“Let’s get rid of the non-native flora,” he’d told the Island Times. “Let’s beautify paradise!”
“Really! He wants to beautify beauty?” Blanche yelled into the palm trees.
She tossed the bucket end over end, and it landed against a stand of shady Australian pines. The tall, long-needled trees were at the top of Langstrom’s hit list of “flora.” She yanked the flimsy t-shirt down over her cut-offs and grabbed her bag off the porch. The door stuttered after her as she took the steps two at a time.
She had to get to Langstrom.
I
Blanche hurried toward town, blinded by the sun slanting through the oleander hedges along Gulf Drive. Parrots squawked overhead in the canopy of treetops. She shaded her eyes and sprinted through the winding streets of the island. Her sandals slapped the road, her heart raced to keep up.
She had no idea what she was going to say to Langstrom. But she had to make it clear that he and his bunch of land-developing goons had to go before they turned the island into another magic king-dumb.
She’d get her chance soon enough. The meeting was scheduled to start in minutes. The small white clapboard building was within sight, and cars were pulling in.
She fanned away the humidity that engulfed her like she’d been running in a rain cloud. She caught her breath.
Realtor Bob Blankenship climbed out of his silver Mercedes just as Blanche bent over, hands on her knees, huffing and puffing. Bob’s polished wing-tips came into view under her nose. She popped up. His shoulders were the size of an offensive tackle’s, but he had the soft brown eyes of a teddy bear.
“Well. Blanche Murninghan!” She got a whiff of something fresh and citrusy.
“Bob!” She plucked at her wilted t-shirt. She wished she’d changed into that newis dress. Well, too late now. Her legs were rubbery, her mind worrying over the details of the upcoming meeting.
“You’re looking winded!” He laughed and took her arm as they headed toward the Santa Maria Town Hall.
“Winded. Don’t I wish that were it.”
He shook his head, but he was smiling. “We’ll get him. Never knew you to back down.”
Bob had just shaved and a nick blossomed below one round dimple in his smile. All white teeth and rosy cheeks. The October afternoon hovered at ninety, but he didn’t look it, his silk suit pressed, shirt crisp. He stopped. “Blanche, you got your notebook? You writing this one up?”
“Not this time.” She shot him a look. “What are we gonna tell him?”
“To get outta here.” He sighed.
“We need more than that.”
“Yeah, I know.”
It might help if she exposed Langstrom’s devastating plans in the Island Times. Help what? She’d tried the news-writing approach. She’d written a series of articles about the drug drops at Conchita Beach, and nada. Nothing. They were still going on. The police chief was pissed. Blanche had stirred up a lot of talk and trouble. Chief Duncan had told her to lay off and let the authorities work on it. Or else.
Her editor, Clint Wilkinson, had started in: “Now, Blanche…”
She’d stormed out of the newspaper office, leaving a befuddled boss, and headed for the Gulf to cool off. It worked, for a bit, but now she was dealing with one huge writer’s block. She’d put her part-time journalism career on hold, consumed with thoughts of Langstrom and his plans. The developer whores were taking over Santa Maria Island.
It stung, like she’d stepped in a thousand sand burrs. Writing them up in the Island Times was not going to get rid of them any time soon.
Bob pointed one finger in the air. “We need to keep after them …”
High heels clicked across the parking lot. Bob’s partner, Liza Kramer, hurried toward them in jeweled sandals, her tanned legs glowing. She wore a pink angora shell with a white leather skirt and looked like a freshly decorated cake. She was smiling, of course. Blanche’s frustration fizzled. If anyone could lighten the mood, or at least level it, it was Liza.
“You’re glowing, girl!” She gave Blanche a big hug.
“Burning is more like it.” Blanche’s face was red hot, her hair stuck to her forehead.
“You will say something in that the meeting, won’t you?”
“Well, I plan to. If I don’t kill the guy first.” Blanche bent one leg, then the other, loosening up from her toes to the knot that twisted in her stomach. “Got anything new, Liza?”
“Lots of new regs.” Liza looked sweet as a cupcake but her brain was prime cut. She held on lightly to Bob’s fingers. “I found more on permitting in the coastal zones. There’re even more restrictions than we’d figured.”
“They’ll get those permits over my dead body! Just not gonna happen. They’re dreamin’.” He smiled at her, squeezed her hand. “Liza, once again, you’re on top of it.”
“Where I like to be!” She bumped him, and his arm encircled her waist.
“Oh, jeez. I’m glad you’re so cheery.” Blanche forgot her worries for about a second, and then the quaking in her stomach started up again. She wiped the palms of her hands on the back of her shorts. “I don’t know. Those people have loads of cash. They’ll try to buy their way in.”
“They can try all they want,” said Bob. “Like I said, they’ll pay hell getting the OK for their fancy turrets and whatnot. What they’re proposing is a damn theme park. Just won’t fly.” Strong and sure, that was Bob. Blanche always thought that if he hadn’t been a realtor, he would have made a darn good preacher at Palm-a-Soula Baptist Church.
Blanche held back and looked over the crowd while Liza and Bob disappeared through the doors of the town hall. It was a good group, mostly old-timers who loved the place just the way it was.
She tried to stay positive, but as the start of the meeting drew closer, the thought of Langstrom’s disastrous plan made her crazy. He was going to destroy all of it: the habitat for migrating parrots and butterflies, the historic old clapboard cottages, the bird sanctuary. Presto! The delicate limestone aquifer that was Florida was quickly succumbing to heaps of pink and turquoise stucco—and slime and overflowing septic systems and industry that didn’t care. The sleepy manatees would be replaced with boats for the rich—zipping about with perturbing speed along the shoreline and in and out of man-made, stagnant canals. The sea grape and mangroves, home to fish and wildlife, would be gone, or at least cut to smithereens for boat docks and for the sake of a better view. She swiped a hand across her glistening forehead. He wants to get rid of the non-natives? He’s not native. We need to get rid of him. She had to make a case and hope her words didn’t come out like a boiling alphabet soup.