“Just like Glory Farm, my land is my 401(k)!” one man shouted. “It’s all I have to take care of my retirement. It’s builders like Cassell here who are going to pay me what it’s worth. We need to work with them instead of the municipality stonewalling and taking money out of my pocket!”
“That old retirement nest egg line has been heard enough times around here,” Angus muttered to me and Eleanor. “It’s a personal dig that works well. Plays on the board’s sympathy.”
We looked at each other in dismay. This meeting wasn’t going according to plan. Not at all.
Next it was Warren’s turn, and I crossed my fingers.
“The farmland is the buffer between our historic village and the new construction that’s happening all over Bucks County,” he began in his measured tone. “Many villages have already been lost to growth and development. How many other farms like this one have disappeared? Gone for good. Do you realize that we’ve lost almost seventy percent of our open land since 1950?”
I could see heads nodding in the audience. Warren had a quiet intelligence that made people calm down and listen.
“Wider roads have spelled the death of villages that sit at a crossroads like ours. Where a blacksmith’s shop or a tavern used to be, it’s now a strip mall or gas station. And let’s not forget skyrocketing school taxes. A new development adds about five thousand dollars per child to the tax burden on a township.”
The audience was spellbound, the court stenographer rapidly taking down every word, and I grinned at Eleanor. This was more like it.
Now it was the builder’s turn at bat. Beau Cassell was an attractive man and a smooth speaker, but a faint flush on his cheeks hinted at high blood pressure and a volatile temperament.
“New development can offer affordable housing to your township without changing its character. As you’ve seen, my plans have been carefully designed to provide for a limited number of units, as well as keeping back five of the thirty acres for open space. The plan also included renderings of the exteriors, and much care was put into façades to blend with the environment.”
Right. As if his vinyl boxes could compare to a village of historic homes. Especially the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse he would raze with his development.
I watched one of the younger women chewing on her lip thoughtfully, as if an affordable condo would fit the bill for her. I knew that a lot of young people preferred new construction. This generation didn’t want to deal with redoing kitchens or stripping off wallpaper. They wanted any place they bought to be move-in ready.
“You’re welcome to visit any of my completed developments and see how well we have assimilated our designs into the landscape.”
“Your houses are crap!” came a shout from the back of the room. “Shoddy construction that could kill someone. You oughta be ashamed of yourself!”
Frank Fowler, the township’s solicitor, patted his balding forehead with his handkerchief. He looked a little under the weather, his pale skin more colorless than usual.
More voices chimed in. It became obvious that a contingent of homeowners who lived in Cassell-constructed homes had shown up with serious axes to grind. I recognized Jim McIntire, the husband who had been mad with jealousy over his wife’s infatuation with the photographer, and who had been beeping frantically outside the garage on the night of the calendar shoot. “Cassell never finished half the stuff on our punch list after we moved in!” he yelled.
“Slaps them up, takes the money, and doesn’t care that they fall apart a year later,” another one shouted.
I saw a muscle clench in Beau Cassell’s cheek, the flush noticeable even through the tan.