Grit: A Love Story on 7th and Main Read online

  “Bud,” Cary said. “Be reasonable. Two thousand houses would nearly double the size of this town. You want to approve something like that?”

  Bud raised his chin. “I have to think of the good of the town,” he said. “We need to increase our tax base, and I think we all know what the other options would be. No one wants that.”

  “Are you talking about the marijuana dispensary again?” Melissa asked. “Because not everyone has your hang-ups about weed, Bud.”

  A few laughs sprinkled the room, but Cary sent Melissa a warning look. Bud could be a blowhard, and his ego was paper thin. The last thing Oakville needed was a bureaucrat on a power trip trying to prove what a big man he was.

  “Beyond what anyone thinks about a marijuana dispensary”—Tammy Barber was speaking again—“the fact of the matter is, Cary is right. Two thousand new houses in Oakville would fundamentally change the town.”

  Myra Dean, the owner of the Main Street Mercantile, raised her hand. “Well yes… but wouldn’t that be a lot more people in the shops?”

  A more positive murmur made its way through the crowd.

  “Yes,” Bud said. “That would be a much bigger customer base for all our businesses. Your shop. The hardware store.” Bud pointed to the Trujillo brothers, who ran the only remaining hardware and lumber yard in Oakville. “That’s thousands more people visiting our stores and shopping. Thousands more going to our restaurants. Staying at the inn.” He pointed to Marilou and Walter Fagundes, who ran the Oakville Inn. “Let’s face it. We got more young people leaving than moving in. We need to build more housing.”

  “There’s empty houses in town already,” Melissa said. “What are you doing to sell those?”

  “It’s not the same kind of thing at all.” Bud was getting testy again. “These would be people with money. The houses wouldn’t be built unless they were sold already.”

  “That may be,” Tammy said, “but we need a lot more discussion than just a fancy flyer and a company man coming to sell us on this idea.”

  “Hear, hear.” Les Arthur spoke again. “Let’s hear from this fellow. Where is he?”

  “There.” Melissa nudged him. “That guy. I bet you anything.”

  “Won’t take that bet.” Cary knew she was right.

  The man leaning against the back wall was too polished to be a farmer, even though he wore jeans and a blue plaid shirt. He pushed away from the wall and walked toward the front of Veterans’ Hall.

  Bud stood. “I’d like to thank Kevin Fontaine from JPR Holdings for coming tonight to talk to us about the exciting prospects his company has planned for the Allen Ranch area.”

  “Boots,” Melissa muttered.

  “I see ’em.”

  The man’s boots were squeaky clean. Cary probably could have seen his reflection in the finish. The boots Cary wore were made for all-day walking. They had orthopedic insoles and were covered in mud. Melissa’s boots were made for riding and she wore ankle braces because she’d been riding so long. This guy…

  “Greg and Beverly know some Fontaines over on the coast,” Melissa said softly. “I’ve heard that name.”

  “That’s interesting,” Cary said.

  “Isn’t it?” Melissa opened her notebook and began to take furious notes.

  Kevin Fontaine walked up to the head table and took his time shaking everyone’s hand before he leaned against the old wooden podium.

  “Hey, folks.” The man’s smile didn’t falter even though Cary didn’t spot a friendly face in the crowd. “I just want to say thanks for having me tonight. I grew up in a small community like this, and I gotta say it feels real good to be back.”

  “Where?” Cary asked, feeling contrary.

  The persistent smile dimmed a bit. He looked over the crowd, trying to discern where the question had come from.

  “Where are you from?” Cary raised his voice and waved to the man. “Just curious.”

  “Uh… Hey there.” The smile was back. “I’m from Solvang originally.”

  “Solvang?” Cary exchanged a look with Melissa. Solvang had some horse ranches and wineries, but it was primarily a tourist pass-through. Was that what this company had in mind for Oakville? Trade its proximity to the national parks for more and more tourist dollars? “Interesting.”

