Good Faith (24 page)

“Hey! I thought you guys were snowed in up in New York.”

“Someone wants to see you.”

I glanced at Axel, who had known Felicity since she was a child and certainly had attended her wedding and knew to whom she was and was not married. I said, “I’m working late on—” But I knew where her loyalties lay. I interrupted myself. “How late?”

He turned away from the phone to mumble something and came back to me. “Curfew is at ten tonight. A certain someone is on the alert, though not for anything in particular. But my guest is watching her step these days.”

“Gotcha.” It was seven. We had planned on working all evening. Now Axel was looking at me. I said, “I’ll see.”

“We’ll put a candle in the window, darling.”

“Right.” I hung up. I said to Axel, “Something’s come up.”

Just because Axel was accommodating didn’t mean he was not irritable. He gave me a sixty-year-old-man look, but I braved it and was motivated to say, “Two more hours ought to about do it anyway, don’t you think? It’s just a sketch plan.”

“I like to do things right.”

“I know you do. That’s why Gordon relies on you.”

“He does.”

There was a silence. I sighed. I said, “Well, we’ll see where we are at nine.”

“I told you, you’re not asking for enough. You’re not preparing them, and they’re going to be put off by later surprises. You’ve got to put some houses on the plan, around the fairways of the golf course and on this long hillside here, where they’ve got the view. And the treatment plant needs to go in too, at least a small one. You can add on to those in a modular way. Here’s a spot by the creek that’s kind of out of the way.”

“I don’t know that they’re going to go for lots of houses right now. I’m afraid of too much density.”

“Well, the zoning out there is for two-acre lots. Do that and put more in later.”

I looked at my watch. Axel said, “We can put this off a month. That’s fine by me.”

And so I didn’t see her that night, because I was intimidated by Axel. I sat there with Axel Tinker until after eleven, watching nine o’clock come and go and feeling it as a certain kind of inevitable pain whose source had been there from the beginning. My father would have had all sorts of expressions for it: chickens coming home to roost, getting what you deserve, making your bed and lying in it, maybe this will be a lesson to you. We talked about the sketch plan; we added in this and that; I arranged to take the plan over to Marcus and Gordon the next day and discuss it with them and then find Axel and put in changes, if need be. And when we closed the office and Axel said, “Well, I think we’ve done a good job here,” I nodded and thanked him and shook his hand, but the fact was he cared more than I did. I got into my car, I think it is safe to say, a different person from the one I had been when I arrived at the office that afternoon.

CHAPTER

16

O
N THE DAY
of the meeting, Gottfried Nuelle called me and said that he wanted to go with me that night. I said, “What?”

“Don’t you
what
me. I’m already fit to be tied that you didn’t tell me you bought the Thorpe place. I’ve been looking at that property for twenty years. I saw it go on the market, and I saw the price they put on it, and I was waiting.”

“What were you waiting for, Gottfried?”

“Well, I was waiting for the goddamned price to go down, what do you think I was waiting for? I’m not an idiot.”

“So, just out of curiosity and without offending you, I would like to know how you know about the planning commission agenda.”

“Vida’s husband is my wife’s cousin Buck.”

“Vida.”

“The woman who put you on the agenda, Stratford. What’s the matter with you?”

“We’ve got lots of people going already.”

“Good, then I won’t have to sit near that asshole.”

“Which asshole is that, Gottfried?”

“The one you sold my beautiful house to.”

“Marcus.”

“Him. Yeah. You fix it up so I don’t have to sit next to him, and I’ll go with you. I won’t say a word.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it, Gottfried.”

“Watch me.” He hung up.

I didn’t see a way out of this, given the fact that I had two houses of Gottfried’s listed and I had spent a lot of money advertising both of them. I also didn’t see that I absolutely had to get out of it. Gottfried was an interested bystander, he had been building upscale houses for a long time, and maybe he would have something to say or offer that would be of value. Gordon didn’t actually like Gottfried, few did, but he respected him and he was a more-the-merrier sort of guy anyway.

Even so, it made me a little uncomfortable—though not nearly as uncomfortable as the actual meeting. We filled an entire row at the back of the general purpose room of the township hall: Gottfried next to me, me next to Gordon, Gordon next to Jane, and Jane, at Gottfried’s insistence, next to Marcus at the other end. Jane was very friendly with Gottfried, almost, you might say, uppity. As soon as we arrived (the three of them had gotten there before us), Jane marched right up to Gottfried and took his hand. She said, “Well, you must be Mr. Nuelle. I’m impressed. You’re surprisingly young. I thought of you as some sort of ancient craftsman, you know, ninety years old and still fitting stones, no mortar, just the thinnest seams.”

“I don’t do stonework, ma’am,” said Gottfried.

“Well, that’s just an example. Excuse me for running on. But my brother’s house is maybe the most beautiful new house I’ve ever seen. He’s hardly worthy of it, being such a Philistine and all. Would you mind showing me some of the others?”

