Smooth and easy, like he owned it. That was Sergi Lackstrom.
Behind him, a short, fussy fellow darted toward Mayor Pat with a stack of posters. She flinched, then removed her hat and wet strings flopped over her eyes. She was spared the initial shock. Blanche caught her breath. They called it The Plan. Blanche called it hell.
Langstrom grinned. “Hi, there.” The mayor and council members stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Really?” Blanche said.
“Fur-ril.” Barbara Bennett of Coquina Collections tipped forward in her seat. “Dang. Ain’t he the handsome one though,” she said in an Irish whisper. The women nodded. And swooned?
Blanche couldn’t take her eyes off the posters. But then she did.
Langstrom had the loose gait of an athlete. Trim and tall. Cleft in his chin. She imagined him swiveling down a ski slope chipping ice into frosty clouds, smiling with a mouthful of snowy caps. Well, here he was on their bright sunny island, and he could just go back to freakin’…Switzerland?
She mumbled, “I guess you could say that he’s not hard to look at. But, I sure hate looking at him.” She wished he were ugly. As it was, his boyish good looks would only convince people to run toward him instead of away from him.
He hovered in the front row and lifted Janet Capeheart’s fingers like he was asking her to dance. The smile smoothed her cheeks and erased years.
“What is he doing?” Blanche hissed. Becky poked her arm.
Rumor had it that Janet’s dress shop would likely be the first to go. What could possibly make her so gleeful? Her quaint cottage business—with hummingbirds feeding in the bougainvillea, a wide deck with rockers—would be replaced with a pseudo-Victorian mansion, complete with wraparound gallery. The thought of all those fake curlicues and gingerbread made Blanche gag.
Sergi still held Janet’s blue-veined hand. She didn’t seem to be thinking about business. Not with that besotted grin.
The room was hot but Blanche was cold. She craned her neck to get a better view. He was fawning over the whole front row. He rolled the sleeves of his fine pinpoint shirt and tucked a hand in the pocket of his pressed khakis. He wore shiny loafers with tassels, no socks.
Blanche gritted her teeth and slumped until she was nearly off the chair.
Langstrom didn’t look at the long table where Mayor Pat sputtered: “Who’s running for office here?” Blanche could hear her from where she sat.
The mayor hopped to her feet, the gavel waggling in her hand, a menacing look on her face. She opened her mouth but all eyes were on Sergi. He smiled at her. “Thank you, Your Honor, and board members, for giving us this opportunity.”
Who is us?
“We certainly have paradise here, don’t we?”
We?
The mayor sat down with a loud whomp.
“Santa Maria! What a great place!” He fixed them with those ice-blue eyes. “Our beaches, and the sun. And, our great restaurants!” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “Denzel has raved about Banana Cabana!”
“What?” Blanche choked. “He’s on speaking terms with Denzel?”
“Who’d a figured.” Becky’s mouth was open in a dopey smile.
It was true the great movie star had visited Santa Maria and loved the Jamaican cuisine at the Cabana. They loved him. That didn’t mean they had to pave the sidewalk with stars.
“It’s about time we showed off this beautiful island!” He held up an admonishing index finger. “Now, let’s get Denzel and company back here for more of those conch fritters!”
They chuckled and clapped.
Blanche was appalled.
“Before the invitations go out, we have work to do!”
There was that we again.
Sergi pointed to the drawing of a huge condo-like structure perched on an easel. It rested among an assortment of fancy watercolors and line drawings with stands of palms and globs of greenery and flowers. He’d spent a fortune on the posters. Money. A flood of it already.
“Just for starters. Here’s something along the lines of what we propose…A real beauty.” Langstrom tapped the rendering of a house that had crept through the permitting process and gone up almost overnight—a light tan stucco monolith with orange shutters and a green barrel-tiled roof, Tiffany glass and brass coach lamps. It was finished off with white filigreed arches and balconies facing the Gulf. Hideous. At the end of the deck, the builder had attached a purplish-grey guesthouse. Like a wart.
Somehow, the developer had snuck in under the radar and put up the monstrosity of a model.
It set off Blanche’s alarm. She knew the location well. The house, as big as a hotel, was plopped beach side on Sycamore Avenue, cutting off the view for several modest cottages that stretched between Fir and Elm. It put them all in the shade where there had once been sun. And now Langstrom was proposing more of the same—an abominable disconnect from Santa Maria Island. She could only fear what such a plan would do to Tuna Street—if they got their hands on it.
No one moved. It was as if they were hypnotized, watching a dazzling infomercial, or a train wreck from which they could not look away. He smiled, flourishing the pointer like a magic wand.
We are doomed…
“We are prepared,” he said, “to offer large sums for your homes.” His index finger circled an orange shutter. He drew dollar signs in the air.
“What if we don’t want large sums for our homes? How ‘bout we like things just the way they are!” It was Jess Blythe, who owned the gas station and was famous for the chicken salad in his deli. “In case you haven’t noticed, our island suits us fine, thank you very much.”
Langstrom’s expression cracked.
Would he dare slice Jess’s objection to ribbons?
Jess didn’t let him in. “I want to keep my place. Just the way it is.” Each word ticked up until he was shouting. He checked his neighbors. They nodded. “I don’t get your motivation, unless it’s to make money off our backs.”
He balled up a fist in his faded baseball cap and tilted back on his heels. His business had grown from a driftwood lean-to into a booming car repair and towing service, and he and his wife, Sue, were not about to let it go. They lived next door in a bright yellow stucco ranch, built in the early ‘20s, a tangle of purple verbena and firebush blazing up the crushed shell path. The buildings sat right on the edge of Langstrom’s first stage of development in the center of Santa Maria.
Now Jess didn’t budge. He had a lot to lose, should the plan be approved. He’d be dwarfed by six-story condos and eight-thousand-square-foot houses, cut out of the sun and view in the shadow of monsters. He shifted from one boot to the other.
Langstrom flashed those white teeth again. Blanche was reminded of a shark, the one that snatched a three-year-old in about a foot of water. Tragic. Unexpected.
“Well, I understand,” he said. “What did you say your name is, sir?”
“I didn’t.”
Langstrom put a fist in his chin.
“Name’s Jess Blythe.”
“Well, Mr. Blythe, let’s look on the bright side, why don’t we. What’s best for everyone? Are you aware of eminent domain and…”
That was as far as he got.
Jess yanked up his jeans with his forearms and gave his baseball cap a whack. “I don’t want to hear about your ‘eminent domain.’ You can put that where the sun don’t shine. And don’t talk about the bright side of this because there ain’t none. You’re not very bright if you think tearing down our houses is going to improve paradise.”
The grumbling started up. Blanche had the slender hope they might run him out of town right now.
But Sergi’s voice dipped. Coaxing. “We don’t want to tear down paradise, Mr. Blythe. We want to grow it!”
“Huh,” said Jess. “I guess we’re pretty much all growed up.” He plunked the cap back on his unruly hair. “That’s what I’m thinkin’.” Sue patted his arm.
Heat crept up Blanche’s neck. She sprang from her seat and caught her sandal on the bottom rung of the chair. It clattered out from under her. The chair came to rest on the toes of a startled resident.
“Ouch!” It was Marietta Gantley.
“I’ll say,” Jess shouted.
Langstrom didn’t move, except for one eyebrow.