“Julia,” Sam went on soberly, “I don’t want to throw cold water on your plans—it’s your money and you can use it as you please. But you and Mildred should be aware of what you’re up against. From what I heard today, this Ridgetop outfit is looking at a multimillion-dollar enterprise that’ll certainly fit the bill as being in the public interest. A case can easily be made that it’ll raise the commercial value of the surrounding area, as well as having huge job potential both during and after construction. The future of Jackson Street could be as a secondary Main Street, full of shops, gas stations, and minimalls. A lot of people will see that as a public benefit and fight you tooth and nail.”
“Well, a lot of people have eyes bigger than their stomachs, too. It’s plain foolishness to think that a so-called boutique hotel will revitalize that area, much less the whole town. As far as I’m concerned, Mildred and I will be doing a public service by keeping that historic area as it is.
“Except, of course,” I said with a sigh, “the Cochran house as a group home.”
—
Sunday afternoon, and I had taken myself up to the guest room to finish wrapping Christmas gifts, hoping that doing something constructive would have a calming effect. Not only was I anxious about buying three houses out from under a few possibly major players, my mind was still churning with what Sam had learned at the Bluebird. If even half the rumors were true, Mildred and I were up against some heavy lifters, and all we had was skinny Tom LaSalle. But also, I encouraged myself, a sneak attack scheduled for Tuesday afternoon, when we would become owners of the desired properties. But I knew that there could be many a slip twixt cup and lip, and all I could do was hope for the best. But if we could hold on till then, Ridgetop would have to fold their tents and look for another town to ruin. Because a ruination was what their plans would create. In a few years of fewer and fewer guests—I mean, what did Abbotsville have to offer luxury overnighters?—a boutique hotel would be lucky to end up as a Motel 6.
—
“Knock, knock,” Lloyd said, rapping on the door and bringing me back to the present. “Can I come in?”
“Wait a minute,” I called, hurriedly covering the gift I was wrapping. “Now you may. Come on in.
“What’s going on, honey?” I asked, knowing that when he sought me out, something was on his mind.
“Well,” he said, “you know Freddie Pruitt? He’s having a hard time ’cause he can’t study at his aunt’s house. She’s got a bunch of little kids, and he’s like me—he needs a quiet place to study. So he was kinda looking forward to moving in next door, but now he’s worried about studying with a bunch of big kids living there, too.”
“Oh, dear, I couldn’t study under those conditions, either.”
“No’m, me, either.” Then, with a somber look on his face, he said, “You know, Miss Julia, it doesn’t seem fair that I have two rooms to study in and he doesn’t have even one. When one gets too noisy, I can always move to the other one, but he can’t.”
How in the world could I justify to this child the inequalities of life while the do-gooders of the world clamored to level all the playing fields? And to do it in spite of the fact that when it had been tried before with completely leveled fields and everybody equalized, their efforts had ended up with no one having anything?
“I know, honey,” I said, “and I, too, occasionally worry about having more than a lot of people do. But when something comes along where a lot is needed, I’m awfully glad to have it.” I thought of the properties Mildred and I were buying in order to save the home of people I loved, including the boy sitting across from me.
“Yes’m, I guess so. It’s just that Freddie said he’d like to sleep in a room all by himself just once in his life.”
“He will,” I said, as a nebulous plan solidified in my mind. “I’m sure of it. You just remind Freddie that every time he opens a book to study, he’s getting that much closer to a room—and a whole lot more—all his own.”
—
“Sam?” I asked after Lloyd had left and I’d gone downstairs, where Sam was dozing in a wing chair. “How do you feel about going into debt?”
“What?” He came fully awake, sitting straight up. “You don’t need to go into debt.”
“No, not me. I mean you.”
He laughed. “Depends on what for.”
“Come take a ride with me. If you feel like it, I mean.”
“I feel fine,” he said, standing. “Let me get a coat. I can’t wait to see what you’re up to now.”
So I showed him what Lisa Hudson had come up with. We drove across town and turned at the high school onto Wilson Avenue, a street lined with two- and three-story Victorian houses. Some of the houses had been converted to offices for lawyers, CPAs, and doctors, as attested to by numerous signs. Others had been divided into apartments, and two smaller ones housed offices for nonprofit groups.
I pulled to the side of the street, the car still running for the heat, and pointed to a three-story gray house with white gingerbread trim, a front porch, and a turret. The front yard sloped to the street, but the house itself was on level ground and there was a huge tree in the backyard. A FOR SALE sign was out front.
“That one,” I said. “Let’s buy it.”
“How much and what for?”
“They’ve reduced the price—it’s too big for most uses. And it’d be for the Homes for Teens.”
Sam started laughing. “Julia,” he finally said, “you’re too much. You’ve been trying to run Madge and