  Kevin Fontaine’s gleaming smile hid whatever his true thoughts were. “The development of the Allen ranch will be a turning point in the future of Oakville, transforming a quaint community known for its orange groves and ranches…”

  “Quaint,” Cary whispered to Melissa. “Did you know we were quaint?”

  “I didn’t.” Melissa was still taking notes. “Do I need to put doilies on my steers?”

  “…into a destination for those looking for a better way of life.” Kevin Fontaine’s smile seemed to be frozen even as his mouth moved. “Your new residents will be those looking for a slower pace while still pursuing an active lifestyle. They’re eager to join a traditional community with strong connections to natural resources like parks. They’re people who are already well-established and bring resources with them. Residents who—”

  “Oh shit.” The realization hit Cary in an instant. “You want to make Allen Ranch a retirement community for rich people.”

  Melissa’s eyes went wide. “What?”

  Cary could tell from the frozen look on Kevin Fontaine’s face that he’d hit the nail on the head. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re building fancy houses for rich retirees.”

  “Active lifestyle, huh? Bet there’s gonna be a golf course,” Melissa said. “Did I get that right, Bud? You want them to turn some of the best grazing and growing land in Jordan Valley into an overly manicured monstrosity?”

  “This town isn’t owned by farmers and ranchers,” Bud said as the buzz of conversation grew louder and louder. “Other people live here too!”

  “Yeah, but most of them work in farming or ranching.” Walter Fagundes spoke, his voice low but booming. “Mari and I may have a hotel for tourists, but this is a farming town, Bud. We like it that way. That’s one of the reasons we moved here. You want a bunch of rich city people moving in and—”

  “Spending money?” Bud said. “Yeah, Walter. Yeah, I do. New property taxes. New sales taxes and customers for our businesses—including yours, I might add. The bluegrass festival gets bigger every year, but it barely pays for itself. Do you have any ideas for funding the new fire trucks we need? You think the citrus co-op is gonna pay for them out of its own pocket? What about the new plumbing we need at the high school? You think it’d be better if our kids get bussed thirty miles to Metlin ’cause we can only afford to operate the elementary and junior high?”

  Cary didn’t have the extra cash to donate a whole damn fire truck. They were only a couple of years out of the worst drought in a century. And no one in town knew what to do about the school. He hated to admit it, but Bud had a point.

  “You could fund those by loosening up a single restriction,” Melissa said. “People up in Foster Valley—”

  “I will not have weed sold in this town!” Bud’s face was red. “No one wants that.”

  “No one” was an exaggeration, but Cary knew the idea of a cannabis dispensary in Oakville wasn’t popular, even though evidence showed that it would bring in a massive amount of tax money with little to no investment from the town.

  The big question was, would adding three thousand new residents prove any more popular?

  Cary stood up and folded his arms over his chest. “You know, no offense to Mr. Fontaine, but I want to see details of all this in writing. Isn’t that in the town charter? If a new zoning proposal has been made to the council, then it’s part of the public record. I want a copy. I want to read through the details of what this holding company is actually proposing, down to the fine print. And I bet I’m not the only one.”

  Melissa rose. “Agreed. I don’t need someone coming in and telling me what the plan is. I want to read it for myself.”

  Tamm
y Barber leaned forward. “I make a motion to table any vote about JPR Holdings and the Allen Ranch development until the proposal has been submitted to the public for review.”

  Les Arthur said, “I second that motion.”

  Bud Rogers’s face was sour. But not even Bud could buck protocol. “All those in favor of Tammy’s motion to delay the vote?”

  Four hands at the front table went up.

  “All those opposed?”

  Three hands—including Bud’s—went up.

  “The motion passes.” Bud scowled. “Tammy, you’re the recorder. I’ll let you sort this out. Meeting adjourned.”

  The meeting broke up with the two dozen attendees forming small groups, many of them walking to the front to talk to Tammy.

  Cary looked at Melissa. “I have a feeling Tammy’s gonna be making a few photocopies this week.”

  “Ya think?” Melissa narrowed her eyes at Bud, who was talking to Kevin Fontaine. “I have a feeling that next month’s meeting might be a little more crowded.”