“Joe here can do that, ma’am. I don’t show my own houses.”

They went to their places and sat down. Everyone sitting in the rows in front of us (maybe ten people) turned to look around. They gave Marcus and Jane extra-long stares because they were beautifully dressed, Marcus in a gray suit and Jane in a black cashmere outfit, as if they had a big city date after the meeting. It was hard to tell if Jane had flattered Gottfried or offended him, but he did keep his mouth shut for the next two hours, and that was astonishing enough.

The poodle woman was wearing pink, the theme of her establishment. She had hair from the 1960s, ski pants, and rubber boots, the sort you never saw anymore, that were made for wearing over high heels. They had fur around the tops. She wore a big smile and lots of lipstick, but when it came to pitching her dog runs, she mowed them down with facts, presented very rapidly. There were five commissioners, and she locked her gaze on each one in turn as she discussed dog and cat populations in the county, animal control possibilities (as a favor to the county), waste management, dog shows, the American Kennel Club, neutering programs, and general dereliction of animal control duties on the township’s part. She had seen a dog pack herself, crossing Roaring Falls Extension, numbering sixteen animals and led by two basset hounds, and if we didn’t think basset hounds were capable of feral behavior—well, we had another think coming. They passed her six dog runs 5 to 0.

The commission had decided to pass the state park facilities without meeting, so that left Mike Lovell. It was only seven-thirty. Marcus leaned around Gordon and caught my eye, tapping his watch happily. Gordon looked a little dozy, and Gottfried was monumentally quiet. After the pink lady, everyone in the front rows turned around and looked at us again.

Mike Lovell shuffled to the front of the room and stood in front of the table of commissioners like a recalcitrant schoolboy. From her place at another little desk, Vida read aloud the permit status: “‘Gasoline Tank Installation permit for Michael Paul Lovell, Darley Corners Garage, 261 Grass Hill Road, Unincorporated Area, Plymouth Township. Permit applied for the removal from said property of one gasoline tank, thought to be leaking—’”

“I don’t think it’s leaking,” said Mike.

“Where is Grass Hill Road?” whispered Marcus to Gordon.

“‘And disposal of said tank. Tank to be replaced by newer model of similar capacity.’ What company is doing the removal, Hank?”

“Don’t know yet.”

One of the township commissioners said, “When we met about this before Christmas, Mike, you said you’d have something lined up by the new year.”

“Well, I ran into a little trouble.”

Another commissioner spoke up. “This has been on the agenda every month since the summer, Mike. That tank has got to come out.”

“They’ll take it out and see there’s no leak, and then that’s going to be a waste of my money. Here’s the deal. I think if you folks want it out, you ought to pay for it.”

“It says right in your operating license that you have to ‘oversee your equipment and make sure it is in good repair,’” said the first commissioner.

“My dad got that license.”

“Well, yes, he did, but when you took over the station, you were supposed to know what was in it.”

“Well, I didn’t, and now I’m stuck. This whole thing is your idea. If that woman down across the road there hadn’t complained, this never would have come up, and now you’re believing her and not me. I say the tank isn’t leaking, and there’s nothing wrong with the woman’s well water.”

A woman in the front row stood up and said, “It stinks to high heaven. I’ve been getting water from up at the state park now for ten months. I ought to sue you. You know what it’s like, to have to go get every drop of water you drink and wash dishes in? It’s no picnic. The lab said there’s benzene in the water.”

“That doesn’t mean it comes from my tank. That tank is no more than ten years old—”

And now Marcus Burns raised his hand. One of the commissioners noticed him and said, “Yes?”

“Do you mind if I ask where Grass Hill Road is?”

“The property in question is on the northeast corner of Plymouth Village, where Grass Hill Road crosses K Street.”

“Thank you,” said Marcus. Next to me, Gottfried rolled his eyes. But Marcus was not finished. He said to the woman, “Do you mind if I ask your name, ma’am?”

The woman’s head swiveled in our direction. She said, “I’m Suzannah Saylor.”

“Thank you,” said Marcus.

I turned to Gordon and whispered, “Don’t let him buy any more property.” Gordon nodded.

A third commissioner said, “Mr. Lovell, this issue has already been decided. We can’t keep arguing over the same facts.”

“Well, take my license away. Then where’s everybody going to get gas or get their cars fixed? Will they drive to Cookborough or Deacon? That’s a twenty-mile trip for gas. You know how many times a week I look under somebody’s hood, knowing I’m not going to get paid for my time? I jiggle this or I fiddle with that so the driver can get to the dealer and have it fixed. Or I sell somebody a buck or two’s worth of gas so they can fill up over by the highway. You think it’s worth it to me to go into debt so I can keep doing that?”

Marcus shook his head. Gordon put his hand on Marcus’s knee.

“What about last week? I was out in the cold jumping somebody or other at the crack of dawn every day. And I pulled you out of the ditch, Vida, when you slid there on Rose Creek Road.”

