tonight, or the first phase, and it suited her not to have Tom around. Though she agreed in principle with his stand, she had to go to the meeting. Besides, she was curious. At any rate, Tom’s staying home solved the sitter problem.
Maybe a hair more than “slightly.” She was walking over with Pix, who didn’t have any problems with guilt at all. She was still 100 percent opposed to the destruction of the bog, she’d told Faith earlier in the day.
“Of course, I don’t think we should be doing anything about it now. I agree with everything Tom said on Saturday, yet it may become necessary to take action in the future. Suspending but not disbanding POW! would make that easier.”
Faith kissed her husband good-bye.
“Why do I have the feeling you’re up to something?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Why?”
“No, you’re supposed to tell me.”
“That you’re being silly?” She kissed him again.
“Don’t worry.”
“Now I really will,” he said gloomily. “I’ve heard those words before. Maybe I should go to the meeting with you after all. We can see if Samantha is free.”
“Tom! Absolutely nothing is going to happen to me at the meeting, before or after. Besides, I am a grown-up. I also happen to know that Samantha is at some regional sports banquet tonight. The team made the finals, or whatever they’re called. She also got into Wellesley and is going there, so I’m sure she doesn’t want to change a diaper tonight or play Candyland with Ben.”
“Neither do I.” Tom was being unusually truculent.
“The two of us haven’t been out alone in ages. Let’s go out next weekend.”
“That would be lovely, darling. Friday night? Ri-alto bar and a movie?” The bar had the same incredible food as the Cambridge restaurant, but the Fairchilds preferred the service and ambience at the bar, more casual, also more attentive—besides, they could eat well and get to a movie this way.
“Okay. I’ll look and see what’s playing. What do you want to see?”
“Sweetheart, this is Tuesday. We have all week, and Pix is waiting. I have to go.”
“Fine, fine, leave me here all by my lonesome.” Ben called plaintively from his room, “Daddee, Daddee, are you going to read me a story?” Tom wouldn’t be lonesome at all.
Again, Asterbrook Hall was crowded. Pix and Faith didn’t get front-row seats, but they found two together, even though they were late.
“Look, Joey’s lawyer is here,” Pix said, expertly scanning the audience for a head count and to see who was there. “What do you think he’s up to?”
“Same thing he was doing at the other meetings, collecting information for the Deanes.” But the lawyer hadn’t been at the last POW! meeting. Joey had been alone. Faith took a deep breath. She was waiting for the right moment.
The moment came late in the meeting. It had been an acrimonious one at times and the lawyer would have plenty to report. Distrust of the entire Deane family was in the air. Although no one actually attacked the company, the innuendos were less than subtle. One of the things that was making the majority of the people in the room uneasy was the fact that the Deanes had started renovating the old Turner farmhouse on the property—the house Joey had referred to as “the jewel in the crown” at Alefordiana. He had told the selectmen the house would be “lovingly restored” and promised that not an inch of original clapboard would be sacrificed to a Palladian window or any other anachronistic architectural detailing.
“I want to know why they’ve started to work on the house when they haven’t received the permits for the rest of the plans. What do they know? Have the selectmen given a secret go-ahead behind our backs?” Ellen Phyfe’s voice was shrill as she raised these points.
Several people in the audience clapped. Angry faces turned to confront the lawyer, who remained impassive. The seats to either side of him were empty, as if he carried some dread disease. But it wasn’t contagion that the Aleford residents at the meeting feared; it was association.
“Fortunately, we have a member of the board here tonight. I asked Penelope Bartlett to come as a personal favor. Mrs. Bartlett?”
“ ‘Personal favor’—I’d say more like arm twisting,” Pix whispered to Faith. Indeed, Penny did not appear overjoyed to be there.
“Come up here, so everyone will be able to hear you,” Millicent directed. Penelope Bartlett was made of stern stuff, however, and whatever means Millicent had used to get her there did not extend to Penny’s performance once she was in the hall.
“Everyone can hear me perfectly well from where I am, Miss McKinley. Let me start by saying that I am saddened and appalled that any citizen of Aleford should think the board of selectmen would make secret agreements with anyone! This indicates a serious lack of trust and I intend to bring it before the board at our next meeting and hope that Mrs. Phyfe and others who share her views will be in attendance.” Since Ellen Phyfe’s husband was a member of the board, everyone immediately began to look forward to another good episode.
Penny continued. “The late Mr. Madsen applied for and was granted permits to restore the old Turner farmhouse earlier this winter. The planning board, the Historic Commission, and the building inspector all advised the board to approve his plans, which we did.
The meeting was open, of course, and some of you who are here tonight were there then, so I’m surprised this has come up. Obviously, the Deane-Madsen Development Corporation, to whom we granted approval, had to wait for the weather to improve, and this was our understanding at the time.” Penny sat down. Millicent smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Bartlett. I believe that clears things up.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Sherwin Greene jumped to his feet, no easy task for a man carrying as much weight as he did. “Why were they starting work before the rest was approved? And why are they continuing?” Ellen called out, “That’s right. I saw the trucks there today.”
“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask those wishing to speak to wait to be recognized,” Millicent said. She had thought Penny’s presence and reply would do the trick, but more was needed.
Help came from an unlikely corner. The lawyer had languidly stretched his long arm into the air. Millicent recognized him immediately. He didn’t bother to stand.
“The Deane-Madsen Development Corporation is undertaking the restoration of the property known as the old Turner farmhouse because it owns it and has received the appropriate permits. The company intends to sell the property irregardless of the outcome of the plans pending for the area known as Beecher’s Bog.”
“Thank you very much. Now I think we’re all clear on this matter.”
Of course “we” all weren’t and there was further discussion that went around the same circles in endless and boring detail. “I’ve lost all feeling in my right buttock,” Pix whispered. “If I don’t get out of here soon, the left one is going to go, too.” Faith bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. She was getting punchy—and numb.
Finally, Millicent offered a compromise.
“It’s clear that there are two very distinct posi-tions: those who feel we should dissolve the organization and those who oppose that. I’d like to put a motion before the group that we effectively disband but keep a core executive committee who will monitor all matters dealing with the disposition of Beecher’s Bog and activity at the old Turner farmhouse. This group shall be composed of the original signers of the letter in the
Maybe everyone was getting pins and needles. Sherwin Greene got up during the time allotted for the opposition and everyone expected a blast. Without naming the Deanes, he had repeatedly referred to “un- trustworthy, greedy, bloodsucking land developers” during the previous debate.
“I assume you will keep the membership’s names and other information on file, as well as other material we might need to make a sudden response to an attack?”
“Certainly,” Millicent replied. “Perhaps Brad could speak to this issue.”
Brad Hallowell stood up. He had been strangely silent all evening; then Faith realized that of course he’d already known about Millicent’s watch-and-wait motion. She’d presented it as a compromise, yet it had been the plan all along. Brad had no quarrel with it; he’d still be in the game.
