Turn Over:A Secret Baby Sports Romance(42)

"What is your plan when the development starts?"         

     



 

She pulled on the side of the chair, tugging at a piece of vinyl that  had come loose. "Is it a done deal? Do you know for sure it's going to  be sold?"

I shook my head. "I only know that the land is for sale for the first  time in eighty years. There are multiple bidders who have been invited  to participate in a closed auction. It hasn't sold yet, but it looks  like there are plenty of interested parties."

"Bastards," she muttered.

"Do you know where you and Lindy will move?" The question wasn't for the  story. I wanted to know where she would go with her curly-headed  daughter.

"I'll figure something out. I always do. But she's supposed to start  school in Port Isabel in the fall, and I don't want that to change. Her  life shouldn't be uprooted because of greed. That's what this is you  know? Greed."

It wasn't my place to comment on the story. I was here to find the  facts, or in this case present the human interest side of facts. I  doubted Shawn's story would make a bit of difference to the family  selling the land. I rose, feeling the beads of sweat sticking behind my  knees.

"Thank you for answering my questions. I might be back before this is  all over." I smiled weakly. "Would it be ok if I stopped by again?"

"Sure. No problem."

The camper door opened and Lindy poked her head outside. "Mama, I'm still hungry."

Shawna turned toward her daughter. "Well, let's get something else for you to eat."

I watched as she shuttled her inside and wondered what would happen to  them when the construction crew rolled in here to level this place.

I bet the developer never thought about people like Shawna. People who  worked hard just to put a roof over their child's head. People who had  made memories in this campground. First steps. First loves. It was all  going to be plowed under.

Arnie Cratchett was waiting for me on his front stoop. He was wearing a  pair of leather boots, dark denim jeans and a plaid shirt that looked  like if it went through the washing machine one more time it would lose  the last traces of color.

"I've been waiting for a reporter to get down here for two weeks. Two  weeks." He spit into a cup from the side of his mouth. His lower lip  protruded with a heaping wad of tobacco.

"Hi, Mr. Cratchett. Nice to meet you. We spoke on the phone a few days ago. I'm Sydney."

"Come on in. It's too hot to sit outside." He held the screen door for me.

I was relieved this interview would be inside. I was all for roughing  the elements to get a story, but I was willing to try that on a cooler  day.

Inside I could hear the air conditioner humming, and I stepped closer to  feel the cold air blow from the ceiling vents. Arnie's camper was neat  and sparse. A pot of coffee was the only thing on the kitchen counter.

He scratched the patch of silver hair above his ears. "Why don't you sit?"

"Thank you." I sat in the chair closest to the vent. "I appreciate that  you want to discuss the land development of Beach Combers Cove-"

"They are crooked crooks. A bunch of money hungry, unscrupulous, nasty, lying, selfish-"

It was my turn to interrupt him. I couldn't report slanderous comments  in a story. "Mr. Cratchett, I was hoping you could tell me a little bit  about how long you've lived here."

He waved his hand in the air. "No one wants to hear about that. What  they need to know is about underhanded business deals happening in their  own back yards."

"I think our readers would like to hear your story." I could tell this  interview was going to be a struggle. "How did you organize the  anti-development rally?"

"What they need to know is this island is being destroyed. Pretty soon  the only piece of sand that's going to be left is from what the wind  blows in here. They're tearing down the whole place." His cheeks turned a  deep crimson color. "This land is nothing like what it used to be."

I tried to smile. "How many people would you say are a part of your  organization?" I clicked the tip of my pen, waiting for his response.         

     



 

He touched the plastic cup to his lips and I tried not to make a face when I heard him spit.

"I don't keep track. Whoever is mad as hell like I am can join us."

"But, Mr. Cratchett, you said you were going to organize a march through  the island all the way to City Hall. Surely you have some idea if  people are going to show up."

"The problem here is greed. The filthy rich are doing what they always do."

I sighed. Arnie rambled on about the atrocities of big business, never stopping to actually answer my questions.

After thirty minutes of listening to him explain how corrupt the  developers were, I made an excuse of needing to return to the office to  meet my deadline. There was a tiny bit of truth there.

I sat in my car, letting the air blow directly on my face. I was never  going to get used to this kind of heat. I fished my phone out of my bag  and called the office.

"Hey, Hannah. Is Alice in?"

The News & Record receptionist patched me through without responding.

"Alice," my editor answered quickly.

"It's Sydney. The development story isn't really panning out. Mr.  Cratchett is a cranky lunatic. We can't use him. There's no set date for  a rally or march to City Hall."

She huffed, "Then find another angle. Your deadline is coming up."

I chewed on my lip. "I don't know if there is a story here. I don't know  who the developers are yet. Maybe I should wait until the deal goes  through, and then I could write about that."

"You are the reporter. Find out who is making the bids. Talk to some of  the developers. We need both sides of this. Go get the story."

"Right. Ok, I'm on it."

"Good. Don't come back in the office until you have something. Your deadline is five. Today."

"Got it. Don't worry, Alice. I'll bring in something we can use." I hung  up and looked at the phone in my hand. Instead of getting guidance, the  conversation bordered on a lecture from my new boss.

It wasn't anything like working for the Longmire Daily. There we  supported each other. Helped each other find sources. We even  brainstormed story ideas. Granted, we did eat too much pizza. At the  Record it was a fend-for-yourself kind of newsroom.

Arnie Cratchett was supposed to be the ringleader for the  anti-development supporters. I didn't have a single quote from him I  could use that wouldn't put the story at risk. I could incorporate  Shawna's story, but she didn't have the background or the leadership  information I needed to explain the two positions. Her struggle would  make a great feature down the road, but right now I needed facts. I  needed something newsworthy.

I pulled out of the trailer park with little information I could use for  a story and a deadline I had to meet by tonight. My stomach growled,  and I knew before I could do anything I had to eat lunch.





3





Mason





I looked at my watch again. It was Italian, handcrafted after my trip to  Milan in the spring. The leather was soft but strong. The hands were  thin blades of platinum that kept perfect time with the gears. It didn't  matter where the damn thing came from-he was late. I didn't like  waiting for anyone. Commissioner or CEO-I didn't wait.

I motioned to the waitress to refill my iced tea. I would give him five more minutes.

"Anything else I can get you while you wait?" she asked. I looked over  her shoulder and saw that cute little reporter at the hostess stand. For  a split second I wondered if she had followed me here.

"No, I think I'm good." I smiled.

The reporter followed the hostess through a maze of tables. I watched  her navigate on those high heels. Her legs were long and slender. Still  gorgeous. Still a reporter.

As they approached she shoved her sunglasses on her head.

"What are you doing here?" She looked startled.

"I have a lunch meeting. What about you, Miss Paige?"

She turned toward the hostess. "I'll find my table in a second."

"I'm having a lunch. I like this part of the beach. The view is nice here don't you think?"

"It is. Very pretty. Dining alone?"

"I am. I'm working on a story. Who is your meeting with?"         

     



 

I pushed the menu to the edge of the table. "Why? Thinking about writing about my lunch habits?"

"Since I don't know your name that's going to be difficult." She lowered  herself in the seat across from me, her eyes set in determination.

"I have a meeting." I pointed to where she sat. "You're in someone's seat."

"Why don't I keep you company until he or she shows up? Maybe you could  tell me what your involvement is in the Beach Combers Cove development  while we wait."

I laughed. "I'm afraid that's not going to happen. I don't mix business and pleasure."