“Can he do that? Can he sell the town?” Lynn Louise asks no one in particular. Judge Judie shrugs, and we all turn to Ashlee.
Her face is grim. “I can do some digging. It shouldn’t be hard to find a paper trail of this size. I didn’t even know the mayor—former mayor?—owned it. Or that any one citizen did. I’m guessing the fact that he’s saying he’s somewhere tropical means there was a sale, and he got paid. Whether he committed some kind of fraud—that I’m not sure of. I just know I didn’t broker any deal.”
“You think the Waters Firm would help with this?” Judge Judie asks, looking skeptical.
It doesn’t really make sense for them to sabotage the town. They’d more likely buy it themselves. The Waters are Sheeters through and through. Billy Senior’s great granny had the prize-winning sheet cake recipe at the festival for years. I don’t think this was quite what they had in mind when they supported the mayor’s campaign.
“Not really,” Ashlee says. “Though they have the money to do it. I don’t know what the going rate for a town is, but I’m guessing six to maybe seven figures.”
It’s hard to imagine our falling-apart and mostly empty town proper going for that much.
“Who would want to buy Sheet Cake, much less have the money to—” Lynn Louise starts to ask, then stops, as the whole room seems to come to an understanding at once about who might have the money to buy our town.
Pro athletes would. Like the two pro athlete investors who were in town today.
All deals and bets with my cheeks about blushing are off. My face, my neck, and even my ears are burning. If my educated guess is correct, then Pat and his dad aren’t just interested investors.
They’re the new town owners.
Chapter Nine
Pat
I can’t stop thinking about three things. Well, one person, one place, and one idea. So, basically, nouns. I can’t stop thinking about NOUNS.
The person I’m thinking about is Lindy. Thinking is a vast understatement for what I’m doing. Obsessing. Dreaming. Mentally and emotionally imploding. Planning. Hoping.
The place on my mind is about as obvious: a dying little town named after a cake. I’ve almost driven back there four times in the last few days. Now that I know where Lindy is, I just want to be there.
The idea is how I can possibly win her back. So far, I’m coming up empty on this front, which is why I haven’t returned to Sheet Cake. Yet. I can’t go in guns blazing. Now that I know more about what the past five years have been like for Lindy, I know she’s going to need a gentle hand. I have a lot of mistakes and time to make up for.
What I need is a good, solid action verb to get me started. To untie the veritable tangle of complicated knots in my head and heart. I was never a Boy Scout or a sailor, so I’m not good at knots. I’m just fumbling around, getting more and more frustrated with every passing second. Add in the fact that our family is still mostly at odds over Tank’s decision to buy Sheet Cake, and I’m all tied up.
To ease some of my frustration and face the conflict head-on, I’ve joined James in his garage gym, which is also his workshop. In addition to crafting beer, James is a carpenter. He makes tables, benches, and other artistic wood pieces. I’m not sure if he was just extra blessed with the gene pool or if he simply channeled his rage into skills. Either way, the man is blessed. And full of rage.
Based on the way he seems to be punishing me with this workout, much of that rage is directed my way. He’s hardly done more than grunt at me this whole time. I guess he’s still angry about Dad’s purchase and my collusion.
“Why are you humming John Mayer?” James asks, his nostrils flaring.
I didn’t realize I was. I’m not sure whether he looks furious because he’s lifting a stupid amount of weight or because of my musical taste, but I’m betting it’s the latter. My oldest and surliest brother has hardly broken a sweat even though he’s got just about every plate on this bar for his deadlifts.
Show-off.
“Don’t be a Mayer-hater. The man’s got mad skills.”
“Mad skills? The early 2000s called. They want their lingo back.”
“Har, har.” While I do believe in John Mayer’s musical and lyrical ability (despite his personal unlikability), the reason I’m humming “Daughters” is because of Jo. Meeting her stirred up all kinds of extra feelings, protective feelings. Without a better term for it, fatherly feelings.
And yes, I’m aware this is putting like fifty carts ahead of one horse. Story of my life.
I’ve already framed the Jaws picture, which is riding shotgun in my truck, waiting for its forever home. I don’t want to hang it in my apartment, which has seemed more hauntingly empty than normal this week. Seeing the picture makes me think of Jo, which makes me think of Lindy, which makes me all the more eager to get out of here. Tank and I at least are on the same page and decided to start renovating two loft spaces downtown above what we hope will be businesses. I threw a little extra cash to the contractors to finish mine first, and fast. They started demo already, and I’m itching to see.
Collin is asking actual questions now, not just launching attacks. Harper and Chase are neutral positive. Now, we just need to get my grumpiest, most stubborn brother on board.
Speaking of the grump, James drops the bar on the padded floor by the weight bench and wipes the sweat off his brow. “Need me to take off some of that weight for you, Patty?”
He’s challenging me. But I love challenges.
“Nope. I’m fine. Deadlifts, no problem.” But when I lean over and try to pull the bar up, I can’t get it more than six inches off the ground. “Okay, maybe a little weight adjustment.”
With a satisfied grin, James quickly slides off everything but the smallest plate. “That should be better for you, little brother.”