“At least,” I went on, my heart filling with disappointment, “I should’ve known it when the commissioners stopped the proceedings the other night without a vote. They didn’t have the courage to vote in public. They probably hoped we wouldn’t notice it in the paper and . . .” I snatched up the paper and scanned the article. “Did you see this? Sam, the vote was five to zero—every last one of them voted to grant the variance! I can’t believe this! Not a one of them has a grain of sense.”
Lillian, between wild swings of my arms, slid a plate of eggs and bacon before me, then quickly stepped back.
“Well, now, hold on, honey,” Sam said, his voice hoarse with whatever he’d come down with. “Look, they didn’t actually grant the variance that was asked for. What they did was grant a conditional-use permit.”
“Which means what?”
“Well, it allows an otherwise nonpermitted use of a property—a use that’s not covered by the zoning laws.”
“That sounds like a variance to me.”
“No,” Sam said, a far-off, thinking look on his face. “Actually, it opens the door to a wider use than a specific variance would have—just what I was afraid they’d do. I’d have to see exactly how it’s worded, but it could cover the entire block. See, Julia,” he said, turning to look directly at me, “a conditional-use permit is based on the commissioners’ determination that the new use would be in the public interest.”
“I expect,” I said with some bitterness, “that Madge could make a case that providing a home for homeless children is in the public interest.”
“I’m sure she could, but don’t you see? There’re a lot of other things that could be described as in the public interest as well. Think about it, honey, that block could accommodate a county office building, a strip mall, a school, an auditorium for cultural events. I can think of a number of things that the commissioners could defend as being better for the town than individual ownership of a few houses.”
“Oh, my word,” I said, the possibilities multiplying in my mind. “That sounds like a government takeover of the entire block! Is that what’s going on?”
“No, it’s not an eminent domain situation—at least, not yet. But it does seem that those Ridgetop people have more in mind than one little house for a nonprofit organization.”
“But, Sam, even if they do have more in mind, what about the Pickenses? They’d still have to be dealt with—they’ll still be a holdout.”
“Not,” he said, darkly, “if their property is condemned as standing in the way of the public interest.”
I jumped straight up from my chair, startling Lillian, who was approaching with the coffeepot. “I’ve got to talk to Mildred.”
And, with a swirl of my bathrobe, off I went, leaving eggs cooling on my plate and coffee doing the same in my cup.
—
“Okay,” Mildred said after I’d explained what Sam had said about a conditional-use permit. “Then we have to get in and do our thing right away. But if the Pickerells, the Winsteads, and Jan Osborne will accept, say, five to ten thousand above what they’ve been offered, we’ll still have Madge’s group home sitting right where it is. Right?”
“That’s right,” I said, nodding even though she couldn’t see me, “because neither Madge nor her board owns it. Ridgetop Corporation is listed as the owner, and I’ll bet you money that it’s this Ridgetop group that’s trying to buy the rest of the block. But if we buy those properties out from under them, all they’d have would be the Cochran house. And what would they do with that?
“Listen, Mildred,” I went on, “the way it looks to me is this: Ridgetop wants the whole block, and Madge’s group was put there to make the homeowners willing, even eager, to sell. But if our plan works and we buy the other houses, Ridgetop will dump the Cochran house as fast as they can and move on to something else.”
“I get that,” Mildred said. “But what if they don’t? We could be left with a group home in the middle of our property—still owned by Ridgetop. What if they get mad enough to hold on to it just to get back at us?”
“No, I think once we foil their grand scheme they’ll be glad to be rid of it. We’re dealing with businesspeople, Mildred—as you keep reminding me. And they know how to separate the emotional from the financial. At least I hope they do.”
We were both silent for a few minutes, thinking over what the Ridgetop people might do.
“Well,” Mildred said, “if they decide to hold on to that one house, we could do something on the rest of the block that would encourage the Homes for Teens to move. Which would leave them with an empty house.”
“Maybe,” I said, dubiously, “but Madge is pretty much set in concrete.”
“Um-m, I don’t know about that,” Mildred said. “All we’d have to do would be to demolish the Pickerell and the Osborne houses. I drove past them the other day and, Julia, they’re hardly worth trying to restore. The Winstead house, though, probably has some historic value and should be saved. Still, with two houses gone, there’s enough room on the block for a wonderful new use that could qualify as being in the public interest, and it would—without a doubt—encourage the group home to move.”
“Like what?”
“I’m thinking,” Mildred said, “that a petting zoo would do the trick—with free petting tours for every elementary school child in the county, making it qualify as being in the public interest. Think of little calves and goats and llamas and sheep and a couple of mules, along with a few Shetland ponies. Maybe a camel or two. Think, Julia, of the baying, lowing, and neighing, to say nothing of the aromas that would waft over the landscape.”
“Mildred,” I said, laughing in spite of myself, “you have an evil mind.”
Accustomed as I was to Mildred’s
