Page 39 of The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn
I felt like I had my own personal knight in shining armor. Sir Galahad.
Not that the Coastal Christian Church is worthy to hold Arthur’s round table. Like the town hall, the church is historicand humble. A windswept, whitewashed clapboard church with a simple steeple atop a gable roof. No stained glass, no marble statues of saints, just a simple little house for God. It would make a great model for a church in one of those Christmas town figurine setups.
In fact, Bluster really shows out at Christmas, and the church is the centerpiece of that snowless wonderland.
But it was August and, though the night had its usual coastal chill, the church sanctuary was stuffy and humid. Quite a few buildings on the NorCal coast, residential or otherwise, don’t have AC. The church is among those, and the place was packed. All those bodies generated some damp heat.
On the actual agenda were blockbuster items like whether to add a second day of trash collection two weeks each month, a discussion of the bids for repainting the town welcome signs, and whether to allocate funds to replace with more stable poles the traffic lights at the one intersection in town that still had lights swinging on cables.
Roman was right; I was the item of interest.
With that in mind, I grabbed his hand and strode straight down the aisle to the front pews, smiling an unbothered greeting at anyone I made eye contact with. I went all the way to the first pew on the left side and sat down right in the middle. I busied myself perusing the agenda on my phone. There were paper versions in a stack on a chair near where the altar usually was (it was now the council table), but I didn’t want to get up again to get one.
When Roman sat beside me, I could feel his regard. I turned and found him looking over at my phone, wearing a soft, gently smug smirk.
“You look smug,” I muttered from the side of my mouth.
“I’d rather call it proud,” he muttered back. “I’m with the most interesting woman in town.”
“Gross,” I complained lightheartedly, and he sat back with a rumbling chuckle.
We’d arrived late enough that by the time we sat down, the council members were ready to take their seats. When Mayor Holt gaveled the meeting open, I looked over my shoulder to scan the pews. Lots of people looking at me, a good percentage of whom smiled when they saw me looking. But as far as I could tell, no Darryl Manfred.
“I don’t think Manfred’s here,” I told Roman when I sat back again.
He turned to look as well. “That’s good, right?” he asked when he was looking forward again.
“As far as I’m concerned, it’s perfect.”
Mayor Holt is a big fan of Robert’s Rules of Order, and that hadn’t changed while I was away—yes, he’s been mayor all that time, something like thirty years of winning elections—so the meeting started with approving the minutes from the previous meeting, then reading off a few information items (volunteers were needed to work the Bluster BBQ booth at the Del Norte County Harvest Festival in September; Bob Riggs was retiring and looking for a buyer for his commercial fishing boat, the College Tuition; and the Del Norte Players were holding auditions forCabaret, the fall musical—I made a mental note to tell Wyatt about that one).
Then it was time for Open Forum. When Mayor Holt called for anyone who wanted to speak, I didn’t hesitate for even a breath. I stood immediately and said, “I’d like to speak, Mayor. I’m Leo Braddock.”
My name faded into utter silence. Before I’d stood, the sanctuary hadn’t been noisy, but it hadn’t been quiet, either. You know how it is in a space like that—nobody in the pews was intentionally trying to make noise, everybody was more or less paying attention to the reason they were there, but also peoplewere whispering to each other here and there, or coughing and sniffling, or shuffling papers about, or shrugging out of their jackets, or trying to get their kids quiet ... you know what I mean.
But when I stood and announced myself, the whole damned place got so quiet it was like the church had been suddenly packed in cotton.
In that dense silence, Mayor Holt smiled warmly at me and said, “Welcome back, Leo. Amelie will be right over with the microphone.”
Amelie, a cute teen whom I didn’t recognize, trotted over to me. She handed me the mic and stepped a few steps back, staying close with the power pack hanging from her shoulder, a cable running to the mic in my hand.
Bluetooth mics exist, of course, but the Bluster town council hasn’t yet seen fit to allocate those funds. I’m sure it’ll get onto an agenda eventually, and the old folks can complain about it.
“Hi, Mayor Holt,” I said into the mic. Then I turned to face the rest of the people present. “And hi, everybody else. I think I know most of you, and I probably know some I’m just not recognizing. But hi.”
A pretty decent wave of sound rose as people returned my greeting. No pitchforks yet. Or spitballs, rotten fruit, or other projectiles. Not even a raspberry blown. Good result.
Feeling awkward nonetheless, I did a dumb little wave and turned back to the council table. “I just wanted to let everybody know that I’m back. I’m with my son, Wyatt, who I just registered for tenth grade at the high school. We’re hoping to get the Sea-Mist open again if we can—we’re still trying to figure out everything we need to do to make that happen, and if we can afford it all, but that’s the plan. That’s all I wanted to say—just to let people know what we’re hoping to do. If we come up on something we need to consult with the council with, I’ll makesure to ask for it to be on the agenda of a future meeting. Wyatt already loves it here.”
I hadn’t planned that last sentence, and now it probably sounded like I was singling him out because I didn’t share the sentiment, so I added, “And I’m happy to be back.”
“I’d like to speak!” came a booming voice from the back of the room. A voice I’d heard only once but recognized immediately. Everybody looked in that direction and saw Darryl Manfred striding down the aisle.
Amelie reached for the mic, but I pulled back a bit and shook my head. She made a littleOh, sorry, thought you were donegesture. Fifteen seconds earlier, I’d also thought I was done. However, the only scenario in which I might have ceded the floor to that asshole would have required my sudden unconsciousness.
I turned to Manfred, looked him straight in the eyes, and said into the mic—loudly—“I’m still speaking.”
He pulled up at the head of the aisle and gave me a villain’s grin, that smirk the bad guy in movies always wears that saysI am going to love making you suffer.
