Cheryl had a number of such reminders before moving on to new business. “The Morrisons have raised the issue of the high schoolers. Again.”
This got a murmur from the crowd. Paul straightened up from his earlier lazy sprawl. Ah. Maybe he wasn’t here about my decorating after all. And undoubtedly, he sided with the only residents who were possibly bigger scrooges than him. The Morrisons lived to complain. This time it was about the increasing number of young people who were cutting through the park to reach the high school on the other side and trudging across the shared green space maintained by the neighborhood association. The lack of a formal path meant they left muddy footprints and trash in their wake.
“We need to fence off the area.” Mr. Morrison went right to his preferred solution for everything. “Close access. Post signs. Big signs.”
“Yes, that’s one idea.” Cheryl’s tone was way nicer than he deserved. “Proper signage is always a good first step.”
“This is a problem. We can’t keep letting them strut on through like they own the place.” Morrison’s rant got several nods from the crowd.
“Sure we can,” Paul spoke clearly from his spot, not bothering to stand or raise his hand, but he had the sort of voice that when he spoke, people tended to listen. Deep. Gravelly. Working-class Philly with a little hint of Jersey. His sort of blunt directness always impressed me, the way a tell-it-like-it-is person could cut through a lot of game playing and posturing.
And this was a stunning turn of events. My head whipped toward Morrison, eager to see how he’d respond. Paul taking the side of the high schoolers caused wide eyes all around the room and more than one swift intake of breath. High drama for a Tuesday night around here.
“Let them continue to cut through?” Morrison’s skin was getting all splotchy pink and a sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. “We can’t make it that easy on them.”
“They’re kids.” Paul shrugged, completely unmoved by Morrison’s bluster. “They’re trying to get to the school fast, often in bad weather. Let them cut through. But let’s make it even easier.”
“Easier? Why would we do that?”
“Now, Ernest, let’s hear Paul’s idea.” Cheryl made a sit-down motion with her hand that Morrison ignored.
“What you need is a path. A real path. Add a trash can at each end to handle the litter issue.”
“Paths cost money.” Cheryl spoke before Morrison or someone else could. The community center itself was held together with love and a lot of rusty screws, many years removed from its humble midcentury origins. The greater township never had enough spare budget for parks and rec for the neighborhoods.
“Yup. Any sort of landscaping is going to have costs. But so do fences.” Paul had a sharp look for Morrison. “And it would be a short path. Quick project. My guys can do it, on us. It’s a slow enough time of year for our crew that we can do it between other jobs. If we hurry, we can get it in before it gets too cold to pour concrete.”
Even Cheryl’s experienced eyes went wide at that. Grumpy Mr. Frost had a heart? For late-running high school students, no less? I’d known he was a contractor from his large truck emblazoned with his Frost Construction & Landscaping logo, but this was unexpected generosity from a guy who glared if my trash cans were a few inches out of line on our shared driveway.
“You’d donate a path?” Cheryl clarified.
“Yep. That’s what I said.” Paul rubbed his neck as if maybe public speaking wasn’t his favorite activity. “It’s work for my crew, keeps us busy. And it will look better than a fence, which the kids would likely jump anyway.”
This got a murmur of agreement from a large portion of the audience.
“Well, I suppose it’s worth bringing to the improvements committee for a vote. Maybe something can be scared up for materials expenses.” Cheryl gave a decisive nod. Her stamp of approval meant the project was likely a done deal. Apparently none too happy about this turn of events, Morrison went harumphing his way toward the exit, his long-suffering wife trailing after him.
“Wait!” Cheryl called after him. “Gideon Holiday was about to speak. Don’t you want to hear the neighborhood decorating plans?”
“Don’t need to.” Older with saggy jowls, his scowl was a lot less interesting than Paul’s. And they were the only neighbors as uninclined toward the holidays, what with their house’s lone spindly reindeer lawn ornament and same ancient wreath each year. Morrison was also one to loudly rant about others’ displays, complaining excessive lights and decor were eyesores. And he had endless things to say about the traffic it brought to the neighborhood.
Paul, on the other hand, wasn’t a complainer. Somehow his lack of participation didn’t feel as mean-spirited. More like he simply wasn’t interested, but this year, I had a plan for that. And after discovering that he had a bigger heart than I’d originally thought, I was even more optimistic that my efforts might be successful at long last.
Knowing he had something of a soft spot for younger people, I looked right at Paul when it was my turn to speak. The specifics of the lighting schedule could wait. Instead, I waxed poetic about the children’s programming here at the center we were collecting donations for from visitors who would come to see our displays. We’d also collect food and unwrapped new toys for needy families.
I was super passionate about obtaining more support for the community center’s efforts, but meeting Paul’s sharp hazel eyes as I delivered my appeal was a mistake. There was a reason I tried not to look too hard or too long at the guy. All that stubbly gray hotness had a tendency to make me fumble my words and tried my careful composure.
“The box will go in the toys.” I blinked at my bungling of the point. “Er. Toys. In the box.”
Get a grip, Gideon. I had to look away from Paul and fast. He already thought I was the nutty Holiday guy. I didn’t need him thinking locking gazes with him was enough to trip me up like a high schooler with a crush. Even if it was.
“The kids need our help, and by working together, we can ensure our display makes all the best of the area lists. More visitors equals more donations. The charitable giving committee says requests for help are way up this year, and they need all the assistance we can give them.” There. I finished strong, but Paul didn’t seem particularly moved, glancing down at his phone and shifting in his seat. Maybe he was simply too polite to follow Morrison out the door.
His disinterest didn’t faze me. I had a plan B, C, and D where Paul Frost was concerned, and I wasn’t giving up quite yet.
Chapter Two
Have you seen the muddy mess of footprints in the open space? I spotted two girls cutting through it again this morning. Something must be done before the snow starts. ~Ernest Morrison posted to the What’s Up Neighbor app
Paul
I’d said what I’d come to say. Neighbors worried about a little mud and some footprints needed to chill out. These meetings were hardly my usual style, but as a contractor, I also wasn’t unused to planning commissions and zoning boards. I could have left my objections at how ugly and unnecessary additional fencing would be, but I’d known Cheryl wouldn’t be able to resist the free labor offer.