Chapter Twelve

Remy’s phone rang far earlier than he’d planned to get up on Friday morning. The light slanted on his deck like a sundial reading seven or eight a.m. He planned to meet Stelly at the Queen around nine. Maybe the bush-hogger couldn’t make it since that was his number showing on the phone.

“Hello?”

“Remy, we got us a situation here at the hotel. Old ladies everywhere chained to the oak trees. You want I should call the police or go back home and get some bolt cutters?”

“No, no. That’s exactly what they want—to make a scene and get publicity. I’ll be there in a half hour or less.”

Dammit. He shoved himself into jeans and a T-shirt, put on boots, and did a quick brush of his teeth in case he ran into Julia close up. The hell with the shower and shave. Taking the stairs two at a time, he went to his truck and took a minute to find his bolt cutters in the storage shed just in case it came down to dragging senior citizens to squad cars. Not what he wanted. Maybe he could reason with them. Ha! The people of Chapelle went rabid over oak trees. The closer in age they grew to those trees, the worst they were.

Remy barreled to the Queen and braked into the turnoff to the hotel. The tractor, hooked to the parallel blades of the bush-hog, sat in the road with orange safety cones fore and aft while Stelly waved traffic around it. He gave Remy the nod. “Good to see you, boss. Look close. They almost blend with the trees.”

Miss Maxie’s red hair gave her away, though. She sat on the roots of one of the sentinel oaks at the entry, a cushion beneath her behind and a thermos of coffee by her side. The dark green sweater and matching afghan swathing her body against the early morning damp made her appear like a mossy growth on the wide trunk. A lightweight chain and padlock dangled where her waist might have been at one time. She unscrewed her thermos and poured a cup. “Would you care for some before I drink, Remy. Looks like you could use it.”

“No, thanks. You go ahead. Won’t be an hour before you need a bathroom break.”

“Oh, we’re all wearing our Depends this morning, even the youngsters, aren’t we girls?” Echoes of yes! sounded all over the grove.

He turned to Miss Lolly attached to the other entrance tree. “You don’t seem too comfortable there.”

Miss Lolly glanced up from the large print library volume splayed on her lap and illuminated by a book light. A small cooler sat by her side amid the gnarled roots that greatly resembled her fingers. “A good book and a light snack is all I need, thank you.”

“I’m telling you, we aren’t going to harm the trees. They’re an asset to the property.” Remy spoke loud enough to be heard deep into the lot.

“We have to be sure,” said Miss Lolly with her turkey neck jutted forward in defiance.

“All right, then.” Remy returned to his truck and took a retractable measuring tape from his glove compartment. The boles of the ancient oaks had swollen over the drive in the years since anyone used that path. He took a careful measure between the twisted roots of the two trees, then walked to the bush-hog and compared the widths.

“We have a couple of inches on both sides, Stelly. Can you do it without barking the trees or taking a limb off an old woman?”

Stelly rubbed his short, dark beard, took off his LSU cap, and put it on again as he considered. “Yep, but I’ll have to back over the road and get it real centered before I move. You’ll take care of traffic?”

“Sure.” They laid out more safety cones in a bright orange lines. Several drivers waited unhappily on either side of the barriers as Stelly backed up, pulled front, backed up again as Remy waved the bush-hog closer and closer to the opposing ditch. He signaled to stop before the hog went over the edge. A pull forward and another back up to get everything straight. The tractor inched forward. The impatient sounded their horns.

A young man with a camera bobbing on his chest raced along the roadside. “Wait, wait! The Chapelle Clarion wants a picture of this.” He clambered into the ditch and out the far side, scrambled past the oak roots, and positioned himself directly before the tractor but a few paces back to get it and the trees in the shot.

Remy hoped his groan couldn’t be heard over the panting of the tractor. Stelly craned his head looking for directions. “Go ahead.”

The tractor eased forward and cleared the trees with little space to spare. The driver started to turn into the brush, but the reporter ran to his side. “Just a sec. I want to get one from the rear that shows the protesters. Your name?”

“Jim Stelly of Stelly’s Land Clearance Services. Make sure you get that right.”

“Absolutely will, Mr. Stelly. Let me just ease around you.”

With mud caked on his khakis from his foray into the ditch, the guy moved with the agility of a student who once ran track and field. Remy suspected that was exactly what he was, out for the summer, and picking up some cash from the notoriously tight local newspaper. Remy let him take the shot, then asked him to leave the posted property.

The cub reporter followed him around spouting, “Freedom of the Press!” as Remy picked up the cones and waved the accumulated traffic forward. For the first time in his life, he played the family card. “I’m Remington Broussard, yeah, one of those Broussards, and I want you off my land. We have work to do here, and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.” He scraped his black scruff with his fingernails and tried to look as mean as Slick on his worst days.

