would be larger, but it would be in keeping with the existing architecture.
“Lawrence is Lawrence,” Hank said with a shrug. “He remembers the 1950s fondly.”
“I can’t believe he keeps getting re-elected.”
While she spoke, Callie’s mind pinged to potential solutions. She could shrink the size of the deck, maybe do only the structural renovations and keep the cosmetics exactly as they were. But it would be a shame to spend all that money and not improve the functionality. And to do a modified application, she’d have to start the process over again, losing time, and she’d definitely have to close the deck for the entire summer season.
“His pet project is the City Beautification Committee,” Hank said, a meaningful look in his eyes.
Callie squinted, trying to read his expression. “And?”
“And, if somebody was to...say...join that committee and show a particular interest in city beautification, Lawrence might feel kindly toward that person.” Hank took a forkful of the whipped cream and slid it into his mouth.
Callie found the suggestion unsavory. “You want me to bribe Lawrence to get my permit.”
Hank gave an amused smile. “Joining a committee is not a bribe.”
“It might not be money.”
Hank reached out and covered her hand with his.
It was a startlingly familiar gesture. Her first instinct was to pull back. But Frederick’s words echoed in her mind. It costs you nothing to be congenial.
“Do you have something against city beautification?” Hank asked.
“Of course I don’t.” Who could have anything against city beautification? “But I’m busy, the boys, the bakery, taking care of the house.”
When they’d first moved to Charleston, she and Frederick had bought a roomy, restored antebellum house. It was beautiful, but the upkeep was daunting.
The bakery door opened again, and a tall figure caught Callie’s attention. The man glanced around the room, seeming to methodically take in every aspect.
For some reason, he was fleetingly familiar, though she was sure she hadn’t met him before. He looked to be a little over six feet, with thick dark hair, blue eyes and a strong chin. His bearing was confident as he took a step forward.
“It wouldn’t be much work.” Hank’s words forced her attention back to their conversation. “I’m the chair of the committee, and I promise not to assign you anything onerous. We meet once a week. There are six members. Depending on the topic, there’s usually some public interest, so citizens attend, as well. It’s all very civilized and low-key.”
Once a week didn’t sound like much, but it meant skipping story time with the boys that night, getting a babysitter, doubling up on housework on another evening.
“It’s not a bribe,” Hank repeated, giving her hand a light squeeze. “It’ll demonstrate your commitment to the city, your participation in the community and that you care about the culture and flavor of the historic district.”
“I do care about the culture and flavor of the historic district. I live here, and I work here.”
“I know.” He gave her hand a firmer squeeze. “So join the committee. Join in a little. Make Lawrence happy, improve your city and unblock the permit for your deck.”
When he put it that way, other than the babysitting challenge, there seemed little wrong with the plan. It felt opportunistic, but she wouldn’t call it unethical.
Hank leaned in and lowered his tone. “With Frederick gone, I’m sure you want Downright Sweet to be as successful as possible.”
“I do.”
Callie had grown up severely impoverished, never knowing from week to week how her dysfunctional family would afford food, never mind clothes and electricity. Frederick had pulled her out of all that. He’d been a wonderfully sweet man, vital and full of life. The wheelchair had never held him back.
He’d had enough of a nest egg to buy both their house and Downright Sweet here in Charleston. The business had no capital debt, but it was still a struggle to keep operating costs manageable.
A shadow crossed the table, and a deep male voice interrupted. “Excuse me?”
Callie glanced up, startled to see the tall stranger. She looked into his blue eyes and felt a strange pressure build against her chest.
“Are you Callie Clarkson?” he asked. “The bakery owner?”
“Yes.” She slipped her hand from beneath Hank’s, wondering if the man was a lifestyle reporter or maybe a restaurant critic.
He held out his hand to shake hers.
She took it, and felt a surge of comfort and strength. He was gentle. He didn’t squeeze her hand. But his palm was solid, slightly rough, not too warm, not cool, but an identical temperature to her own.
“Deacon Holt,” he said.
Hank pulled back his chair and came to his feet, putting on his practiced political smile. “I’m Mayor Watkins. Are you new to Charleston?”
“A tourist,” Deacon Holt said, without breaking his eye contact with Callie.
She knew she should look away, but there was something in the depths of his eyes that was oddly comforting.
“Well, welcome,” Hank said in a hearty voice. “I hope you’ve checked out the Visitor Centre on Meeting Street.”
“Not yet,” Deacon said, slowly moving his attention to Hank.
“They’ll have everything you need—hotels, dining, shopping and, of course, the sights.”
“I’ve already found dining,” Deacon said.
Callie felt a smile twitch her lips.
“Well, then I hope you have an enjoyable stay.”
Deacon didn’t seem fazed by Hank’s dismissive tone. He looked back to Callie. “What do you recommend?”
“Everything’s good.”
He grinned at her answer, and the feeling of familiarity increased. “That was diplomatic.”
Hank cleared his throat. It was obvious he wanted to get back to their conversation, to hear Callie’s decision.
She’d made a decision, but it could wait two minutes for whatever Deacon Holt wanted. On the chance he could offer free publicity, she was going to make him feel more than welcome.
“The sourdough is terrific,” she said. “Any sandwich made with that. If you have a sweet tooth, I’d try a cupcake. The buttercream frosting is to die for.”
“Buttercream frosting it is,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Callie?”
