Page 5 of Clear Path

“Witch,” Lydia spat under breath.

Rory turned to her. “Julie?”

“You know her?”

“She’s my landlord. Why would she be here?”

“Because she’s the developer who wanted my house. I hope she’s happy now. I have half a mind to rip that bottle-blonde hair right out of her head.”

Rory blinked and tried to process the news that Julie was behind the eminent domain proceeding. Her brain refused to make sense of it.

Lydia trembled with anger and started to push up from the wall.

“Where are you going?” Rory asked the question even though she was pretty sure she knew the answer, unfortunately. She didn’t relish the thought of pulling the woman off Julie. Of course, Sam would probably break up the fight, right?

Before Lydia could answer or make good on her threat, the bell above the yarn door jangled and the owner stepped outside. The woman stopped mid-stride to gape at the ruins of the house across the road, shaking her head. Then she spotted the women perched on her wall and drew up short. Her hand went to the yellow crocheted scarf at her throat and she twisted the fringe around her fingers. After a moment, she pasted on a brave smile and made her way down the walkway. She stopped at the edge of the wall.

“Lydia …,” she began. Then she faltered.

Lydia turned her attention away from Julie and gave the woman a long, blank look. “Kim,” she finally said in a flat voice.

Kim flushed. “I’m so sorry about, well, you know.” The scarf fell from her grasp and she twirled her hand toward the demolished structure in a vague gesture.

“Are you, though?”

The woman’s flush deepened, and she blinked rapidly behind her glasses. “Of course, I am.”

Lydia’s gaze flickered over Kim’s head and settled on the whimsical front window display at Tangled Skeins. “Seems like you’re doing okay. I’m sure having new luxury lofts with a bistroand coffee shop on the first floor will only make business even better for you lot.”

Kim, who apparently had no response to this, scurried to her car.

After a long moment, Lydia turned to Rory. “I’ve seen enough. I’m leaving.”

“Where will you go?” Rory asked.

“My daughter sent me a bus ticket. I’ll stay with her while I figure it out.”

“I’ll call you when I have prints.”

Lydia nodded and seemed to deflate—all the fight leaked out of her and her entire body softened and sagged.

Rory watched her walk away. Then she packed up her camera equipment and unlocked her bike from the rack beside the pottery studio. Before she mounted it, her eyes flitted once again toward Julie, who was gesturing toward the house and giving Sam animated instructions about the disposal of the rubble. As if Julie felt the weight of Rory’s gaze, she turned and peered toward Rory, raising a hand to shield her face from the sun.

Rory threw her leg over the bicycle and pedaled off before Julie could cross the road and engage her.

4

Union Hill

Julie Mason blocked out the rumble of engines and screech of metal and brick as the bucket truck gathered debris. She had a long checklist to run through with the crew supervisor, and unwavering focus would make this go faster. The sooner she finished, the sooner she could get away from the noise, dust, and chaos of the demolition site.

Some developers reveled in slapping on a hard hat, rolling up their sleeves, and showing up at their active sites. She was not one. Julie didn’t enjoy developing projects, she enjoyed having developed projects. It wasn’t the act of creation that sparked her passion, but the result. She could be overcome by a wave of joy when sitting at a table at the bistro, the coffee shop, or the wine bar or while taking an exercise class or a pottery class and knowingshemade this place possible. When she strode through the lobby of one of her apartment buildings or office buildings, a shiver of pride ran through her body.

This part—the dirt, the cacophony, and the endless details—was the price she paid for that feeling. So she gritted her teeth and muscled her way through it. She turned attention back to Sam.

He took a breath and launched into what promised to be a long-winded story about a delay in getting one of the permits. She held up a hand, and he stopped droning.

“When do weneedthe permit? The absolute drop-dead date?”

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