  Cary scanned the angry faces milling around the room and the brittle smile on Fontaine’s face. He was keeping the polite veneer, but it was as fake as his teeth. “Agreed.”

  “I’m gonna go.” Melissa picked up the purse of mysteries. “I want to call a couple of people on the coast.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” He followed her out to her truck and waited while she got in. “You gonna tell your mom about this?”

  “Yeah. Aren’t you?”

  “Oh, my mom is gonna be pissed.” Cary stepped back as she shut her door. He motioned for her to roll down the window, then said, “You think the Allen family knows about all this?”

  Gus Allen had sold the land fifteen or twenty years ago to move into town and be closer to his family, none of whom were interested in running the old ranch. His son, Jeremy, was Cary’s regular climbing partner.

  “I doubt it,” Melissa said. “Gus’d be pissed.”

  “Think I should tell Jeremy about this?”

  Melissa leaned on the steering wheel. “I don’t know if Gus could do anything about it. He’ll hear about it eventually, but he sold the land. It’s not up to him anymore.”

  “This isn’t going to happen.” Cary patted the side of her truck. “You know that, right? There’s no way people are going to vote to let this pass.”

  “Maybe not this,” Melissa said. “But what if they come back and say they only want to do a thousand houses? Or five hundred? Bud’s right. The town needs money.”

  Cary sighed. “I don’t want to believe you, but when I bet against you, I usually lose.”

  She smiled. “See? You should never bet against me.”

  “I don’t. Not anymore.” He leaned closer, intruding on her space. “We gonna talk about us?”

  Her smile fell. “There isn’t an us, Cary. We’re friends.”

  “Really? ’Cause you’re the only one of my friends I want to kiss.” Tension hummed in the air between them. Cary felt it, like a shock wire running from her mouth to his. “We’re more than friends, Missy. I don’t know what we are yet, and neither do you. But we’re more than friends.”

  She put her truck in gear. “I need to go.”

  “Running away again?” He stepped back. “Eventually I’m gonna keep you in one place long enough that you’ll be forced to have a conversation.”

  Melissa opened her mouth to retort, but nothing came out. She shook her head slightly and rolled up her window. Then she lifted her hand in a slight wave before she drove away.

  Chapter Five

  Melissa woke to the sound of chickens clucking underneath her window. It wasn’t an unpleasant sound. It was soothing. The chickens clucking meant that someone had already gone out to feed them, which meant Melissa didn’t have to do it.

  She glanced at the clock and her eyes went wide. Seven forty-five? She bolted up to sitting and ran a hand over her eyes. She’d stayed up way too late the night before. She had to stop reading before bed; it was a recipe for disaster.

  She threw a vest over her pajamas and stumbled toward the door. “Abby?”

  “Yeah?”

  Melissa walked down the hall and saw Abby sitting at the kitchen table eating cereal and reading a book.

  “Whoa.” Her daughter’s eyes went wide. “Uh, are you driving me to school?”

  “Yes.” She walked to the coffeepot, which was still half-full. “I am.” She grabbed a travel mug and poured herself a full cup. “Give me five minutes.”

  “Okay.” She stood up. “Should I warm up the truck?”

  “Sure.” It was one of the things Abby had started asking when she turned nine, and Melissa let her every now and then. “Five minutes.”

  “Okay!”

  Melissa left the coffee to start cooling on the counter and hustled back to her room at the end of the hall. She threw on a pair of jeans, a tank top, and put her vest back on. Then she tied her hair back in a quick braid, slid her socks on, and walked to the kitchen door.

  “Mom?”

  “Are you up?” Joan was in the sitting room. “I thought I was going to have to drive her.”

  “I’ve got her.” She searched desperately for her keys. They weren’t on the hook by the door. “Why did you let me sleep so late?”

  “I stopped being your alarm clock when you hit thirteen, Melissa Oxford. I’m not going to start that up again.”

  Abby had the keys! Melissa slammed her feet into her boots and grabbed her purse. She took two steps out the door. “Coffee!”

