Tacky, tacky, tacky. Theodosia chanted her mantra as she gunned the Jeep’s engine and zipped across a narrow wooden bridge. Loose boards clattered in her wake, and gravel flew as she hit the dirt road on the other side.
To her point of view, the condos had been awful. First off, they’d all had that new-apartment smell. Whatever it was, paint, carpet, adhesive, Sheetrock, every unit she’d looked at had caused her nose to tickle and twitch. On top of that, the condos felt stifling and claustrophobic. And it wasn’t just their size, she told herself. Her apartment above the tea shop was small, but it was cozy small. Not cramped small. Why, the two-bedroom unit Melissa had been so proud of hadn’t really been two bedrooms at all. The so-called second bedroom had been an alcove off one end of the living room with cheap vinyl accordion doors that pulled across!
Raised as she had been in homes with stone foundations and heavy wood construction that had withstood wars as well as countless hurricanes, Theodosia was exceedingly leery of these new slap-dab structures. What would happen when a September hurricane boiled up in the mid-Atlantic and came bearing down on Edgewater Estates with gale-force winds? It would go flying, that’s what, Wizard of Oz style. And the pieces probably wouldn’t land in Kansas.
She gritted her teeth, making a face. Shabby. Truly shabby. Oh, well, this visit had certainly given her insight into the kind of developer Hughes Barron had been. The kind of developer his partner Lleveret Dante was. The worst kind, just as Jory Davis had warned.
Cruising past a little beachfront café with a sign that read Crab Shack, Theodosia suddenly had a distant memory of her and her dad exploring the patchwork of waterways out here, of pulling their boat up on a sand dune and sitting at one of the picnic tables to eat boiled crab and French fries. The memory flowed over her so vividly, it brought tears to her eyes.
She slowed the car, blinked at the passing scenery, and slammed on the brakes.
Five hundred yards down from the Crab Shack was a small, whitewashed building with a blue and white sign that carried the image of a long-legged bird. The sign said Shorebird Environmentalist Group.
Shorebird Environmentalist Group.
She scanned her memory. Wasn’t that the group that had sued Edgewater Estates? Sure it was. Jory Davis had told her about the environmentalists losing their case in court. And Drayton had confided earlier that they’d mustered nearby residents and picketed the Edgewater Estates while it was under construction. Probably their outrage still hadn’t abated. Well, that was good for her. It gave her one more source to draw upon.
Tanner Joseph glanced up from his iMac computer and the new climate modeling program he was trying to teach himself and gazed at the woman who’d just stepped through his door. Lovely, was his first impression. Perhaps a few years older than he was, but really lovely. Great hair plus a real presence about her. Was she old money, perhaps?
Growing up in a steel mill town in Pennsylvania, Tanner Joseph was always painfully aware of class distinction. Even though he’d graduated from the University of Minnesota with a master’s degree in ecology, most of the time he still felt like the kid from the wrong side of the tracks.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted Theodosia.
Theodosia surveyed the little office. Three desks, one occupied. But all outfitted with state-of-the-art computers and mounded with reams of paper. A folding table set against the wall seemed to be the repository for the Shorebird Environmentalist Group’s brochures, literature, and posters. Surprisingly well-done paintings hung on the walls, depicting grasses, birds, and local wildlife, executed in a fanciful, contemporary style, almost like updated Chinese brush strokes.
To Theodosia, the organization appeared viable but understaffed. Probably just a director and a couple assistants and, hopefully, a loyal core of volunteers.
She walked over to the desk where the young man who’d greeted her was sitting and stared down at him. He was good-looking. Blond hair, tan, white Chiclet teeth. Haley would have thought him “hunky.”
“I’m interested in finding out about the Shorebird Environmentalist Group,” she said.
Tanner Joseph clambered to his feet. It wasn’t every day a classy-looking lady came knocking at his door. And classy-looking ladies, more often than not, had access to the kind of funding that could help bootstrap a struggling, little nonprofit organization like his.
“Tanner Joseph.” He stuck out his hand. “Executive director.” “Theodosia Browning.” She shook hands with him. “Nice to meet you.”
“First let me give you one of our brochures.” Tanner Joseph handed her a small, three-fold brochure printed on recycled paper.
Theodosia flipped it open and studied it. The brochure was well-written and beautifully illustrated. The same artist who had done the paintings on the wall had also illustrated the brochure. Short subheads and bulleted copy documented four different projects the Shorebird Environmentalist Group was currently involved in. The information was interesting, punchy, and easy to digest.
“Listen,” Tanner Joseph said. The whites of his eyes were a distinct contrast to his deep suntan. His hands fidgeted with the front of his faded green T-shirt that proclaimed Save the Sea Turtles. “I was about to step out for a bite to eat. At the Crab Shack just down the road. If you’d like a lemonade or something and don’t mind watching me eat, I could fill you in there.”
“Perfect,” exclaimed Theodosia.