“It must be hard for you, though, being out of a job all of a sudden.”
“Miz Bornstein gave me a nice severance. I’m doing fine.”
“It was such a shock. I mean, I talked to him that night, and the next day he was gone.”
Jo Ellen shifted the large white box she carried to one hand and wrapped her orange scarf tighter around her neck with the other. “I seen it before. I knew he was near the end. The body just starts shutting down and there ain’t nuthin’ anyone can do.”
“It seems as though Ruth tried to provide all the latest medicine and treatments for him.”
“Miz Bornstein did everything she could. Drove me crazy sometime, but you had to admire her devotion to that man. I never seen anyone more devoted.”
And with that, she walked away, apparently done with me and our conversation.
I continued my fake stroll toward the bakery, but when I glanced over my shoulder and saw her getting on a bus, I hurried back to my car.
Cassell’s current development was off Sheepville Pike, which ran parallel to Grist Mill Road. It was a huge sprawling conglomeration that covered a couple of hundred acres. As things stood now, there was no way for the residents of Millbury to get to Sheepville other than go the long way around. North on Grist Mill, across on River Road, and south on Sheepville Pike, for a five-mile trip. If the builder won the parcel on Grist Mill abutting the top end of his development, it would provide access for people to cut through to Sheepville. I could see why some people were for his proposal, and if I was completely truthful, I had to admit it would be convenient, especially in the winter months, but it would destroy the dreamy old-world approach to our village.
I found Beau Cassell standing next to a construction trailer, smoking a cigar. He wore jeans and work boots, but the jeans were a pristine dark blue and his gold watch glittered in the sunlight. Sort of like a gentleman farmer from days gone by.
When I suggested that he step out of the bidding on Glory Farm for the sake of historic preservation, he laughed so hard, he choked on his cigar smoke.
“You’ve got to be kidding, lady. That farmland in Millbury is prime real estate. Not only that, do you have any idea of how much money I’ve spent already on engineering? On plats and surveys, and now for a goddamn traffic study? This is business.”
I bit my lip. To invest his own funds to that extent, he must have a reasonable assurance he would get the variance approved.
A crane swung a roof-truss system into place over one new home. Down the block were units in various stages of development, some with their frames of prebuilt wall panels already standing, some with poured basements waiting for their wooden skeletons. Workers were yelling indistinguishable instructions to one another over the cacophony of the pop of a nail gun, the beeping of a truck in reverse, the clang of metal meeting metal.
“And what are you bleeding hearts going to use it for?” He held up a hand. “Wait, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, it’s a waste of good ground.”
“A community center for the children,” I said, raising my voice above the din while struggling to hold on to my temper. “Perhaps a battered women’s shelter, too.”
“Oh, that’s just great. Bringing in delinquents who’ll cause no end of trouble? That’ll go over big with the Board of Supervisors.”
“Those women are trying to get away from trouble! They’re not delinquents, they’re victims.” I took a deep breath. “Look, what about all the beautiful open land in Bucks County that’s disappearing with this type of development? Don’t you care about the environment?”
Cassell pointed the glowing stub of his cigar at me. “People always blame the builder, but these townships only have themselves to blame. They’re the ones who mandate huge lots and frontage. Buyers these days insist on having their one acre, or more, for their custom builds. I’m proposing a cluster of townhomes that not only provides affordable housing, but also makes the most efficient use of the land.”