Terry McLaughlin - A Small-Town Homecoming

“Have a seat, Tess.” Geneva crossed to a cabinet. “This won’t take long.”

Tess perched on the edge of one of the delicate chairs near Geneva ’s desk. Neatly stacked on the desk’s surface were correspondence and newsletters, no doubt from the Historical Society, the Garden Club, the Ladies’ League, the University Foundation Committee. As one of the Cove’s leading citizens, Geneva liked to keep a finger in every social pie in the county.

“I know it’s a bit early for this,” she said as she dribbled sherry into two dainty goblets, “but I think we can indulge ourselves just this once.”

Tess hesitated before taking the glass. She rarely drank-her mother had done enough of that for everyone in the family. She stared at the golden liquid in the elaborately etched crystal and told herself there was no harm in it, just this once. She sipped and braced for the burn along her throat, and then she lowered the drink to her lap and waited for her grandmother to explain the reason for her summons.

“I spoke with Arlie Ratliff again today.” Geneva settled in one of the high-backed chairs flanking the fireplace and regarded Tess over the rim of her glass. “He’s had a change of heart.”

Tess clutched the arm of her chair. The city councilman had been on the fence about changing the zoning of Geneva ’s waterfront property to allow for commercial development. “Would this change have anything to do with Tidewaters?”

“Yes. He assures me he’ll vote for rezoning at tonight’s council meeting.”

“And we’ll have the building permit in hand by tomorrow afternoon.” Elated, Tess raised her glass in a toast. “You did it.”

“Arlie owed me a favor or two.” Geneva swirled the sherry in her glass with a sly smile. “I simply had to jog his memory a bit. And then promise him I’d forget all about it myself.”

Tess held up a hand. “Whatever it was, I don’t want to hear it.”

“Are you sure?” Geneva ’s smile widened. “It would make for some excellent lunch conversation before it gets wiped from my memory for good.”

“Geneva Chandler, you can be one hell of a scary lady.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Tess rose and paced the room, unable to sit still. “I can’t believe it. Tidewaters-it’s actually going to happen. I’m going to build it.”

“Yes.” Geneva lowered her glass to the piecrust table beside her chair. “In a manner of speaking.”

“It’s going to be gorgeous. Fabulous.”

“Tess…”

“I know you’ve seen the model often enough-and I did a fabulous job on that, too, if I do say so myself, but-”

“Tess.” Geneva raised a hand. “Please. Sit down.”

Something in the tone of her grandmother’s voice had Tess’s stomach jackknifing to her knees. “What is it?” she asked as she sank back into her chair.

“It’s about the contractor I’ve chosen for the project.”

“You’ve chosen-” Tess took a deep breath, slamming a lid on her temper and her anxiety. “You promised to consult with me on that. I explained how important it was to find someone who could work with me to implement my vision. Our vision.”

“Well, yes, I did. But that was before my meeting with Arlie.”

“I see.” Tess set her glass on the desk. “Someone else helped him change his mind.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking.” Geneva twisted her fingers through her pearls.

“You couldn’t possibly know what I’m thinking.” Or what I’m feeling. Tess sucked in another long breath and ordered herself, again, to stay calm. “This is someone I’ll be working with so closely it’ll be as if we’re the same person. Someone who’ll have to practically read my mind and help fashion what’s inside me.”

“I’m sure you two will figure things out as you go.”

Tess narrowed her eyes. “Who is it?”

“Quinn.”

“Quinn.” The name was like a physical blow.

“Arlie says he’s very good.”

“He wasn’t so good a few years ago.” Quinn had skipped town after an accident on a job site had put one of his crew in the hospital. “And he’s an alcoholic.”

“Recovered.”

Tess knew all about “recovered” alcoholics. Those in her experience had never managed to stay recovered for long, no matter how much the people who loved them might beg. She rose from her seat to prowl around the room, swamped with ghostlike reactions, trapped in a never-ending loop of helplessness and resentment, tempted to gnaw a fingernail as she used to. But the moment she’d raise her hand toward her mouth, Grandmère would click her tongue and shake her head. That, too, was part of the old patterns.

Geneva picked up her sherry and took another sip. “I’m convinced Quinn’s the right man for the job.”

“Because you have so much experience with this sort of thing.”

“Because I have a great deal of experience reading people, yes.” The woman in pastel pink straightened her spine and leveled a severe look at Tess. “Quinn has assured me he can complete this job on time and on budget. And I believe him.”

“You’ve met with him?” A dull pain layered over the shock of betrayal. Her grandmother had done this without consulting her, knowing how much this project meant to her. Knowing how many dreams she’d poured into her sketches and plans.

“Yes.”

“I see.” Tess stared out the window, watching the waves beating against the rocks. “It’s decided, then.”

“I’ve offered him the contract. I expect his answer by the end of the day.”

“I’m sure you’ll get the answer you want.” A job this size would provide steady employment through the entire building season-and plenty of corners to cut to pad the contractor’s profit.

She turned to face her tough-as-nails grandmother. “You always do, Mémère.”

QUINN SLUMPED against the toolbox wedged in one side of his pickup bed, legs hanging over the edge of the open tailgate, and scanned three acres of weed-covered ground studded with refuse. From the cracked curb on the Front Street boundary to the gap-toothed riprap edging the foot of a disintegrating dock, the ground rose and fell in random, jagged waves.

Tomorrow he’d haul in an office trailer and set up shop. In one week, he’d have this place scraped clean and the footings ready to dig. By the end of the month he’d have gravel spread and neat piles of form boards and rebar placed and ready for the foundation work. And before the end of the year he’d be putting the finishing details on the finest building Carnelian Cove had seen erected in over fifty years.

He inhaled deeply, enjoying the cool blend of trampled Scotch broom, sea-salted air and the rich tang of tobacco smoke from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. And then he braced while a sharp-taloned need clawed its way through him. His personal battle with his alcohol addiction was a day-by-day siege, but nothing was proving as difficult as trying to deny his craving for tobacco.

Denial-a daily exercise and a constant companion of late. The tamped-down disappointments and regrets, the low-grade itching and yearning for something-for anything-better than what he had, colored his existence and kept him moving in the right direction. That and the daughter waiting for him at home.

Rosie wanted him to quit smoking, and he’d do it for her. He’d do anything for her-anything within reason. She needed that from him right now, needed his reassurance as much as his steadiness. She’d lost so much lately-hell, she’d lost just about everything she had to lose during her short life. He had so much to make up to her.

He studied the thin stream of smoke curling from the cigarette. Rosie had been five when his drinking had driven his ex-wife away, and Nancy had taken their daughter with her to Oregon. He’d never forget the way Rosie had clung to his pant leg that last night, sobbing, promising to be good, promising to remember to feed her turtle if only she could stay in her room, stay in her new school with her new friends. Begging him to come with them when it was time to go.