  She ran back inside and grabbed the travel mug before she ran back to the door. “Bye, Mom!”

  “Don’t drive like a maniac.”

  She didn’t drive like a maniac, but she did speed a little. They made it to school with minutes to spare, prompting exasperated sighs from her daughter, who hated being late.

  “Don’t roll your eyes. Wake me up next time.”

  “You know I will!” Abby slammed the door shut, and Melissa watched her run up to the gate of the small country school surrounded by tall oak trees.

  All legs. She was like a colt.

  I made that.

  The thought made her smile. Abby might be a handful most days, but she was a good kid, and Melissa absolutely adored her. She drove her truck through the wilderness of the school drop-off before she got back onto Jordan Valley highway. Taking a long drink of coffee, she turned in to the sun and drove back to the ranch.

  She took the few minutes of solitude to enjoy the silence and the coffee before she passed the Nakamura farm. Melissa spotted Rumi taking her morning walk along the road with a broad sun hat and a pair of bright yellow sneakers.

  Just the sight of the tiny woman made Melissa smile. She pulled over and rolled down her window. “Good morning, Rumi.”

  “Melissa!” The older woman walked over to Melissa’s truck, her head barely peeking over the window. “You slept in.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw you roaring down the road and you didn’t even wave at me.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t see you.”

  “I know. Because you slept in.” Rumi winked at her. “Were you reading?”

  Melissa couldn’t stop the smile. “How did you know?”

  “You’ve been doing the same thing since you were little. Your mother used to complain about it.”

  “Did she?”

  Rumi wrinkled her nose. “Only the way mothers complain about things they think are cute. Like you and Abby and her goats.”

  “I don’t think Abby’s goats are cute, I just can’t get rid of them without her hating me.”

  The corner of Rumi’s mouth turned up. “You’d never get rid of her goats.”

  Melissa slumped on the steering wheel. “Why am I so weak?”

  Rumi laughed and stepped away from the truck. “You have a good day. I have to keep walking.” She held up tiny leopard-print barbells. “I started carrying these now. The doctor said it’s good for my bones.”

 
; “Yeah? You should tell Mom to walk with you.”

  Rumi pointed a barbell at her. “That’s a good idea! I’m going to do that. She’s younger than me. She’ll make me walk faster.” She waved at Melissa and kept walking, turning right and onto the lane that ran between orange groves and led back to the Nakamura farmhouse.

  Melissa had ridden her horse through the Nakamura groves her entire childhood, marveling at the cool, deep green of the trees and the heavenly aroma of citrus blossoms. She’d watched Cary from afar, harboring a girlhood crush on the handsome young man who kept his hair long and listened to rock music in his Mustang.

  He didn’t notice her then, of course. She was a child and he was a grown man. But she thought he was the most handsome man ever, and she loved how he teased Rumi, who was one of Melissa’s favorite people.

  Her girlhood independence had coincided with Rumi’s children leaving home, which had led to a sweet friendship that Melissa cherished.

  Rumi had taught her how to make rice balls and fried tofu, dishes Melissa had never seen before. Rumi had a light-filled artist’s studio behind her house, which Melissa thought was incredibly glamorous and cool. She’d exhibited in art shows and shown Melissa how to paint with watercolors. Melissa still had several of the origami cranes Rumi taught her how to fold.

  Melissa had tried to teach Rumi how to ride horses, but the small woman had never grown comfortable around them. They were too big. Too powerful. Rumi liked her bicycle and her walking shoes, though she occasionally joked about buying a donkey.

  Melissa slowed down when she reached her own orchard. The four-year-old trees would give their first solid harvest this year. They still had a couple of months to ripen, and Melissa was hoping for a long, warm fall to sweeten the grove. She’d been considering a Pick-Your-Own season before the harvesting crews came in.

  Other places picked apples in the fall. Maybe Metlin parents would like to pick mandarins. The short trees were perfect for kids to grab, and the sweet fruit was easy to peel.