up and leaving, but things hadn’t wholly calmed down outside—she could still see the constables and planning board members hustling through the crowds. The beautiful Draghici girl strolled by the window, two teenage boys dutifully following her. A cameraman walked past, getting color shots. Molly desperately wanted to avoid the media for at least a few blessed minutes, even though earlier this morning she’d been looking forward to doing a few interviews.
“Be careful what you wish for,” she muttered.
It was her turn to hide behind the menu she hadn’t relinquished to the waitress when she caught sight of a reporter in one of the booths. An old-style recorder was on the table, and he sat, leaning forward on his elbows, chatting with Clement Horsey, owner of a shop selling dockside bumpers, ladders and the like.
Michael followed her gaze. “Old Clement was against it, right?”
She nodded.
“You’d think the reporters would talk to someone in favor of the project. There’s loads more of them.”
“But they’re probably not as interesting.” Molly shushed him with a finger to her lips. “I want to hear what Clement is saying.”
She knew Horsey had celebrated the “double nickel” this year, but to her he easily looked at least a decade older than fifty-five. Exposure to salt air and sun had weathered his skin to the point that it resembled aged, cracked leather. Even his eyes seemed old, a rheumy blue. She liked him, but she wasn’t sure she was going to like what he was saying to the reporter.
“The whole town hasn’t gone aggro over this,” Horsey said. “There’s only a few of us opposed to all the work.” He ran his fingers through the few strands of hair on the top of his head.
The reporter waited for him to continue.
“I’m not saying fixing the harbor is a bad idea. It’s not. In the long run it’s ace, I suppose.” Molly couldn’t make out what Horsey said next, because the waitress returned and clunked their glasses of pineapple juice in front of her and Michael.
Molly picked up the conversation again and strained to hear over the background noise.
“…just that some on the planning board are playing favorites.”
The reporter leaned farther forward, as interested as Molly in this angle. “Can you elaborate, Mr. Horsey?”
“S’pose it’s just my personal opinion, but I think the whole thing’s a bit dodgy. See, two of the planning board members own businesses on the wharfs. They’re gonna get some of that grant money, and I believe they’re going to get more than their fair share. It’s not all been set who’s getting what, you know. They’re still working that out. But why wouldn’t them two take as much as they need for themselves?”
“And you’ll be left out?” the reporter asked.
“Well, not entirely. Already got some funds marked for me. But not enough to cover everything to bring the place up to the new codes, and I doubt any more money will come my way. I’m gonna have to dig deep into my own pocket. Barnaby—the bloke who started all the ruckus this morning—it’s gonna cost him the most. His place is falling apart, and the town’s forcing him to do the fixes.”
“Forcing?”
Horsey’s nod was so exaggerated he reminded Molly of a bobblehead doll. “They’ll not renew his licenses, the Blackpool council, until he does. They’re putting teeth into their plan to clean up the area. They’ve passed tougher building codes, and they’ll close him down if his place doesn’t meet them. He’s got reason to be right pissed and I don’t think he’ll belt up about it. They should leave ’im alone, you know. Let Barnaby keep his licenses without doing any of the work, let the building fall down around him, and then sweep away the pieces. Wouldn’t take much more than a strong wind to flatten the dump.”
Horsey drained the contents of his cup in one long swallow and thunked it on the table to get the attention of one of the waitresses.
Molly’s frustration grew with every word. “Michael, he’s off-base. There is plenty of grant money to go around. I told him that we’re still waiting to hear on a couple more applications I have out there. And if this first grant won’t cover enough, I’ll find another one to apply for. No one should go belly-up over this. Barnaby, Horsey—they’re just worried and reactionary. They’re…”
At that moment their waitress returned, setting down a bowl of yogurt in front of Molly that would have cost a pittance in a grocer’s compared to the price on the menu. Michael dug into his omelet and would have replied but Molly shushed him as she heard Horsey continue.
“I’ve butted heads with the planning board,” Horsey said once his cup was refilled. He had raised his voice and was attracting the attention of most of the café patrons now. “Said my piece to Molly Graham, but she’s not the one giving away the grant money. That’s all the planning board. Said my piece to the board, too. Nothing’s gonna come of it. I still have to make the changes the plans require, and the grant money’s not gonna cover it all. Like I said, you should talk to Barnaby. He’d give you some real colorful quotes for your article. You could maybe even print some of them.”
The reporter chuckled, stopped his recorder and turned the tape over, restarting it.
Molly finished her yogurt and stared into the bottom of the plastic cup, her desire to march over there and set the record straight warring with her growing sense of despair about the whole thing.
“You really did do a good thing, getting the grant.” Michael ran his index finger over the back of her hand, raising goose bumps. “Horsey’s right. Barnaby’s Bait Shop is a ruin, a real eyesore that might not be worth fixing. The sea, the salt and the wind in the fall, especially…they all take a toll on the buildings. And the businesses aren’t going to repair themselves.”
Molly ran her thumb around the top of the cup. “Yeah, I know it’s a good thing, Michael. I just wish someone else had gone after that grant.”
“Not another soul in town has your expertise.” He shoveled in the last mouthful of eggs and speared a piece of banger, holding it up and waving it like a conductor’s baton. “Some of these folks couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery. Mark my words, sweetheart, when this is done, they’ll all be singing your praises.” He popped the sausage in his mouth and swigged down the last of his pineapple juice, then nodded to the clock on the wall. “Got about five minutes before the official ceremony.”
Molly pushed back from the table. Her hand lingered on Michael’s. “Join me?”
“Wouldn’t miss it, love.” He scanned the bill and left money on the table. “After you, Mrs. Graham.”
Not more than a dozen steps beyond the café’s front door, Molly spotted Jennessee again. She was now interviewing Edwin Barker, the owner of the narrowest building along the wharf, where he sold boating supplies such as cushions and oars, and an assortment of T-shirts the tourists favored.
“It’s all impractical,” Barker said into the microphone in front of him. “I sell to independent fishermen, mostly, and making these renovations won’t help my sales. The fishermen don’t care what my place looks like…but they will after I have to raise my prices to help cover the expense.”
“So you’re not getting enough of the grant money.”