“I did pay you, Mike, but I’ll thank you again.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was an uncomfortable silence—which Marcus Burns filled.

“I take it that you’re an independent proprietor, Mr. Lovell?”

“Yeah, I am now. We had Esso before, but the franchise expense wasn’t worth it.”

“So where do you get the gas that you sell?”

“Well, what happens is, a guy has a load for, say, a Texaco station down in Deacon or somewhere, and if the place can’t take it all, he brings the rest out to me, and I get it for a good rate.”

“Very interesting,” said Marcus.

I leaned around Gordon and whispered to him, “No, it isn’t!”

All this time, Mike Lovell had been treating Marcus’s questions as annoying intrusions upon his efforts to persuade the township to let him off the hook, but now he turned around, looked Marcus full in the face, and gave each of us the once-over in turn. He leaned toward Vida and muttered, “Who are they?”

“The company that bought the estate.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded.

The second commissioner said to Marcus, “You got any more questions? Anyone?”

“Not right now,” said Marcus.

The commissioner said, “We do need to move forward on this matter, Mike.”

“Well, the ground is froze, I can’t get the damned tank out of there right now anyway.”

Suzannah Saylor said in a rather loud voice, “This is ridiculous! I don’t want to be poisoned!”

The commissioners looked at one another, and then one of the ones who hadn’t yet spoken said, “I move that the permit be granted to Mr. Lovell, and that he be given until April first to remove the tank. After that, if the tank isn’t removed, I move we notify the county and leave the issue to them.”

“April first!” exclaimed Suzannah Saylor. “I’m supposed to monitor my well every week until—”

“Now, see, I’m not sure I can get it done before April first. They could be backed up at the company—”

“Excuse me,” said Marcus. “Do you mind if I talk to Mike outside for a minute?”

And that was how we came to have a lease on an existing gas station in the village of Plymouth, five miles from the farm down a rather bumpy road and not, at least in any obvious sense, our business. Marcus took Mike Lovell outside and told him we would pay for the tank removal and reinstallation and help him pay for his franchise renewal, and all of these things Mike communicated to Vida and the commissioners when he came in from his conference with Marcus. Mike Lovell was all smiles and came to the back of the room and shook hands with each of us in turn, and when he went up to talk to the commissioners one last time they were all smiles too. Only Suzannah Saylor, possibly feeling that Mike Lovell was undeserving of such bounty, said, “I can’t believe this! This guy is a notorious polluter! He should be fined! But as long as that tank’s out of there, I don’t care who takes it out!” She glared at us as she left the room.

It was now close to eight-thirty. Several of the commissioners got up from their seats and left the room. A few moments later, I could see them outside the window, in the lee of the front stoop, lighting cigarettes. The poodle lady and a couple of others took the opportunity to depart, and those remaining, Mike and three or four more, still sitting in the front of the room, stared at us a few more times. The commissioners returned.

Vida announced that we were here for preliminary consideration of the development of Salt Key Farm, and that the sketch plan we had submitted included a golf course, a clubhouse, a modular sewage plant, fifty to a hundred houses, roads, sidewalks, et cetera. I was perfectly familiar with what we wanted, or at least what we were admitting right now that we wanted, and it sounded like a lot to me.

The commissioners stared at us, I assumed in disbelief, for a few seconds after she finished talking. Then one of them said, “Who’s who, please?”

I said, “On the end there is Marcus Burns, next to him is Ms. Jane Johnson, then Gordon Baldwin”—two of them nodded—“whom you already know. I am Joe Stratford. We’re the developers.”

Vida leaned over to the commissioner closest to her and said, “Gottfried Nuelle.” But Gottfried kept his mouth shut. They looked at us for a moment, and we looked at them. Then they opened up the plans. I stood up and went forward.

After a moment, they looked up at me, and I said, “Naturally, the most important thing to us is maintaining the look of the estate as it’s always been.”

They remained impassive.

I said, “I don’t know how many of you have been in the house recently.” No response. Possibly none of them, ever. “The house is a beautiful example of the work of Hunter Reston, who was a prominent New York architect in the period during and after the First World War. He specialized in rather traditional architecture but used very elegant detail; for example, the book-matched paneling in the library and the dining room. He also designed the gardens.”

Still nothing.

“We would carefully refurbish the house and renew the gardens, which are actually in excellent condition.” My voice began to frog up, no doubt because of the freezing response I was getting. I wanted to turn around and look at the faces of my associates, to see some signs of encouragement, but I went on, my voice getting higher and higher. “Our view is that the property is a valuable part of the history of this area, but unlikely to find a buyer who can by himself maintain .  .  .excuse me”—I cleared my throat—“maintain it in its present condition, and so the centerpiece of our plan is an eighteen-hole golf course and the retention of the house as a clubhouse for the course.”

No golfers in this group.

“Um.”

Now there was a question. “A private club?”

Now I could feel Marcus’s presence behind me, and I said, “No, public course, public access to the club—”

“Yes?” He called on someone, and I turned around.