“It’s about time we showed off this beautiful island!” He held up an admonishing index finger. “Now, let’s get Denzel and company back here for more of those conch fritters!”
They chuckled and clapped.
Blanche was appalled.
“Before the invitations go out, we have work to do!”
There was that we again.
Sergi pointed to the drawing of a huge condo-like structure perched on an easel. It rested among an assortment of fancy watercolors and line drawings with stands of palms and globs of greenery and flowers. He’d spent a fortune on the posters. Money. A flood of it already.
“Just for starters. Here’s something along the lines of what we propose…A real beauty.” Langstrom tapped the rendering of a house that had crept through the permitting process and gone up almost overnight—a light tan stucco monolith with orange shutters and a green barrel-tiled roof, Tiffany glass and brass coach lamps. It was finished off with white filigreed arches and balconies facing the Gulf. Hideous. At the end of the deck, the builder had attached a purplish-grey guesthouse. Like a wart.
Somehow, the developer had snuck in under the radar and put up the monstrosity of a model.
It set off Blanche’s alarm. She knew the location well. The house, as big as a hotel, was plopped beach side on Sycamore Avenue, cutting off the view for several modest cottages that stretched between Fir and Elm. It put them all in the shade where there had once been sun. And now Langstrom was proposing more of the same—an abominable disconnect from Santa Maria Island. She could only fear what such a plan would do to Tuna Street—if they got their hands on it.
No one moved. It was as if they were hypnotized, watching a dazzling infomercial, or a train wreck from which they could not look away. He smiled, flourishing the pointer like a magic wand.
We are doomed…
“We are prepared,” he said, “to offer large sums for your homes.” His index finger circled an orange shutter. He drew dollar signs in the air.
“What if we don’t want large sums for our homes? How ‘bout we like things just the way they are!” It was Jess Blythe, who owned the gas station and was famous for the chicken salad in his deli. “In case you haven’t noticed, our island suits us fine, thank you very much.”
Langstrom’s expression cracked.
Would he dare slice Jess’s objection to ribbons?
Jess didn’t let him in. “I want to keep my place. Just the way it is.” Each word ticked up until he was shouting. He checked his neighbors. They nodded. “I don’t get your motivation, unless it’s to make money off our backs.”
He balled up a fist in his faded baseball cap and tilted back on his heels. His business had grown from a driftwood lean-to into a booming car repair and towing service, and he and his wife, Sue, were not about to let it go. They lived next door in a bright yellow stucco ranch, built in the early ‘20s, a tangle of purple verbena and firebush blazing up the crushed shell path. The buildings sat right on the edge of Langstrom’s first stage of development in the center of Santa Maria.
Now Jess didn’t budge. He had a lot to lose, should the plan be approved. He’d be dwarfed by six-story condos and eight-thousand-square-foot houses, cut out of the sun and view in the shadow of monsters. He shifted from one boot to the other.
Langstrom flashed those white teeth again. Blanche was reminded of a shark, the one that snatched a three-year-old in about a foot of water. Tragic. Unexpected.
“Well, I understand,” he said. “What did you say your name is, sir?”
“I didn’t.”
Langstrom put a fist in his chin.
“Name’s Jess Blythe.”
“Well, Mr. Blythe, let’s look on the bright side, why don’t we. What’s best for everyone? Are you aware of eminent domain and…”
That was as far as he got.
Jess yanked up his jeans with his forearms and gave his baseball cap a whack. “I don’t want to hear about your ‘eminent domain.’ You can put that where the sun don’t shine. And don’t talk about the bright side of this because there ain’t none. You’re not very bright if you think tearing down our houses is going to improve paradise.”
The grumbling started up. Blanche had the slender hope they might run him out of town right now.
But Sergi’s voice dipped. Coaxing. “We don’t want to tear down paradise, Mr. Blythe. We want to grow it!”
“Huh,” said Jess. “I guess we’re pretty much all growed up.” He plunked the cap back on his unruly hair. “That’s what I’m thinkin’.” Sue patted his arm.
Heat crept up Blanche’s neck. She sprang from her seat and caught her sandal on the bottom rung of the chair. It clattered out from under her. The chair came to rest on the toes of a startled resident.
“Ouch!” It was Marietta Gantley.
“I’ll say,” Jess shouted.
Langstrom didn’t move, except for one eyebrow.
Three —
Hush, Money
“I’m so sorry.” Blanche peered at Marietta’s foot and recovered her balance. She was already making a mess of it, and she’d lost the thought. She squinted at Langstrom. Hot determination rushed through her veins.
He folded his arms. She caught the hint of a smile.
“Eminent domain can mean only one thing.” Her voice screeched. “The rich will benefit. They’ll buy up those properties along the beach and get richer in the bargain. And who will benefit then? You, and that bunch of hairballs from Chicago?” She sucked in her breath. She hadn’t meant to call them what they were, but she couldn’t help herself. Her filter often malfunctioned.
Langstrom grinned, somewhat tightly. Or was that a smirk? “Well, Ms…?
“Murninghan. That’s M-U-R-N-I-N-G-H-A-N. Blanche Murninghan, pronounced Monahan, if you wish.”
“I wish.”
Now what is that supposed to mean? Is he serious? Flirting? Blanche didn’t know what to think because rage burned a hole in her brain. Those two little words: I wish.
“What is so amusing?”
“Nothing, really, but I understand how you might…”
“Please. Enough with the sales pitch! This plan of yours will kill animals. Trees! Just about everything on this island! Killers, that’s what you people are.”
What the hell is wrong with me? I can’t stop.
Langstrom turned a shade paler. The crowd whispered, and the room closed up around her. She needed to get out of there. Her mind escaped to the sunset at the north point and the manatees at the pier, the circling gulls, and Tuna Street. She wanted the night to end. But she was trapped, and she had put herself right in the middle of it.
“No. That is not our intention, Miss Murninghan. We are not killers. Thou shall not kill, nor steal—We won’t kill anything, or anyone.”
The biblical reference infuriated her. “Yet you want to risk it.”
“Improve, not destroy. We want to bring jobs to Santa Maria. Infrastructure. Broader tax base. Large sums for your homes and businesses.”
“Large sums.” That reference to money again. It sent an odd current through the room. She could feel it like she’d touched the short in her old living room lamp. It took only minutes, and then she realized the horror of it: They were mesmerized at hearing that their property was gold. The murmuring stopped. Silence spun through dead air with not a sound of protest.