“The men who run the Barn—and other things?” The allure of Freedom of the Press dimmed in the boy’s eyes.

“Yep.” Remy took out his measuring tape and slapped it into his palm a few times as if it were a sap about to be used on the kid’s face.

“I think I have enough, thanks. I can call for interviews later.” The reporter hightailed it back to subcompact car he’d parked at the old fruit stand. Miss Lolly and Miss Maxie made “call me” signs with their arthritic fingers as he fled.

Shaking his head, Remy walked to the tractor. “Go as wide as you can around the live oaks. The brush isn’t heavy there with all the shade and fallen oak leaves killing the growth. Whatever you do, don’t get near any of the women.”

Then, he heard her, Julia’s voice calling, “Put on your safety glasses, ladies,” but couldn’t see her. Putting on the sunglasses in his pocket, he followed in the wake of the bush-hog as it mowed its first path, chewing up the brambles and snapping off the small prolific chicken trees that took over vacant land. Narrow paths that could have been made by wild game but weren’t shot off on either side, each one pushed through to a live oak that harbored a chained lady like some kind of weird fairy tale. He suspected his grandmother might be among them, but not Julia who stood by the old kitchen door with cases of bottled water, a pile of safety glasses, a large cooler, and a first aid kit. He approached her as the tractor swung out to make its first circle around the building.

“You haul all that stuff in here by yourself?”

“No. Todd and my uncles helped. Our company donated the safety glasses. We use them a lot. Subway gave us sandwiches and several of the convenience stores offered a case of water. We even have cookies from Pommier’s. The town supports our cause.”

“The Broussards don’t.”

“That can’t be helped. Here, put on a pair of safety glasses. Those shades aren’t enough protection if you’re going to follow the tractor around.”

“Hadn’t planned on it until I saw this mess. Now, I’ll have to stay on-site.” Remy leaned back against the barred door to the kitchen and folded his arms. He didn’t accept the safety glasses Julia held out.

“As you should. You’re very grumpy this morning. I’ll bet you didn’t stop for breakfast. Here, have some water. Want a sandwich?”

“I want coffee.” But he accepted the water, cracked it open, and took a deep swallow.

“Maybe Miss Maxie would share hers.”

“Stupidly, I already turned that down.” His eyes followed the bush-hog going round and round, not penetrating the sanctity of the live oaks, most of which had limbs hanging too low to accommodate the machinery anyhow. “You made me threaten a reporter who couldn’t be more than eighteen.”

“Oh, good, the Clarion sent someone out. Eat something. You sound absolutely petulant.” Julia opened the cooler and selected a turkey and veggie on whole wheat as if concerned for his cholesterol.

Not about to turn down another good offer, he unwrapped the sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “Besides me and Stelly, you are the only one who knew when the bush-hogging was scheduled. Can I expect more interference when we put in the culverts on Monday?”

“Maybe. It depends on whether or not you’d consider meeting with Jonathan Hartz about selling the property to him at a profit.”

Those blue eyes he’d found so attractive the last time he’d caught her trespassing glittered like the shards of broken glass lying in the weeds. They went soft and dark when she came. Frenemies.

“I don’t want to sell my land. I intend to build Black Diamonds here.”

“Your choice, then.”

“Julia, you’ve run big projects before. Culverts have to go in whether we tear the Queen down or not, just like the bush-hogging needs to be done. Be reasonable.”

She wasn’t listening. Those blue eyes had a smile in them now as the undergrowth fell to reveal the old carriage drive as it parted to make a circle around the hotel. Broken oyster shells flew into the air every time Stelly crossed a patch of the path. The oak tree warriors closest to the drive settled their safety glasses more firmly on their noses.

“Tell me you won’t destroy the carriageway when you bring in the bulldozers to level the land. We’ll find some old garden paths too, that should be preserved in their original spots.”

“I guess I could work them into my plans. I want pathways, oaks, and shade. Easier to work with what’s here than do it all new.”

She took that as a concession and gave him a rewarding smile. “Now you’re thinking like a preservationist.” Julia picked up a case of water bottles. He admired her muscle. No asking for help. She started off along the areas his man had already cleared.

“I have to keep my women hydrated. It’s already getting hot.”

He admired her hips in the snug jeans and her confident stride. “You want to come over tonight and have another discussion?” he called.

“No good reason to since you won’t meet with Hartz,” she shouted over her shoulder.

“You don’t need one. Any time you want.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Julia bent to slip under the canopy of an oak and deliver water, a modern Molly Pitcher fighting for her cause. If only they could be on the same side.