A Small-Town Homecoming. Terry McLaughlin

the lean, rugged, oh-so-masculine shape filling out his rumpled jacket and weathered jeans.

      “Straightening that drive would trim enough to cover a host of unforeseen delays and cost overruns.” He slid his hands back into his pockets. “In addition to providing more parking, which would make the customers happy and earn extra points with the city.”

      “Very practical.”

      “And hard to argue with.”

      “Arguing’s rarely all that hard for me.” She settled in her chair. “I’m stubborn, remember?”

      “Yeah. I remember.”

      Those sky-blue eyes of his tracked her every move as she crossed her legs and smoothed her short, straight skirt. She swiveled to the left, and she swiveled to the right, giving him an interesting view, waiting for his next salvo.

      “All right,” he said at last.

      “All right?”

      “Yeah.” He walked to her door. “All right.”

      “That’s it?” She stood so quickly her chair bumped the backs of her knees. “You’re leaving?”

      “I have a site to clear.”

      “Oh. Well. All right, then.”

      He grabbed the knob and then stilled, staring at her. “You sound disappointed.”

      “I’m not.”

      “Good. I wouldn’t want all my diplomacy to go to waste.”

      “Is that what you were doing here, Quinn? Being diplomatic?”

      “Yeah,” he said in his deadpan manner. “Couldn’t you tell?”

      “Now there’s an interesting question.” She smiled and shifted her hip over the edge of her desk, enjoying the conversation—and the company—entirely too much. “With any number of equally interesting answers.”

      “Seems to me all it needed was a yes or no.”

      She tilted her head. “Or a maybe.”

      “Like I said. Diplomacy is a waste of time.”

      “Later, then.”

      “Yeah.” The look he shot her arrowed a blast of heat right through to where it counted. “Later.”

      GENEVA SETTLED into her favorite booth at the Crescent Inn on Friday after her morning water aerobics class and pulled a smooth linen napkin into her lap.

      “The usual, Mrs. Chandler?” asked the waitress.

      “Yes, thank you, Missy.” Geneva smiled at Gordon Talbot’s youngest daughter, amazed she was old enough to be working. Time seemed to pass so quickly these days.

      These years.

      “Hello, Geneva.”

      Geneva glanced from her list of the day’s specials to see Howard Cobb, real estate developer and member of the city council, frowning at her. “Good afternoon, Howard.”

      “I wondered if I’d find you here.”

      “Are you stalking me?” She set her menu aside and gave him her blandest smile. “Should I be disturbed?”

      His frown deepened. “Mind if I join you?”

      “For lunch?” she asked with just a touch of dismay.

      “For a moment. Or two.”

      “Through the iced-tea course, then,” she said as Missy delivered her drink.

      He settled heavily into the booth across from her, his oversize belly brushing against the table edge. “You know, there are plenty of folks around here who don’t look too kindly on Chandler money forcing things they don’t want down their throats.”

      “What an unpleasant image, considering I was about to order my lunch.” She delicately dabbed her napkin to the side of her mouth. “I wonder how many of those same folks are cashing paychecks earned with jobs that Chandler money created for them.”

      “There’s no question your husband and his father did some good things for this community.” Howard shifted forward as far as his paunch allowed. “But people who built businesses fifty or sixty years ago didn’t have the same kinds of concerns that people do today.”

      “Are you talking about the businesses, or the building of them?”

      “We both know what I’m talking about.”

      She picked up her tea and sipped. “Then this will be a very short conversation.”

      “You can’t get your way all the time, Geneva.”

      “You’re right, of course, Howard,” she said with a thin smile. “I’d be a fool to expect that. And I’m not a fool.”

      “That’s right. That’s why you should seriously consider backing off this Tidewaters project while there’s still time. It’s the right thing to do, and you know it.”

      “If I thought it was the right thing to do, I would have quit before I started. And certainly before investing so much Chandler money in the development phase.”

      For months she’d poured funds into the pockets of marine biologists, geologists and engineers. She’d battled federal agencies, the state’s coastal concerns, the city’s commissions and committees and codes and several local environmental activist groups. But for too many environmentalists, the objective scientific evidence didn’t outweigh their emotions. And for too many politicians, the promise of community benefits didn’t compensate for the possible loss of their constituents’ support.

      Cobb’s complexion darkened. “The harm this project will cause to the environment will far outweigh any possible economic benefits.”

      “That’s a strange comment, even for you.” Geneva took another sip of her tea. “And particularly strange considering that the environmental impact report and the city’s financial analysis indicate precisely the opposite.”

      “Studies bought and paid for,” Howard said as he stabbed a beefy finger at the table. “By you.”

      “Which doesn’t make them wrong. Merely purchased. Another part of the cost benefit noted in that financial analysis.”

      “Some folks might say that smacks of corruption.”

      “And some might wonder about the conflict of interest for a city councilman who is involved in the construction of a similar commercial building in a different part of town. A building that may soon be in competition with mine for tenants.”

      Missy hovered near the table, her order pad in her hand. Howard glared at Geneva as he pushed to the side and exited the booth. “This isn’t over.”

      “Oh, I think it will be, in about nine months,” Geneva said pleasantly. “When Tidewaters opens its doors amid a buzz of community curiosity and to the delight of its retail tenants. Tenants who may prefer waterfront views and the benefits of tourist foot traffic.”

      “We’ll see about that.” He turned and stalked out of the inn, dropping a few bills on his table as he passed it.

      “Nasty man,” whispered Missy.

      “But a good tipper, from the looks of it,” Geneva said. “I’m sure he means well.”

      “Everyone means well when they’re trying to get their way.”

      “Why, Missy,” Geneva said as she raised her glass, “may I quote you on that?”

      “Only if it’s off the record.” The waitress shook her head. “I don’t want any of that guilty-by-association stuff.”

      Geneva sipped her tea in silence, feeling wonderfully guilt-free. It seemed there were, after